Page 11 of The Savior

CHAPTER FOUR

The cell phone vibrated in Chelsea’s purse on the counter. The spastic buzz was loud enough to break her concentration—and apparently, Liam’s also.

He stared pointedly. “Are you going to answer that?”

“No.” Somehow, phone calls only served to exhaust her. Given the emotional roller coaster of the day, she considered ignoring phone calls part of self-care. “Everyone I’d talk to just left this house or would know better.”

She walked to the dining room.

Liam followed and asked, “Better than what?”

“Then to call.”

He scowled. “People don’t call you?”

“They text me.”How does he not understand that in the age of messenger apps?Though truth be told, texts were starting to bug her too. But at least she’d check them—unlike her voicemail, which remained perpetually full. “You’re a phone guy?”

“I’m a…” He shook his head and returned to sorting the piles of paper on the dining room table. “Never mind. Will you look at something?”

The dining room chandelier cast a dramatic light over the long dark-wood table. Just hours earlier, it had been covered with an assortment of pastries, antipasti, and casseroles, and now that she’d cleaned every last crumb from the Nymans’ first floor, Chelsea didn’t know what to do with herself. “Sure, I guess.”

Reliving the best parts of her best friend had been uplifting. The last year had been a process of healing and moving forward. But the celebration of life reminded Chelsea still how much work there was to do when it came to the hole in her heart that Julia’s death left.

She leaned against the wall and watched as Liam inspected the papers, his consternation deepening with every page studied. His behavior worried her as he fussed over his documents. “I can come back when you have this—” She gestured. “Organized.”

He methodically rearranged the paperwork. Each page checkered the mahogany table as he reviewed them, then squared the papers.

“Gimme another second,” he grumbled. “Paperwork isn’t my thing.”

“Good thing it’s mine.”Though what kind of paperwork?She hadn’t the slightest clue, but he had piqued her interest. She inched from the wall. “Want some help?”

He didn’t answer, and she edged closer.Evidence.Documentation.Pictures.

Oh, coconut cupcakes.Her throat tightened, and she crept the few inches back to the wall. If that had to do with Julia, Chelsea didn’t want to help. Her stomach lurched at the possibilities—crime scene photos, autopsy notes, or worse. She wasn’t one of those tough-talking, gun-slinging crime fighters that could leap from building to building. She didn’t like bloody crime scenes and cursed more like a kindergarten teacher than a sailor.

Other than her badge, there was nothing about her that would give her away as a typical Marshal—if there were such a thing—except her upper-body strength. She didn’t look the part. Some might go so far as to say that she didn’tplaythe part—if “some” were her partner, Mac. He once joked that her gravestone would one day read, “Here lies a rule-following, candy-cane-cursing woman.”

When she glared, he’d tacked on, “And brought Zee Zee Mars to justice.”

Thatline on her gravestone, she would take, because one day, Chelsea would catch the criminal.

Julia wouldn’t be there to see Chelsea arrest Zee Zee Mars, and a lonely sorrow melted the funny memory.

She looked at Liam. He hid his emotions well as he focused on the table, but she could still feel the cloud that had lingered around him throughout the day. She hoped he’d move away from blaming himself. A guy like that might carry that burden forever. They had superhero brains and lived action-movie lives—invincible. She couldn’t imagine what the mortality he must grapple with and didn’t want him to suffer. Even if she didn’t know much about him, she knew he’d treated Julia like a princess. That made him okay in her book.

“All right. Can you look at this?” he asked.

Chelsea sucked in her cheeks and prayed her gag reflex didn’t trigger. “What’ve you got?”

He tipped his head toward the dark pictures and paperwork. Julia’s name was on the top of a report.

Son of a blueberry muffin, she’d do anything to avoid crime scene photos. Dread curled Chelsea’s toes as she quickly begged God to be easy on her. It’d been a tough day despite her smile, and she wasn’t sure how much she could take.

Chelsea held her breath, and as she came closer, her dark silk blouse felt like a straight jacket. She stopped at Liam’s side and stole a peek at the pictures—and choked on relief. No lifeless, bloody pictures waited for her inspection.

Dizzy and teetering in high heels she that hated, Chelsea swallowed the last bits of panic and placed her hands on the edge of the table.

“You okay?” he asked.

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