Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Eamon
They didn't. It was merely a useless calculation to avoid thinking about Mac's mouth tasting like rain and cider, and thinking about how he'd said us like it was both question and answer. I remembered kissing him back while someone watched from thirty feet away, documenting my failure in real time.
They're paying me to protect him.
The thought landed with the weight of a career of strict protocol I'd been ignoring since I started seeing him as something other than a client.
A closet door stood open, making Ma's basement smell like stored Christmas. The fold-out couch groaned when I sat up. My phone sat face-down on the floor—no new messages since Vanessa's reenactment text last night.
Upstairs, floorboards creaked. It was Ma's footsteps as she started her day. Coffee soon. Then breakfast. The ordinary rhythm of a house where I didn't belong.
I pulled my tablet from my gear bag. Opened yesterday's security notes. Started reviewing footage from the boat—
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
My throat closed.
Subject showed increased baseline stress. Sleep disruption noted. Emotional attachment to security personnel complicates extraction protocols.
She was watching the house. Had to be. How else would she know about sleep disruption?
I stood and moved to the small basement window. Scanned the street through dirty glass. Empty. Dawn light was starting to gray the edges. Every parked car was a potential threat.
Another buzz.
A photo. The front of Ma's house. Taken this morning—the porch light still on. Timestamp: 04:23.
Twenty-four minutes ago.
She'd been here. Right outside. While I was lying in the dark, moaning about my failures.
I grabbed my jacket. Took the stairs two at a time. The kitchen was empty—Ma hadn't started the coffee yet. I unlocked the front door and stepped onto the porch.
Cold air. Rain smell. The street was quiet except for a garbage truck two blocks over.
I circled the house. Checked the back gate—still latched. The basement window—undisturbed. No footprints in the wet grass. No apparent signs of surveillance.
Still, she'd been here. The photo proved it.
When I returned through the kitchen door, Ma was at the stove, and Mac was sitting at the table with damp hair and bare feet, wearing an old Seahawks sweatshirt.
He looked up when I entered.
"Morning," he said. Testing the temperature.
"Morning." I should have told them about the messages. Immediately. But Ma was flipping bacon, and Mac looked exhausted, and I couldn't make myself say the words that would shatter the small domestic moment.
Professional distance. That's what I needed. Rebuild the walls and remind both of us that this was a job with an endpoint.
We had six days until Vanessa made her move—six days to keep Mac alive despite my compromised judgment.
"Coffee's on the counter," Ma said without turning.
I poured it black. Added two sugars. Gave my hands something to do.
Claire came through the back door, shaking rain from her jacket. She nodded at me and sat with the tea she must have brought with her.
"Sleep okay?" Mac asked. His voice was carefully neutral.
"Fine."
The word landed flat. I watched him process it—his shoulders tensing under the sweatshirt.
"Basement's cold this time of year," he added.
"It's fine."
Ma slid bacon onto a plate. "Mac, set the table. Eamon, sit."
I sat. Mac set down plates and forks with economical movements. When he reached for the jam, his sleeve rode up. His strength visible in the corded muscle.
The storm door squeaked. Just the wind. But it reminded me—three access points, old locks, vulnerabilities everywhere.
I bit into crisp bacon that I couldn't taste while Mac tried to make conversation about the Mariners. I shut him down with one-word answers.
It was a first step toward having him understand that we needed to stay professional.
Claire set down her tea. "Eamon, you're from Portland originally?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Do you miss it?"
"Sometimes. It's quieter. Fewer variables."
"Variables." She tasted the word. "That's an interesting way to describe a city."
Mac's fork clinked against his plate.
"Tactical thinking," I said. "Occupational hazard."
"Sounds exhausting," Claire said quietly.
"It's necessary."
"Necessary and exhausting aren't mutually exclusive."
Mac looked at his mother like she'd said something in a language he couldn't quite process.
I stood. "I should review yesterday's security footage."
"You checked the perimeter twenty minutes ago," Mac said flatly. "I heard you. Three times around the house."
Ma and Claire exchanged a look.
"Just being thorough," I said.
"Right." Mac's smile was bright and empty. "Thorough."
He left. Footsteps heavy on the stairs. A door closing upstairs.
Ma looked at me. "You two having one of those silent-movie mornings?"
