Page 77 of Beyond Protection
He nodded. Breathed. Seemed to pull the armor back on piece by piece.
When we returned to the table, Ma's eyes were sharp with questions she wouldn't ask. Michael gave me a look that said,We're talking about this later. Claire's stillness suggested she'd already figured out more than Mac wanted her to know.
But they all pretended nothing had happened.
They closed ranks. Protected their own.
Even from threats they couldn't see.
After dinner, Ma shooed everyone out of the kitchen except me and Alex.
We worked in silence for a few minutes—me rinsing, him drying. The rhythm was meditative. Almost enough to quiet the tactical assessment running on loop:She's escalating. Voice contact means confidence. She's watching. How close?
"You know," Alex said casually, "he looks at you differently."
I kept my focus on the plate. "He looks at everyone."
"Sure. But not like you're the only solid thing in the room." He took the plate, dried it with economical motions. "Michael says you work alone. That you've built your whole practice around not needing backup."
"That's accurate."
"Must be strange, then. Being here. With all of us. With him."
From the living room came the sound of Ma directing someone about the cat. Ordinary chaos. Increasingly fragile.
"Don't give him a reason to retreat," Alex said quietly. "He's good at building walls and calling them boundaries. You've gotten past a few. Don't make him rebuild them."
I shut off the water. Looked at him directly. "I'm not sure that's my choice."
Alex's smile was small. Knowing. "That's what makes it real." He paused. "He deserves someone who isn't afraid of him."
"I'm not afraid of him."
"I didn't say you were." His eyes were too perceptive. "But maybe think about what you are afraid of."
Hours later, the house exhaled into stillness.
Rain drummed the windows in sheets—that particular Pacific Northwest rain that sounded like static and felt like November refusing to let go. The family had dispersed. Ma was in bed, her TV a faint murmur through the ceiling.
I did my nightly sweep—front door: locked, deadbolt engaged. Back door secure. Kitchen windows latched. The basement window still loose, still vulnerable.
Passing the small den, I caught the blue glow of a screen.
Mac sat in the old recliner, laptop balanced on his thighs, wearing the Mariners hoodie and flannel pants that had seen better winters. Spanish-language announcers provided quiet commentary to winter league footage from the Dominican Republic.
He glanced up. "Can't sleep?"
"Checking locks."
"The house is locked." But he gestured to the chair arm beside him. "Come here. Look at this."
Professional distance said no.
I crossed to him instead.
"See the shortstop?" Mac pointed at the screen. "Watch where he cheats on the pitch."
The shortstop edged toward second base, weight shifting before the ball left the pitcher's hand.
