Page 74 of Beyond Protection
"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay."
Marcus pulled his laptop closer. "I'll coordinate with harbor patrol. Get the passenger list. Run backgrounds on the crew."
"I'll map the boat," Eamon said. "Exits, sight lines, dead zones. We'll have a plan before we set foot on that dock."
"And you'll have fun," Ma said firmly. "All of you. That's non-negotiable too."
My phone buzzed on the table—unknown number.
My stomach dropped.
I picked it up. Read the message. My blood ran cold.
"Mac?" Eamon moved closer. "What is it?"
I turned the screen toward him.
Lovely that you finally have a name to go with the face. Vanessa Kensington. You've been learning about me while I perfect my understanding of you. The boat cruise Friday—such a thoughtful family tradition. Christmas lights on the water, carols, hot chocolate. I do appreciate being included in the planning. It will be perfect. See you there. —V.K.
She was listening.
Somehow, impossibly, she was listening to us.
Eamon took my phone. Read the message.
"Marcus," he said quietly. "We need to sweep the house. Now."
"For what?"
"Bugs. Cameras. Something." He looked at me. At Ma. "She heard us talking. Just now. About Friday."
The kitchen that had felt secure five minutes ago suddenly wasn't. The stalker had violated it.
Ma's house—my aunt's house, the place that had always meant safety—had been compromised.
And Vanessa Kensington was coming to the Christmas boat cruise.
Whether we wanted her there or not.
Chapter ten
Eamon
The McCabe house ran on noise and obligation. By Sunday evening, I'd stopped pretending I could predict either.
Two days since the kiss. His mouth on mine replaying at the worst moments—checking locks, scanning rooms, trying to maintain distance while my body remembered exactly how he'd tasted. Coffee and something sweeter. The way he'd made that sound, soft and surprised, like he hadn't expected his own want.
The kitchen smelled like onions and coffee burned down to tar. Miles chopped celery at the sink with surgical precision while Michael coordinated something on his phone that apparently required a spreadsheet. Ma moved between them, issuing contradictory instructions.
"Eamon." She thrust a cutting board at me. "Bread. Thinner than yesterday—this isn't lumber."
The knife was old, well-maintained, and sharp enough to respect. I started slicing while my brain cataloged vulnerabilities: the storm door's squeak, the basement latch that didn't set flush, the dining room window that—
"You're thinking too loud." Miles didn't look up from the celery. "I can hear the tactical assessment from here."
"Occupational hazard."
"So's therapy, but I try not to psychoanalyze people at family dinners." He paused. "Anymore."
