Page 119 of Beyond Protection

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I froze.

"Don't turn. Checking now."

I counted heartbeats.

"False alarm. Keep moving."

I paid and moved on.

"That's good," Clairmont said. "Keep shopping."

I found a ceramics stall. A cream teapot caught my eye—glaze pooled in recesses. It had patterns that would defy replication. I knew Claire would appreciate it.

"Reduction-fired," the vendor said.

"My mother's a ceramicist."

"Then she'll love it."

I paid. Two gifts down.

"You're drawing attention," Eamon said. "Young guy, jerky stand."

Behind me: "Hey! Are you Mac McCabe?"

I stopped. Turned. Smiled. A performance immediately clicked into place.

He wore a Mariners cap, early twenties. "Man, you kick ass both in the field and with the bat. Can I get a picture?"

"Sure."

His friend counted down. The wire felt obvious.

"Thanks, man."

He walked away, posting proof that Mac McCabe was at the market.

"Move on," Eamon said.

I kept walking. At a leather stall, I picked up a journal. Small, leather-bound. I thought Eamon would appreciate it.

I traced the binding with my thumb.

"See something?" Eamon asked.

I set it back. "No. Just looking."

More of the market stretched ahead. More faces. My hypervigilance redlined.

A child dropped an ornament, and the shattering sound made me flinch hard.

"Keep breathing," Eamon said. "You're okay. I'm right here."

Ninety minutes elapsed, and she was nowhere.

Eamon's voice suddenly sharpened. "Woman at the coffee stand. Dark coat, hood up."

My pulse raced. "Where?"

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