Chapter 8 Eamon #2
Alex pulled his laptop closer. "Let me start searching. Museum studies, conservation programs, anything that matches the clinical language."
Michael nodded, and his attention turned back toward me.
"Mac thinks you left because you're mad at him," he said. "For being a distraction. For making your job harder."
"That's not—"
"I know that. You know that." Michael's eyes held mine. "Make sure he knows that."
Alex tapped a pen against a legal pad. "The language in these messages—'improper handling,' 'progressive deterioration,' 'optimal condition.' It's not generic stalker language. It's someone applying professional vocabulary to an obsession."
"Conservation," I said.
"Or collection management. Someone trained to assess, document, and preserve." He pulled his laptop closer.
"I'll search academic databases, quietly. I'll scrape ProQuest and JSTOR for conservation theses, then cross-match phrases on CVs and conference abstracts."
Michael nodded. "I'll reach out to my old lieutenant. Hypothetical scenario. Get protocols ready for when we have enough."
Luna's head lifted. She'd been motionless, but now her ears swiveled toward the windows. Tracking something I couldn't hear.
She stood slowly. Her posture shifted. Alert.
A low growl rolled through her chest. Quiet. Sustained. Warning.
"She doesn't usually do that," Michael said.
Luna's attention stayed fixed on the windows. Outside, darkness pressed close—the rural kind—inky, almost black.
I moved to the window. Scanned what little the porch light revealed. Trees dripping. Michael's truck and my rental. The gravel driveway disappeared into shadow.
Nothing moved.
Luna growled again. Lower. More insistent.
"She doesn't react to deer." Michael stood. "Not like this."
I caught his arm. "Stay inside."
"It's my property."
"And it's my job to clear threats." I pulled my jacket on. "You have a flashlight?"
Michael handed me a Maglite from a kitchen drawer. Heavy enough to double as a weapon.
Luna paced to the door, whined once—high and urgent.
"She stays." I checked the Glock holstered under my jacket. "Lock this behind me. Don't open it until I knock—three times, pause, two times."
Michael nodded.
The door locked behind me—solid click, deadbolt engaging.
Rain hit my face. Cold enough to sting. I swept the flashlight beam across the yard—left to right, methodically.
Trees. Fence line. Tool shed. Empty driveway.
I moved down the steps. Gravel crunched under my boots, announcing my position.
The property extended fifty yards before hitting a tree line. I walked the perimeter. Checked behind Michael's truck, around the shed, and along the fence.
At the fence line, I stopped.
The mud near the corner post was disturbed. Not animal tracks—it was a heel print. Human. Recent enough that the rain hadn't filled the impression.
I crouched. Swept the flashlight along the ground.
Three more prints. Leading from the tree line to the fence, then back again. Someone had stood there. Watching the house. Long enough to shift their weight multiple times.
The prints pointed toward the kitchen windows. Toward where we'd been sitting.
My pulse spiked. I pulled out my phone and I set a quarter by the heel print, taking four photos—overhead, oblique, tread close-up, and a wide for context. The tread pattern was distinct—work boot, size nine or ten.
While we'd been inside discussing Mac's stalker, someone had been outside. Watching.
Was it her?
I completed the perimeter check. Found no other prints. One set was enough. Beam off, I stood thirty seconds in the rain and listened—no breath, no fabric, only drip and distant highway.
I returned to the porch. Knocked—three times, pause, two times.
The door opened immediately. Michael stood with his weapon drawn, pointed down.
"Not clear," I said. "Someone was here."
Luna pushed past him, nose working. She trotted down the steps, sniffed along the path I'd walked. When she reached the prints, she growled. Low. Sustained.
Michael crouched beside the prints, examining them. "Fresh."
"Positioned for a clear view of the kitchen," I said. "Where we were sitting."
"You think—"
"Could be unrelated. Could be someone who knows you're former SWAT." I paused. "Could be Mac's stalker."
Luna stayed at the fence line, hackles raised, staring into the darkness beyond.
We returned to the house. Alex already had his laptop open. "I'm running pattern searches. Museums, galleries, conservation programs."
Michael's phone rang. He glanced at the screen. "Marcus."
He stepped into the living room, voice dropping low.
Alex pulled a legal pad toward him. "Let me help with this. Cross-referencing photos, building timelines. This is what I do. Finding narratives in fragments."
Every instinct said keep control. Work alone.
Every instinct also said I was out of my depth.
"Fine," I said finally. "Quietly. Nothing that creates a trail leading back to Mac."
"Understood."
Michael emerged, face troubled. He handed me the phone. "Marcus needs to talk to you. About Ma's house."
I stepped into the living room.
