Page 139 of Beyond Protection
"I love you too," I said. "And I'm coming back."
"Promise."
"Promise."
I released him. Stepped back. The space between us was already too much.
Michael honked once. I crossed to the truck. Climbed into the passenger seat. The heat was running full blast, the cab smelling like coffee and gun oil.
Through the windshield, I watched Mac standing in the snow. His family stood on the porch—Marcus and Ma and Claire and all of them. Standing together and watching us leave.
Michael shifted into gear. "Ready?"
"Yeah," I said. "Let's go."
The truck pulled away from the curb. I watched in the side mirror as Ma's house receded—the porch light still on, the Christmas tree glowing in the window, and the family standing together in the snow.
Michael handed me a travel mug. Coffee, black, too hot to drink yet. "You good?"
"Getting there."
"Mac told you he loved you?"
"Yeah."
"Did you tell him back?"
"Yeah."
"Good." Michael's hands were steady on the wheel. "Then you've got something to fight for. That's what will keep you sharp."
The truck turned north. Toward the cabin. Toward Vanessa Kensington and whatever came next.
I held the coffee mug. Felt the heat against my palms.
I was coming back to him.
Whatever it took.
Chapter seventeen
Mac
The clock above Ma's mantel had a second hand that jerked rather than swept. Tick. Pause. Tick. Each movement felt like a small detonation in my chest.
7:03.
Eamon and Michael had been gone eighteen minutes.
Outside, the snow was coming down harder. It was no longer the gentle Christmas card variety. Wind-driven sheets turned the street into something from a snow globe shaken too hard. The storm had rolled in fast.
Ma's knitting needles tapped out a pattern—steel against steel, yarn sliding through her fingers faster than necessary.
I sat on the arm of the couch because sitting properly would have been lying about my state of mind. Claire occupied the chair by the window, a book open in her lap. She hadn't turned a page in ten minutes.
Police lights strobed through the curtains. Red-blue-dark. Red-blue-dark. Four cruisers now, officers barely visible through the snow. Protection, Clairmont called it.
I tracked each rotation of the second hand.
