Page 155 of Beyond Protection
"When's that?"
"Christmas Eve. Just under a week from now." He settled back in the chair, reaching out for my hand. "If you behave."
Six days until I could leave this room. Seven until Christmas with a family that had claimed me without giving me a choice.
I wanted to be claimed.
"I'm okay with that," I said.
Mac's hand tightened on mine.
Detective Morris arrived late afternoon, badge clipped to his belt, notepad in hand.
"Mr. Price." He pulled up the visitor's chair. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I got shot."
His mouth twitched. "Fair enough. I need your statement about the incident. Walk me through what happened."
I shared what I knew from arriving at Ma's house to the power cutting. The basement. Vanessa's entry through the window. Her weapon. The moment before Michael's tackle when the gun went off.
Mac sat beside the bed, hand wrapped around mine, probably remembering it from a different angle.
"Mr. McCabe's statement matches what he gave responding officers," Morris said, making notes. "Now, Vanessa Kensington is currently in custody at King County Jail. We've charged her with attempted murder, first-degree assault, felony stalking, first-degree burglary, and unlawful imprisonment based on evidence we found in her apartment and vehicle."
My stomach clenched. "What evidence?"
"Detailed plans for your abduction. Restraints. Sedatives. Documentation of eighteen months of surveillance." Morris's expression stayed professionally neutral. "She's talking. A lot. Keeps explaining her preservation protocols for Mr. McCabe. Psych eval came back—she's competent to stand trial, though her attorney will likely argue diminished capacity."
"When's the trial?" Mac asked.
"Arraignment's next week. Trial won't be until spring—probably April or May. You'll both need to testify." He stood. "In the meantime, there's a protective order. She can't contact either of you. We'll keep you informed as it proceeds."
After he left, silence settled over us.
"Spring," Mac said finally. "We'll have to come back."
"Yeah."
"You okay with that?"
I thought about Vanessa's face in the basement. The gun. The messages that had made Mac's skin crawl for weeks.
"Yeah," I said. "I want to see her held accountable."
His fingers squeezed mine. "Agreed."
A physical therapist arrived the next morning with professional cheer and a warning that his work would hurt.
He was right.
Forward flexion sent fire racing down my arm. I did my best to keep my face neutral. Mac held onto the bed rail beside me—present.
"External rotation," the therapist said. "On three. One—"
He moved on two.
The pain crested white-hot. My body tried to convince me I was dying. Mac's fingers slid from the rail to my hand, anchoring me while everything else tried to come apart.
