Page 10 of Beyond Protection
It hit harder than I'd expected—needles through my collar, soaking through the denim in seconds. The smells hit next: wet pavement and cedar shingles, the green rot of leaves decomposing in gutters, and something warmer underneath. Coffee. Someone in this neighborhood was awake, brewing comfort against the dark.
The storm door caught my attention. Old aluminum frame gone gray with age, moving slightly in the wind with that distinctive squeak—metal hinge grinding against metal frame.Michael had mentioned it on the phone without meaning to:Mac stood on the porch, and the door squeaked before he came inside.
Now I knew what that sounded like.
I added it to my internal map. Threat assessment worked in layers—sight lines and exit routes first, but also sound. If someone opened that door while I was inside, I'd hear it. I'd know someone was coming before they cleared the threshold.
The front door opened before I reached it.
Michael McCabe filled the frame. I remembered him when I saw him—we'd worked a case together two years back, some tech CEO with an angry investor making threats. He still carried that cop's economy of motion, the kind of stillness that came from training you couldn't unlearn.
He was holding his phone in one hand like he'd been tracking my progress the entire drive north.
"You made it." Notthank godorI was worried—just confirmation.
I appreciated that.
"Road's clear." I wiped rain off my face, noted the porch light's coverage pattern, and the shadows where someone could wait unseen. "You said the threat's parked?"
"Gray sedan. Hasn't moved since Mac spotted it around seven." He spoke with a familiar flat procedural voice—the tone of someone managing fear through training. I'd used it myself.
I didn't look back at the car. Didn't need to. I'd already registered everything worth seeing.
"I'll need full access to his phone in the morning. Original message headers, timestamps, anything the screenshots didn't capture."
"Done."
We stood there a moment—two men who understood the weight of what I'd agreed to do. I'd failed at it once.
"Come in," Michael said, stepping back. "I'll brief you."
I followed him inside.
The kitchen was smaller than I'd anticipated—barely room for two men to stand without one backing against the counter. A half-full coffee pot sat on a warmer, the glass carafe stained brown at the waterline—evidence of a family that ran on caffeine and late nights.
I spotted a pie tin on the counter—apple, mostly gone, fork marks in the remaining filling. Christmas lights blinked in the next room, casting everything in red and green shadows.
Too bright. Too warm. My jacket was already damp against my shoulders, and the kitchen's heat made it cling.
Michael gestured at a chair. I stayed standing. Never sit when you're doing an initial threat assessment. Never give up the ability to move fast.
He pulled out his phone. "A flurry of messages. All from the same unknown number. Forwarded to me. Started around six tonight when Mac arrived."
He handed me the phone.
I scrolled through the words. Read each message twice—once for content, once for structure.
Your condition has deteriorated since last season.
Improper handling causes irreversible damage.
847 documented images across 18 months.
Intervention timeline: 3 weeks.
The language stopped me cold.
Not "I love you" or "I need you" or any of the possessive declarations that usually showed up in obsessive fan contact. This read like field notes. Like someone documenting a specimen under observation. And then the final—it read like poetry.
