Chapter 1 #2
He handed the phone back. "Okay. Here's what we're doing. I'm going to pull up some contacts. There's one in particular based in Portland, but he takes contracts up here. Maybe he'll come up and stick close."
"You want to hire a bodyguard?"
"I want to hire someone who knows what they're doing before this gets worse." He pulled out his own phone. "The language in these messages—it's clinical. Professional. Like they're documenting a project, not expressing obsession. That makes them more dangerous, not less."
"It's Thanksgiving."
"Which is why we call now." He was already scrolling on his own. "Before tomorrow, when everyone's harder to reach and we've lost another day. Don't reply to any of it. Screenshot everything. I'll start a log."
"Michael, I don't need—"
847 photographs. Outside Ma's house tonight. Close enough to see the color of my shirt.
"Okay," I said. "Give me the info before you call."
Michael nodded. Started to turn toward the stairs, then stopped.
"The last relationship. The one that ended badly. You going to tell me what happened there?"
The change of subject caught me off guard. "What does that—"
"Because whoever we bring in to protect you needs to know if there's a pattern. If you attract obsessive attention. If this is—"
"It's not." The words sounded defensive, even to me. "Derek loved the fame, not me. Loved being the boyfriend of the first openly gay MVP. When that got old, he moved on to someone with better Instagram metrics. That's not the same as this."
Michael studied me. "You sure?"
"Yeah." I was. Derek had been shallow but not dangerous. Not like this. "This is different."
"Okay." He nodded. "Get back to dinner. Try to be yourself. I'm calling him now."
He took the stairs two at a time.
I stood alone in the hallway, listening to his footsteps overhead and the murmur of his voice as he made calls.
He was looking for someone professional. Someone who dealt with threats for a living.
From the dining room, Ma's voice: "Mac, honey, you want coffee?"
I returned. Sliding into my chair, I smiled weakly. "Sorry. I'm good."
Ma squeezed my arm as she passed. Claire watched me from across the table. Marcus was telling a story about a restaurant fire.
Matthew nudged my arm. "You want the last of the potatoes?"
"No. You take them."
He scraped them onto his plate. Metal on ceramic, the sound setting my teeth on edge.
Keep it together. Just keep it together.
Above us, Michael's voice carried—muffled but urgent. I caught fragments: "...Seattle... credible threat... tonight if possible..."
Ma started clearing plates. Marcus stood to help. Miles had migrated to the living room. As the conversation wound down, people found other spaces to occupy. It was a familiar end to Thanksgiving dinner.
My phone stayed silent in my pocket. Heavy as a stone.
Michael's footsteps sounded on the stairs. He appeared in the doorway, caught my eye, and gave a single nod.
Ma came back with pie. "Apple or pumpkin?"
"Apple," I said automatically.
She cut a slice and set it in front of me. Steam rose from the crust. It looked perfect, but I couldn't taste it.
Michael sat down beside me, voice low. "Sent you the details. He can leave Portland in an hour. That would let him get here by midnight."
"That fast?"
"When I told him the situation, he didn't hesitate." Michael paused. "Eamon Price. I've used him before on sensitive cases. He's the best I know, Mac. If he says he'll keep you safe, he will."
"Okay."
"You trust me?"
"Yeah."
"Then trust this."
I nodded. Picked up my fork. Took a bite of pie, but couldn't taste it.
Across the table, Claire was watching again. This time when our eyes met, I let her see it—the fear I'd been hiding. The exhaustion. The weight of being watched for eighteen months without knowing.
She set down her fork. "Cormac. Would you help me with something in the kitchen?"
It wasn't a question.
I followed her.
The kitchen was empty. Dishes soaking in the sink and the counter cleared except for coffee grounds and a half-empty pie tin. She turned to face me.
"Tell me," she said.
"Tell you what?"
"What's wrong. What's been wrong since you walked in? Don't lie to me."
I could've deflected. Could've said it was nothing, that I was fine, and that she was reading too much into exhaustion and off-season adjustment.
But this was my mother. And I was already tired of lying.
