Page 15 of Beyond Protection
The weight of that settled between us.
"I won't let anything happen to him," I said.
Michael studied my face for a long moment. "You know what I see when I look at you?"
I waited.
"Someone who's been carrying something heavy for a long time. Someone who thinks that if they work hard enough, they can make up for whatever they think they failed at." His voice was quiet. "Mac's carrying something heavy, too. And if you're both trying so hard not to fail that you forget to actually live, this job's going to eat you both alive."
I had no answer for that.
"Get some sleep if you can," Michael said. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day."
He left.
I stood in the kitchen a while longer. The rain had slowed to a steady whisper against the windows. Sometime between 1:10and 2:40, the sedan vanished, but that didn't mean the threat was gone. It meant the stalker was learning to adapt.
When I went back to the den, I didn't bother lying down. Just sat on the edge of the fold-out and watched the small basement window until the sky started turning gray.
Dawn came slowly. The kind of winter morning that never fully commits to being day, just a gradual shift from black to charcoal to the pale non-color of Pacific Northwest winter.
I watched it happen through the basement window. Watched the street go from black to gray to something that might have been light if you were in a generous mood.
Somewhere upstairs, Mac was watching the same morning light. Standing at a different window, maybe, praying to something he didn't believe in anymore.
I wondered what he was praying for.
Safety, probably. The stalker to disappear. His life to go back to normal.
I wondered if he knew that life never went back. That once something broke you open, you could never quite close all the way again.
I hoped he didn't know that yet.
I hoped I could keep him from learning it.
Standing, I stretched the stiffness from my shoulders. My neck cracked from the night's vigilance.
I crossed to the window and pulled the curtain back.
The street was empty. Wet pavement caught the streetlight's reflection, turning it into something liquid. A recycling bin had tipped over three houses down, spilling cardboard into the gutter. Otherwise—nothing.
My attention caught on something else. The house across the street. Second-floor window. A curtain that had been perfectly still suddenly swayed slightly, like someone had just stepped back from it.
I watched for thirty seconds.
Nothing.
It could have been a cat. It could have been the heating system moving air. It could have been nothing.
It could have been someone with a camera and a long lens, documenting the security consultant who'd arrived in the middle of the night.
I made a mental note: check sight lines from that window. Find out who lived there. Add it to the perimeter assessment.
Upstairs, something moved. Not footsteps. Softer. A door opening. Water running through old pipes. The house was waking up in pieces—one room, one person at a time.
Then the smell hit.
Coffee. Strong enough to cut through the basement must. The particular burnt-sugar edge that came from brewing it too dark in a pot that had been making the same strength for forty years.
