Page 66 of Beyond Protection
The truck stopped, and Eamon climbed out, moving like a man who'd driven straight through the night without stopping. He saw me and stopped.
We stood there in the fog, ten feet of driveway between us.
"You made it back," I said. Stupidly. Obviously.
"Always."
The word landed in my chest and stayed there. Always. Like it was that simple.
I closed the distance and reached for his hand. My fingers touched his in the cold morning, skin on skin.
Eamon's hand was warm. Solid. Real. His fingers closed around mine and held on.
"Let him breathe, Mac."
Marcus's voice came from the porch, dry and amused and completely unsurprised to find me out in the fog, holding hands with my bodyguard like some Victorian novel heroine.
I didn't let go.
Eamon's thumb brushed across my knuckles—once, slow and intentional—before he released me. "Marcus."
"Eamon." Marcus came down the steps. "We need to talk about last night."
"I know." Eamon's jaw ticked. He was furious. At himself, probably. For not being here when someone had tested Ma's door. His job was keeping me safe, and he'd been at Michael's instead.
The front door opened, and Ma appeared, small and fierce in her bathrobe. "Inside. All of you. Food first, talking second. You look like death on toast, Eamon Price, and Mac's been waiting up being ridiculous. Everyone inside. Now."
She didn't wait to see if we'd obey. Ma didn't wait for anything.
I looked at Eamon. Found him already looking back at me.
"Come on," I said quietly. "You know she means it."
The kitchen smelled like fresh-brewed coffee and something baking—Ma's nervous cooking reflex. Marcus had his laptop open, security footage queued up.
Eamon sat across from me, both hands wrapped around the mug Ma had shoved at him. He stared at the laptop screen.
"Ready?" Marcus asked.
Eamon nodded once.
Marcus clicked play.
The timestamp read 3:07 AM. A figure appeared at the side gate—dark hoodie, face hidden in shadow. They moved with careful deliberation. Not rushed. Not afraid of being seen.
My stomach dropped.
This was her. The person who'd bumped into me at Pike Place. Who'd been documenting me for eighteen months. Who'd touched me.
She tested the gate latch. Found it locked. Moved along the fence line, checking, assessing. Methodical. Patient.
"She's casing the house," Eamon said quietly. "Looking for weaknesses."
The figure disappeared around the corner. Marcus clicked to the next camera angle—back door, 3:14 AM. She returned. Reached for the door handle.
Tested it once.
Twice.