"Just tired."
"Hmm." She rinsed a plate. "Tired's one word for it."
Claire stood. Paused by my shoulder. "Distance doesn't always equal safety. Sometimes it only equals distance."
Then she was gone.
Ma turned back to the sink. "Coffee's still hot if you need more. And Mac's room is the second door on the right, in case you were wondering."
"I wasn't."
"Well, now you know anyway."
I made it to the second-floor hallway before I heard Mac's voice through the door. On the phone. The agent, probably.
"—told you, I'm not doing press until next season."
Pause.
"I don't care about optics—"
His voice cracked on the last word.
I raised my hand, and it hovered six inches from the door.
Then dropped.
I turned. Made it three steps.
The door opened.
"If you're going to lurk in the hallway, you could at least commit to it."
It was Mac's voice. Flat. Exhausted.
I turned back.
He stood in the doorway, phone in hand, gripping the frame like it was holding him up.
"I wasn't lurking."
"Right. Standing outside my door for three minutes. Very professional."
It would have made the most sense to turn back and go downstairs. Do my actual job.
I stepped through the door into the guest room instead.
The room smelled like him—cedar from Ma's closet, soap, and underneath that, the scent of his skin I'd memorized against every tactical instinct.
He closed the door. Leaned against it.
"Your agent?"
"Yeah."
"Everything okay?"
Mac's jaw tensed. "Fine."
It was the word we both used when everything wasn't.
"I need—"
"Don't." He moved to the window. "Don't use that voice.
The bodyguard voice. That's you this morning—so fucking detached it makes me want to—" He stopped and gripped the windowsill.
"My agent wants me to do press. Sports Illustrated.
ESPN. Some podcast about authenticity." He let out a bitter laugh.
"Like I have any idea what that looks like anymore. "
"You don't have to do any of that."
"Right. Because saying no doesn't have consequences." He turned. "You know what my agent said? That I'm not just representing myself anymore. I'm representing every gay kid who wants to play professional sports. I'm a symbol now. Symbols don't get to be tired."
Exhaustion flooded his voice.
"That's not fair to you."
"No. It's not." He sat on the bed. "But fair stopped mattering the day I came out. Now it's all about managing the narrative. Being inspiring without being threatening. Gay enough to be historic, but not so gay that it makes America uncomfortable."
He scrubbed his hands over his face.
"And the worst part? I knew this was coming. I chose it. So I don't get to complain."
"You signed up to play baseball. Not to be a symbol."
"Same thing now." He looked at his hands. "Can't have one without the other."
I thought about offering comfort. Reassurance. The things that made clients feel better.
Mac didn't need that.
"Your agent's wrong," I said quietly. "You get to be tired. You get to say no. You get to have limits."
"Do I?" He stared at me. "I don't see how saying no doesn't disappoint everyone who is depending on me to keep being brave."
"You don't owe anyone your exhaustion."
"Tell that to you." He lowered his voice. "Tell that to you standing in my aunt's kitchen this morning, shutting me down every time I tried to talk. Treating me like a job."
It was a fair blow—right to the gut.
"I'm trying to keep you safe."
"By what? Pretending last night didn't happen? Pretending you didn't kiss me back?" His voice cracked. "I'm so tired of people pretending with me, Eamon. And now you're pretending distance equals protection."
"Distance does equal—"
"Bullshit." He stood. "Distance equals you being too scared to admit you care, which is fine. You're allowed to be scared. But don't lie to me about it. Don't make it about professional boundaries when it's really about not wanting to fail someone else."
I swallowed hard.
"That's not—"
"She died." Mac's voice turned gentle. "Your client. Three years ago. We all know that now. She died, and you blame yourself, and now you're terrified that caring about me will compromise your judgment the same way."
I fought for a breath.
Mac asked, "Am I wrong?"
"No," I said. "You're not wrong."
He moved closer. Stopped three feet away.
"I can't do this," he said quietly. "Can't have you close enough to kiss me and far enough that you won't talk to me over breakfast. I need you to decide, Eamon. All in or all out. Not this middle distance where I don't know which version of you I'm getting."
"I'm trying to keep you alive." The protest sounded weak even to me.
