Page 7 of Beyond Protection
"I know."
"Do you?"
My throat tightened. "I'm trying."
"Cormac." Her thumbs traced my cheekbones—the same gesture she'd used when I was ten and couldn't sleep after the funeral. "What did you say to me the night your father died?"
I didn't want to remember. "Mom—"
"Tell me."
The words came before I could stop them. "I said I'd be good. That I wouldn't be any trouble. That you didn't have to worry about me."
Her eyes filled. "You were ten years old and you were trying to make it easier for me to love you."
The truth of it hit like a fist to the chest.
That's what I'd been doing ever since. Making it easier. Performing the version of Mac McCabe that people wanted—first for her, then for Ma and the cousins, then for the media, for the fans, for Derek, for everyone. Being good, being no trouble, and being worthy of the space I took up.
Being perfect, so no one would regret keeping me.
"I can't," I said, and my voice cracked. "I can't keep doing this."
"Then don't." She pulled me into a hug—rare, brief, fierce. When she let go, her eyes were bright but steady. "You were never trouble, Cormac. You were never anything but wanted. I'm sorry I didn't say that clearly enough for you to believe it."
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
"The pie is good," she said finally. "You should eat some more later, after we all leave. You'll taste it then."
"How did you—"
"I'm your mother. I know when you're pretending to eat."
I ducked away from the crowd, retreating to the guest room. If anyone asked, I was tired and needed a break. Michael had sent the details about the bodyguard. I had a few minutes to prepare for his arrival.
When I returned, coffee, pie, and conversation were still going on. Ma told a story about something that happened at the library. Marcus and James argued good-naturedly about whetherDie Hardwas a Christmas movie. Miles and Rowan disappeared into the living room. Matthew helped Ma with the dishes.
It was the usual McCabe holiday chaos.
My phone stayed silent.
At some point, people started leaving. My phone buzzed. I ignored it.
Hugs at the door. Another buzz. Promises to see each other soon.
A third buzz. Car doors slamming. Engines starting.
When everyone was gone, I pulled out my phone. Three unread messages. All from the same number. I opened the last one.
You smiled for cameras 14 times this week. Performance requires energy you don't have. When I extract you, you'll never have to perform again.
Extract.
I climbed the stairs to the guest room. It held a double bed and a view of the street.
I locked the door. Pulled the curtains. Sat on the edge of the bed with my phone in my hands and the knowledge that tomorrow, everything would change.
Someone named Eamon Price was driving north through the rain, heading to Seattle to do a job. To protect me from a threat neither of us fully understood yet.
