Page 92 of Beyond Protection
Six days to cut the rehearsal short and rewrite the ending she'd been planning.
I set my mug on the counter and looked at Eamon across the kitchen.
He gave me a slight nod.
We're good for now.
But now was running out.
Chapter twelve
Eamon
The furnace kicked on at 4:47 AM. I'd been awake since three, counting cycles like they meant something.
They didn't. It was merely a useless calculation to avoid thinking about Mac's mouth tasting like rain and cider, and thinking about how he'd said us like it was both question and answer. I remembered kissing him back while someone watched from thirty feet away, documenting my failure in real time.
They're paying me to protect him.
The thought landed with the weight of a career of strict protocol I'd been ignoring since I started seeing him as something other than a client.
A closet door stood open, making Ma's basement smell like stored Christmas. The fold-out couch groaned when I sat up. My phone sat face-down on the floor—no new messages since Vanessa's reenactment text last night.
Upstairs, floorboards creaked. It was Ma's footsteps as she started her day. Coffee soon. Then breakfast. The ordinary rhythm of a house where I didn't belong.
I pulled my tablet from my gear bag. Opened yesterday's security notes. Started reviewing footage from the boat—
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
My throat closed.
Subject showed increased baseline stress. Sleep disruption noted. Emotional attachment to security personnel complicates extraction protocols.
She was watching the house. Had to be. How else would she know about sleep disruption?
I stood and moved to the small basement window. Scanned the street through dirty glass. Empty. Dawn light was starting to gray the edges. Every parked car was a potential threat.
Another buzz.
A photo. The front of Ma's house. Taken this morning—the porch light still on. Timestamp: 04:23.
Twenty-four minutes ago.
She'd been here. Right outside. While I was lying in the dark, moaning about my failures.
I grabbed my jacket. Took the stairs two at a time. The kitchen was empty—Ma hadn't started the coffee yet. I unlocked the front door and stepped onto the porch.
Cold air. Rain smell. The street was quiet except for a garbage truck two blocks over.
I circled the house. Checked the back gate—still latched. The basement window—undisturbed. No footprints in the wet grass. No apparent signs of surveillance.
Still, she'd been here. The photo proved it.
When I returned through the kitchen door, Ma was at the stove, and Mac was sitting at the table with damp hair and bare feet, wearing an old Seahawks sweatshirt.
He looked up when I entered.
