Page 67 of Beyond Protection
The methodical patience was somehow worse than violence would have been. She wasn't frantic or desperate. She was systematic. Professional.
She knew Ma was inside. Knew I was sleeping upstairs. Came anyway.
My throat closed. I couldn't look away from her hands on Ma's door—the same hands that had touched me in a crowd, that held a camera to document my "deterioration," and had been analyzing me like a specimen for a year and a half.
The figure paused. Head tilted slightly, listening. Then she moved off-screen. Gone.
Like a ghost.
Except ghosts didn't leave scratches on locks.
"Play it again," Eamon said.
"Eamon—" Marcus started.
"Again."
We watched three more times. Each replay made my skin crawl worse. By the fourth viewing, I had to stand up, walk to the sink, and grip the edge until my knuckles went white.
Eamon stepped up beside me. Close but not touching. "You okay?"
"She was right there." My voice came out rough. "Ten feet from where Ma was sleeping. Twenty feet from where I was."
"I know."
"If she'd gotten in—"
"She didn't." He touched the small of my back—steadying pressure. "Marcus scared her off. New locks go in today. Cameras. Sensors. She won't get that close again."
I wanted to believe him.
Behind us, Marcus's phone rang. He answered, voice dropping into professional tones, then: "Mac, it's Michael."
I crossed to take the phone. "Yeah?"
"Found her." Michael's voice was tight with satisfaction. "Vanessa Kensington. Thirty-four, former registrar at the Seattle Art Museum. Got let go two years ago after an incident involving a loaned painting. No criminal record, but she filed a wrongful termination suit that went nowhere. Alex is digging deeper, but Mac—she's real. There's a face now."
My chest loosened slightly. A name. A face. Something concrete instead of shadows and fog.
"Send me everything," I said.
"Already in your email. Eamon too. We've got her employee photo from the museum, her employment records, and her last known address. I'm sending it to local cops, harbor patrol, anyone who needs to know."
"Thanks, Michael."
"We're going to find her. Before she tries this again."
I ended the call and pulled up my email. The photo loaded slowly.
Vanessa Kensington. Straight dark hair. Pleasant features. Professional smile for the camera. Completely unremarkable. The kind of face you'd see in a grocery store and forget immediately.
She'd been outside Ma's door five hours ago.
I stared at the photo until the stranger's face started to feel familiar. Started to imagine seeing it in crowds, in cars, in windows.
"That's her?" Eamon's voice came from over my shoulder.
I showed him the screen. "Vanessa Kensington. Museum registrar. Conservation background."
