Page 99 of Beyond Protection
The weight of keeping me alive was carving new lines beside his eyes. All for me.
We pulled into the precinct lot. He scanned before killing the engine.
I tried for humor. "Just another morning in the Emerald City."
The joke landed flat.
He touched my knee and squeezed once. "Stay close when we go in."
Inside, fluorescent lights made everything sharp. Michael waited near the elevator. When he saw us, his expression confirmed what I'd been trying not to think.
This was going to be bad.
"They're upstairs," Michael said. "Marcus is already there."
The elevator lurched upward. Nobody spoke. I counted the ascending numbers. One. Two. Three.
We exited the elevator and turned a corner.
Detective Clairmont's office was at the end of a long corridor. Marcus stood just inside, arms crossed, face carved from granite.
When we walked in, he looked at me with an expression signaling both fury and fear.
The office was a war room.
Papers covered every surface. Maps with colored routes. Spreadsheets tracking dates and locations. And photographs. So many photographs.
All of me.
Detective Clairmont stood behind her desk. Mid-forties, gray threading through dark hair pulled into a pragmatic bun. Professional. Contained.
"Mr. McCabe. Mr. Price." She gestured to chairs. "Thank you for coming in early."
The room was too hot. Dry heat that stuck in my throat.
I sat. Eamon took the chair beside me. Michael remained standing. Marcus moved to the window—putting himself between me and the glass.
Clairmont pulled a manila folder from a stack. Set it down. Didn't open it yet.
"We executed a search warrant on Vanessa Kensington's apartment this morning at 0600 hours." She spoke with practiced calm. It was the tone you used when delivering newsthat would hurt. "What we found is extensive. I need to prepare you for that."
My hands were already sweating.
"Okay."
She opened the folder.
Photographs spilled across the desk. My face from dozens of angles. Hundreds. Cropped close enough to see the grain. Some zoomed in so close my features pixelated.
I picked one up. Me leaving the stadium in Phoenix. Someone had drawn red measurement lines across my shoulders. Annotated the margins with notes I couldn't read.
"Eight hundred forty-seven photographs," Clairmont said. "Organized chronologically in archival sleeves. Labeled, dated, cross-referenced."
The chemical smell of freshly photocopied paper hit me. Sharp and acrid.
Eamon shifted beside me. Close enough to feel the heat of him through his jacket.
"There's more." Clairmont pulled out a map. Seattle, marked with colored pins. "She tracked your movements. Daily routes. Where you run. Coffee shops. Your mother's address. Ma's house."