"I know." He reached up and placed his palm against my jaw. "But I need you to keep me alive as someone who wants to be alive, and who has something to look forward to. Merely breathing isn't living."
I covered his hand with mine.
"How do I do it? Keep you safe and be… close."
"Be yourself and do both." His eyes held mine. "I'm not asking you to stop being scared. I'm asking you to stop using fear as an excuse to shut me out."
He saw right through.
"I didn't know what to do this morning," I admitted.
"You could've said good morning, and touched me—hand on the back, kiss on the cheek. Could've stood beside me. Could've done anything except throw up a wall and take notes like I'm just a job."
"I'm sorry."
"Are you? Or just sorry I noticed?"
Fair question. Devastating.
"Both," I said finally. "I'm sorry I hurt you. And I'm sorry I keep hurting you while telling myself it's for your own good."
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"That's honest." He moved back to the bed and sat. "More honest than downstairs."
I sat beside him. The bed dipped, and our shoulders touched.
"I can't lose you," I said. "If she gets to you because I missed something. If I fail you the way I failed Kyra—"
"Stop." He reached out for my hand. "You're not going to fail me."
"You can't know that."
"No, but I can choose to believe caring about me makes you more effective, not less. You give a damn whether I make it through this. You have something much worse to lose than just a client."
I looked at our joined hands. "Ma said something similar."
He smiled. "Ma's usually right." He leaned into me. "Annoying how often she's right."
I nearly smiled back.
My phone buzzed.
Michael: Police want to talk to Mac. 2 PM. Timeline questions.
Another text, unknown number:
Countdown: 6 days. Proximity to security personnel noted. Will adjust approach accordingly.
My blood ran cold.
"What?" Mac was reading over my shoulder.
I pulled up the earlier message. Showed him the photo of Ma's house. "She was here this morning. 4:23 AM. While I was downstairs."
The blood drained from Mac's face. "She's watching right now."
"Probably."
"And you didn't tell me?"
"I was going to—"
"When? After breakfast? After you finished shutting me out?" His voice rose. "She's taking snapshots, and you were what—reviewing security footage? Checking fence latches?"
"I was trying to—"
"You were trying to protect me by keeping me in the dark?" He grabbed his phone. "We need to tell Michael. The police. Everyone."
"I know. I was—"
"You were scared." Mac's voice softened again. "So scared of failing that you forgot the first rule of protection is communication."
It was another emotional gutpunch.
"You're right," I said. "I fucked up. I should have told you immediately."
He looked at me. Some of the anger drained.
"Yeah. You should have." He pulled up his messages. Started texting Michael. "At least you're admitting it."
I moved to the window. Scanned the street. A gray sedan two houses down. Had it been there this morning? I couldn't remember.
"We should go," I said. "Get to the police early. Show them these messages."
"Yeah." Mac grabbed a hoodie. Then stopped. Turned back. "Eamon?"
"Yeah?"
"I meant what I said, all in or all out. You don't get to protect me by shutting me out. That's not how this works. I can fire you."
I crossed to him. Touched his face. "I'll try. Can't promise I won't fuck it up, but I'll try."
He kissed me. Quick. "That's all I'm asking."
We went downstairs. Ma was in the living room.
"We need to leave," I said. "Police interview."
She read my expression. "What happened?"
"Michael called. We can use all the support we can get."
"You boys be careful."
"We will."
Outside, the gray sedan was still there. I memorized the plate as we passed. Pulled out my phone and sent it to Michael along with the new messages.
Mac was quiet in the passenger seat. Watching the mirrors like I'd taught him.
"Six days," he said finally.
"We'll end it before then."
"How?"
"I don't know yet." I reached over. Took his hand.
He squeezed back.
My phone buzzed.
Michael: I'm already at the precinct. They want to see both of you NOW. Detective found something.
I showed Mac.
"What do you think they found?"
"I don't know, but I have a feeling we're about to find out how close she's really been."
In my peripheral vision, the gray sedan pulled out behind us. Kept three cars back. Professional distance.
I didn't tell Mac. Not yet.
One crisis at a time.
My hand tightened on the wheel, and I noted the routes with the most traffic cameras. The most witnesses. The places where she couldn't follow without exposing herself.
Six days left.
Time to consider turning the tables.
Time to turn the hunt around.