"Marcus."
"Eamon." His voice came through tired but steady. "Someone tried Ma's back door last night around 3 AM. The handle rattled twice. By the time I got there, whoever it was had left."
My stomach dropped. The room tilted.
I thought about Mac. Sleeping in Ma's guest room, counting glow-in-the-dark stars while someone rattled the door two floors below. Mac, who texted to make sure I drove safely.
I pressed my free hand against the wall to keep from putting my fist through it.
"Police?"
"Ma didn't call them. Didn't want to worry Mac."
"I'm coming back," I said. "Now."
"Figured. Security upgrades start tomorrow. I'll stay tonight."
We discussed specifics. When I finished, I returned to the kitchen.
Luna trotted to greet me—tail wagging.
I crouched. Her tongue touched my knuckles. Warm, rough.
"Good girl," I said.
She leaned her full weight against my knee.
I straightened. "I need to go. Someone tried Ma's door last night."
Michael's eyes widened. "With Mac there? Alone with Ma?"
"Marcus is there with Mac and Ma tonight. But I need to get back."
Alex closed his laptop. "Drive safe. We'll keep working on this."
Luna pushed forward and nosed my hand. I scratched behind her ear, and she leaned into the contact.
"She doesn't do that for everyone," Michael said.
"She's got good instincts."
"So do you." Michael held my gaze. "Start trusting them again. Especially the one that's telling you Mac's not just another client."
I didn't answer.
"Yeah," Michael said quietly. "That's what I thought."
Luna whined softly. I crouched, let her press her forehead against my jaw. Her fur smelled like woodsmoke and lavender.
I stood. Opened the truck door. Luna backed up, sat at Michael's feet, tail thumping once.
"Text when you're back," Michael said.
I nodded. Climbed in. Started the engine.
My phone buzzed before I could shift into reverse.
Mac: You still up?
I put the truck in park. Killed the headlights.
Eamon: About to drive back
Mac: Through the rain? Pull over if it gets bad.
Eamon: Will do
A pause. Long enough to put the truck back into gear. Then:
Mac: Be careful. I'm not losing you to a hydroplaning truck.
I sighed and set the phone down. As the truck began to move, Michael raised one hand. Luna's ears tracked my movement while I backed down the driveway.
Luna's tail wagged while the house disappeared behind trees.
The wipers beat their rhythm. Rain hammered the roof. I-5 would be worse—trucks throwing spray and visibility dropping.
Mac's photograph from the Roastery sat on the passenger seat. His face caught mid-smile. Real. Unguarded.
I made it fifteen miles before the rain got worse. Visibility dropped to thirty yards. Semi-trucks threw walls of water.
A rest stop appeared through the blur. I signaled. Pulled in.
The engine ticked as it cooled. Rain drummed on the metal roof.
I pulled out my phone.
Eamon: Pulled over. Rain's bad. Waiting it out
A response came fast.
Mac: Smart. Where are you?
Eamon: Rest stop off 205. Maybe 20 minutes
Mac: Stay as long as you need
I stared at the message. Tried to remember the last time someone told me it was okay to wait.
Mac: For what it's worth, I'm glad you went to Michael's. You needed his input.
Eamon: Yeah. I did
The rain kept falling. A semi pulled in three spaces over, engine rumbling.
Mac: You think it's the stalker? The one who tried the door?
Eamon: Don't know. Could be coincidence
Mac: You don't believe in coincidence
He was right. I didn't.
Mac: I'm scared
The words were honest and straightforward.
Eamon: Me too
Mac: But you're still coming back
Eamon: Always
I stared at the word on the screen. One word that meant I'm coming back tonight, I'm coming back tomorrow, and I'm coming back until this is over.
The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Mac: Always is a long time
Eamon: Yeah, it is
Somewhere between the Roastery and Pike Place, keeping Mac safe had stopped being an assignment and started being I can't lose him.
I set the phone down. Watched rain blur the windshield. Inside the rest stop building, vending machines glowed through fogged glass.
Twenty minutes. That's what I'd give myself. Twenty minutes to let the adrenaline drain before I drove north to whatever came next.
I leaned back against the headrest. Let my eyes close.
Luna's face appeared behind my eyelids. Brown eyes steady. Tail wagging. Choosing to trust despite every reason not to.
Good instincts, I'd told Michael.
Maybe it was time I listened to my own.
My phone lit up—unknown number.
Lovely evening for reflection, Eamon. The rain does make people contemplative. I've been contemplative too—about timelines, about proximity, about the way you look at him like you could protect him from me. You can't. Three weeks is now two.
I put the truck in gear. Rain and darkness. And a stalker who knew my name.