Page 24 of Beyond Protection
He wasn't trying. Wasn't aware of how the light hit him.
This was what the stalker had documented, what they wanted to preserve.
I understood the impulse, even as it sickened me.
"My dad's," he said, gesturing at the coffee maker. "Ma tried to throw it out last year. Said it made terrible coffee."
He pressed the button. The machine wheezed to life. "She's right. It does."
We stood there while it brewed. The sound filled the silence— imperfect, mechanical, alive in a way nothing else in the apartment was.
"I drink it anyway," Mac said.
Not to me. To the machine. To his father. To whoever was listening.
Beautiful and unaware. The stalker wanted to preserve this—turn it into something still and perfect and controlled. I wanted to protect his right to be unselfconscious. To move through his father's ritual and exist without being documented.
The coffee maker stuttered. Hissed. Kept going.
"Yeah," I said. "I would too."
Down the hallway. Bedroom: king bed, perfectly made. Two nightstands. The left one held a phone charger and a water glass. The right one held dust.
Only one side of the bed showed use.
Second door: office. Boxes with labels in the closet.College. Phoenix misc. Dad's things.Still packed after three years.
I returned to the living room windows. Lake Union spread below. Beautiful. Completely exposed.
Four windows in adjacent buildings with clear sightlines.
I spotted a dead plant on the console table—brown leaves in a handmade ceramic pot.
"Your mom made that."
"Yeah." His voice was softer. "The plant was supposed to—" He stopped. "I killed it."
He stood there staring at the dead plant in his mother's handmade pot. The brown leaves crumbled at his touch.
"She tried," he said quietly. "To make this place feel like home. Brought me this. Told me the plant was resilient, that I couldn't kill it if I tried." His laugh was bitter. "Guess she was wrong."
I watched him pick up a dead leaf. It disintegrated between his fingers.
"Or maybe I'm just that good at killing things that are supposed to survive."
The self-loathing in his voice made my chest tighten.
"Mac—"
"Three years," he continued. "This has technically been my home for three years, and I've never unpacked those boxes. Never slept on the right side of the bed. I bought it after I came out."
"Show me the balcony."
No one had engaged the door's deadbolt in months. Outside: two metal chairs no one sat in, with grime on the seats.
I pulled out my phone. Zoomed to maximum. Through the lens, Mac's face sharpened into focus, still inside the living room—tension in his jaw, and his shoulders held stiff.
"Don't use this," I said. "Any of it. You're visible from at least four buildings out here."
