Page 14 of Beyond Protection
"You worry too much, Eamon. Sometimes you have to trust that the universe isn't always out to get us."
She'd been wrong.
I'd spent three years wishing she'd been right.
Rain pattered against the basement window, pulling me back to the present.
I jerked upright. Hands fisted in the sheets. Pulse hammering.
The den. The McCabe house. Seattle.
I pressed my palms against my face. They were shaking, still shaking after three years.
Behind me, Coltrane had stopped playing. The headphones lay on the bed where I'd left them, cord tangled, small green light still glowing.
I climbed the stairs to the kitchen. Filled a glass with water. Drank it standing at the sink, listening to the house breathe around me.
And underneath the familiar sounds—faint but distinct—someone was moving upstairs. A door opening. Soft footsteps on old carpet.
Mac was awake.
I stood very still and listened as he moved through the upstairs hallway—bathroom door closing. Water running.
He'd be standing at the sink right now, running cold water over his hands maybe, or staring at his own reflection in the mirror and trying to see what the stalker saw. He'd try to understand what had made him a target instead of just another player.
I set the glass down. Dried it carefully. Put it in the rack.
When I looked up, Michael was standing in the doorway.
"Can't sleep?" he asked.
"Don't really sleep anymore."
He nodded like that made perfect sense. Moved to the coffee pot even though it was nearly three, and caffeine was the last thing either of us needed. Poured himself a cup and held the pot up in question.
I shook my head.
Michael leaned against the counter. "He's awake too. Has been on and off since midnight."
"I heard."
"First night's always the worst. The knowing someone's watching. The not knowing what they want." He stared into his coffee. "Or knowing exactly what they want and not being able to stop them from trying to take it."
Overhead, the water shut off. Footsteps crossed back toward the guest room. A door closed.
"You know what Mac means to this family?" Michael asked quietly.
I waited.
"When his dad died—Ronan, my uncle—Mac was ten. Aunt Claire, his mother, went quiet after that. Grief does different things to different people. She pulled inward. Mac started coming here more. Ma basically raised him summers and weekends."
Michael took a sip of coffee, grimacing at its bitter strength.
"He was this kid who'd lost his father and had a mother who loved him but couldn't figure out how to show it without breaking. And then he turned out to be gifted at baseball. Gifted enough that it gave him a way out, a way to build something on his own."
He looked up at me.
"What I'm saying is—Mac's not just my cousin. He's the kid we all helped raise. The one who made it out and made it matter. And if something happens to him..." Michael's voice went flat. "It would break this family in ways we couldn't come back from."
