Page 11 of Beyond Protection
A clinical stalker. I'd studied the pattern in training, read case files from colleagues who'd dealt with them. They didn't justwant their targets—they wanted to preserve them. Control every variable. Remove them from what they perceived as "damaging conditions."
The eighteen-month timeline meant planning. Patience. Resources.
This wasn't someone who'd give up when faced with security measures. This was someone who'd adapt.
"Clinical obsession," I said. "Not fan behavior. The stalker's been documenting him like a research subject."
Michael's jaw ticked. "That's what I thought. Wanted confirmation."
"I need the original headers. Message timestamps down to the second. Metadata if the carrier logged it." I looked up.
"You'll have it."
I handed the phone back. "No police report tonight?"
"Not yet. I contacted one of my former colleagues, and he says they won't open a case without a physical approach or an explicit threat. These messages are disturbing, but they're not technically illegal yet." Michael's frustration bled through the professional delivery. "Yet."
"Yet," I agreed. "Log an incident number anyway," I added. "When the stalker escalates, I want the clock to start tonight. Someone who's been documenting him for eighteen months, who uses language like intervention and extraction—that's not someone making idle threats. That's someone with a plan."
The coffee pot hissed on the warmer. Overhead, someone moved—floorboards creaking, footsteps crossing a room. The sound filtered down through old plaster and joists that probably hadn't been leveled in twenty years.
Mac. The guest room was directly above us, according to the mental map I'd built from Michael's description.
I'd seen his face before—a press conference three years ago—the coming out that made national news. The camera lovedhim—dark hair, striking eyes, that specific blend of Irish and Japanese heritage that gave him features both sharp and elegant.
There'd been something else in those photos—something the cameras couldn't quite hide. The tension around his eyes. The way his smiles never reached them. He looked like someone performing happiness rather than living it.
The footsteps crossed the room again. Slower this time. Someone unable to settle.
Someone scared.
I pressed my palm flat against the counter. The Formica was cool under my hand. Grounding.
"What else do I need to know?"
Michael hesitated. First time he'd done that since I'd arrived.
"Mac stays in character," he said finally. "Charm. Control. He's been doing it so long he doesn't know how to stop." He ran a hand through his hair—a gesture that looked habitual, something he did when he was trying to figure out how to say a tricky thing. "Don't buy it. And don't let him flatter his way past your security protocols. He'll try."
"Understood."
"And his last relationship ended badly. A guy named Derek who loved the spotlight more than he loved Mac. It's made him—" Michael stopped and looked at me directly. "Just don't expect him to trust you right away. Or at all. He's learned not to trust people's motives."
"I'm not here to be trusted. I'm here to keep him alive."
"You want coffee?" Michael asked.
"No."
"Water?"
"Yeah."
He filled a glass from the tap. Set it on the counter in front of me. I drank half. Rinsed the glass in the sink. Dried it with the dish towel hanging from the oven handle, then set it on the rack.
Michael watched me do it.
"Habits," I said.