"Someone's been following me," I said. "For eighteen months. Taking pictures. Documenting. Sending messages about how I'm deteriorating and need intervention. And they're here. Tonight. Outside."
Her face froze like porcelain.
"Does Michael know?"
"Yeah. He's bringing in someone. A security consultant."
She nodded once. "Good. That's good." Then: "Are you safe right now?"
"I think so. Michael checked. There's a car outside, but they haven't approached. Haven't done anything except watch and send messages."
"Yet."
"Yet."
She moved to the window. Didn't touch the curtain. She angled herself to see out. "Gray sedan. Two houses down."
"You see it?"
"I see everything, Cormac. I just don't always say." She turned back. "You're staying here tonight. The guest room's ready. Understood? I won't allow you to go back to that empty condo where you're alone."
"Mom—"
"Understood?"
I understood. My mother didn't push often. When she did, I listened.
"Yeah. Understood."
She came closer. Took my face in her hands. "You're not alone in this. Whatever happens, you have family. You have your aunt and your cousins. You have me. You don't have to carry this by yourself."
"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 whether Die Hard was 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.
Outside, rain kept falling.
The car kept waiting.
And somewhere on I-5 between Portland and Seattle, a man I'd never met was driving toward me through the dark.
One more message appeared before I could put the phone down.
You're most beautiful when you think no one's watching.
In the seconds between poses when your face forgets to smile.
When you close your eyes at the plate before the pitch.
When you stand at the window in the morning with coffee in both hands like you're praying to something you don't believe in anymore.
That's when I see you clearly. That's the you I'm going to save.
An hour later, maybe two, I was still awake when headlights swept across my ceiling.
New car. Different engine sound.
I pulled back the curtain edge.
A man stood beside a dark sedan—not the gray one—studying the street. Tall, broad-shouldered under a rain-dampened jacket. He didn't move toward the door of Ma's house. Just stood there in the rain, absolutely still.
Scanning.
It was how someone scanned when they knew what they were looking for. The way someone stands when they've waited in worse places.
Professional, and something else too—the stillness of someone who'd seen darkness before and wasn't afraid to meet it again.
The streetlight caught him briefly. I couldn't see the details from this distance. Only the set of his shoulders. The deliberate economy of movement. Then his head turned.
Toward Ma's house.
Toward my window.
He wasn't looking at me. He was looking for me.
I stepped back. Heart hammering.
When I looked again, he was walking to the door—no wasted movement. No hesitation. Michael appeared, backlit. Brief conversation I couldn't hear. The man nodded once—sharp, decisive—and went inside.
The door closed.
I stayed at the window.
For eighteen months, someone had been watching me—examining every smile, every gesture, and every moment I thought was private. Watching until they knew me better than I knew myself. Until they could predict what I'd wear, how I'd move, and when I'd break.
Now, someone else was here to watch me. To track my movements, monitor my patterns, and keep me in sight every moment until the threat was gone.
More watching. More eyes. More performance.
Except—
The man in the rain hadn't looked at me the way people looked at Mac McCabe, MVP. Hadn't looked at me the way the stalker looked at me, like I was art needing preservation.
He'd looked at the street, the shadows, the gray sedan two houses down.
He was looking for the threat.
Not for me. Not at me.
For the thing trying to hurt me.
I realized I was crying only when I couldn't see the street anymore—just shapes and light bleeding together in the rain.
I didn't know if I should feel safer or more exposed.
Both, maybe.
Or maybe—for the first time in longer than I could remember—I felt seen in a way that didn't require me to perform. Seen in a way that wasn't about me at all.
Seen by someone who wasn't looking.
I let the curtain fall closed.
Outside, rain kept falling. Downstairs, Eamon Price was hearing about 847 photographs and a woman who wanted to extract me like a painting from a burning museum.
I lay back down. Didn't sleep.
Just listened to the rain and thought about how he'd stood on that street, absolutely still, scanning for threats with the patience of someone who'd done this before. Who'd stand between people and danger because that's what he did. What he'd always done.
Like he'd been waiting for this call.
Like he'd known exactly what he'd find.