Page 68 of Beyond Protection
His jaw ticked. "I should have seen her face. At Pike Place. When she—"
"You couldn't have known." I turned to face him. "None of us knew what she looked like."
"That's not good enough." He took my phone, studied the photo with professional focus. Memorizing every detail. "Conservation background. It tracks with the language. The clinical assessment. She's applying conservation vocabulary to—"
"To me. She thinks I'm something that needs to be preserved."
"Not anymore." He forwarded the photo somewhere—police contacts, probably. His network of people who could actually help. "Now she has a face. Now everyone who needs to know her is looking for her."
I just stood there staring at my phone. At the woman who thought I was deteriorating. Who'd stood at Ma's door with lock picks and patience.
Who looked like absolutely nothing.
That was what made it terrifying. She could be anyone. Anywhere.
Marcus cleared his throat. "Contractors arrive in an hour. We'll have this place completely locked down by tonight."
Eamon nodded, already shifting into professional mode. "I want cameras on every entrance. Motion sensors on windows. Deadbolts that no one can pick."
"Already ordered."
"And I need to walk the property. Check sight lines, access points—"
"You need to eat something first," Ma said from the doorway. None of us had heard her come in. "Both of you. Before you pass out from running on spite and coffee."
Eamon opened his mouth to argue.
"Eat," Ma said. It wasn't a request.
We ate.
The security installation took all day.
I tried to help around eight—held a level for one of the contractors while he drilled camera mounts into Ma's siding. My hands shook, and the bubble drifted. The drill bit went in crooked.
"Sorry," I said. "I can—"
"It's fine." He was already filling the bad hole with wood putty. "Just stay back a bit. Let me get this squared away."
I stepped back. Tried not to feel useless.
Eamon appeared, said something quiet to the contractor, then touched my elbow. "Come here a second."
I followed him away from the noise.
"You don't have to help," he said.
"I should be—"
"Staying out of the way so we can work." It wasn't unkind. It was honest. "This is what I'm good at, Mac. Let me do it."
"And what am I good at? Standing around while everyone else protects me?"
"You're good at staying alive." His voice dropped. "That's the job. Mine is keeping you that way. Yours is letting me."
I didn't have an answer for that.
By noon, the house was crawling with people, and Ma's kitchen had become a staging area for cables, brackets, and power tools. I stayed out of the way. Watched Eamon work—directing contractors, checking equipment, transforming Ma's home into something defensible.
