Chapter 10 #2
"He's reading the runner," I said.
"Right. Which means—"
"The hole opens up."
"Exactly." Mac scrolled forward. The batter—younger Mac—slapped a ground ball through the vacated space. "I'm gone before the pitch. He can't cover both."
I watched him watch himself. Not admiring his swing, but analyzing the geometry.
"You play like you're planning an ambush," I said.
His mouth quirked. "Same thing. Different stakes."
"Most people think instinct gets you killed."
Mac met my eyes. "Not if you've trained it right."
The double meaning landed between us.
Rain hammered harder. The radiator clanged upstairs.
Mac closed the laptop. "This is what I love. Not the fame. Just the geometry. The moment you realize you know what's coming and you're already in position." He set the laptop aside. "You do it too. The way you walk through a room. Examining exits, reading people, and planning three moves ahead."
"That's my job."
"It's also who you are." Statement of fact. "You don't miss much."
"Neither do you."
The acknowledgment sat heavily between us.
"You're different when you talk about the game," I said.
Mac's laugh was soft. "You mean when I stop performing?"
"Yeah."
He pulled one leg up and rested his chin on his knee. Younger suddenly. "Baseball has rules. Clear ones. Everything else is just guessing what people want to hear and hoping you get it right."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is." He was quiet for a moment. "You think you're the only one who runs scenarios? What happens if I say this wrong? What happens if they see through it? What happens if I let someone get close, and they only wanted the symbol?"
My heart found a new rhythm.
"I knew," Mac said quietly.
I looked at him. "What?"
"About her. The journalist." His voice was careful. Certain. "I knew before Michael called you. Before you came here. Before any of this."
The world tilted.
"How—"
"Michael sent me your file. Background check. References. I read it all. Saw the gap in your employment. Saw you went independent right after." He met my eyes. "Did my own research. Found the articles. Read about the investigation that cleared you."
My chest was too tight. "Then why—"
"Why did I let Michael hire you?" Mac's voice was soft. "Your file looked like someone who'd lost something real. Someone who understood what it costs to fail." He paused. "I thought maybe you'd see me. The actual person."
The words hit like a fist to the sternum.
"You hired someone who failed." The words came out with all their sharp edges showing.. "On purpose."
"I hired someone who knew what failure looked like. Who'd do anything not to see it again." He met my eyes. "Everyone else would want to protect the symbol. You looked like someone who might actually see the person."
"I don't know if I can—"
"I know. That's why it works."
I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. Three years of carrying that failure like a stone, and Mac had looked at it and seen—what? Qualification? Proof I wouldn't let it happen again?
Or just proof I was human?
I stood. Used the motion to steady myself. "I should finish the sweep."
"Eamon—"
"Goodnight, Mac."
I made it three steps.
"I know you're going to leave," Mac said to my back. "When this is over. When she's caught. That's what professionals do, right? Job ends, you go."
I stopped. Didn't turn.
"I'm just asking—" His voice cracked. "Could we have this anyway? Even if it's just for now? Could we have something real before you disappear?"
That's what broke me.
Not that he was asking.
That he'd already accepted I'd leave.
That he was negotiating for borrowed time instead of believing I'd stay.
I turned. "Mac—"
Light swept across the living room window.
We both froze.
A car. Slowing down and stopping across the street.
I moved without thinking—stepped between Mac and the window, hand reaching for my phone. My pulse kicked hard against my throat. "Get back from—"
"I see it." Mac's voice was tight.
The car sat there. Engine running. Headlights off.
Someone inside.
Watching.
My heart hammered. Every nerve ending lit. This was the moment—this was when she'd—
The car pulled away. Slow. Deliberate.
She wanted us to know she'd been there.
"She was here." Mac's breathing had gone shallow. "During dinner. During everything. And now—"
His phone buzzed.
We both stared at it.
Mac pulled it out with hands that weren't quite steady. Read the screen. Went pale.
"What?"
He turned it so I could see.
A photograph. Taken tonight. Through the dining room window.
She hadn't just photographed him. She'd photographed the exact moment his armor dropped. Had caught him looking at me the way he'd never let himself look at anyone in public. She'd stolen intimacy. Documented the one thing Mac never performed.
Below the image:
He can't keep you safe. No one can. But I can. I've prepared everything. The restoration protocol is ready. No more waiting. —V.K.
"Fuck," Mac breathed.
"She's not just watching you anymore." My voice came out cold. "She's watching us."
She'd been documenting more than his condition. She'd been documenting what was happening between us. Had seen what I'd been trying not to admit we were.
"She's escalating," I said. The tactical assessment ran ice-cold now. "Voice contact, physical surveillance, direct threats. This isn't fixation. This is proceeding on her timeline."
"She's got a cabin. A protocol." Mac's voice was hollow. "She's not just planning anymore."
I took the phone. "I'm calling Michael. And the police. No argument."
For once, Mac didn't fight me.
But as I dialed, I felt it—the shift. It was the moment when the threat stopped being theoretical and became immediate. When my client became someone I cared about too much to trust my own judgment.
When proximity stopped being a variable to manage and became the problem I didn't know how to solve.
She was right about one thing.
Every scenario I'd run, every threat I'd assessed—I'd been calculating how to protect Mac from her.
I'd never calculated how to protect him from me.
I pulled up Michael's number and made the call I should have made hours ago.
Outside, rain kept falling.
Across the street, in the dark between streetlights, a car door closed. Softly. Too softly to be accidental.