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?”
“Than 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’t play the 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.”
That line 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 that she hated, Chelsea swallowed the last bits of panic and placed her hands on the edge of the table.
“You okay?” he asked.
Another breath in and out, and she reassured him, “Tired, I guess,” and picked up the closest set of papers—photocopies of handwritten statements. Then she moved to a concise form that summarized the event with a few checked boxes. But the dark CCTV shots didn’t make sense. “What’s the context?”
He didn’t speak but angled to watch her and the papers.
She refocused on the CCTV pictures then moved on to a highly redacted report. Most of the text had been blacked out, and as she flipped the page, she didn’t learn much.
His eyes burned into her as she read what little was there then turned the page again.
“There.” He tapped the paper. “This.”
The top paragraph had been completely blacked out, but the page had more text to read than the previous ones, and as she went over the lines, trying to quilt the context together, Liam shoved his hands into his suit pockets and stepped closer to read over her shoulder. “Fourth paragraph.”
Her eyes dropped, skimming.
“It says the bullets recovered don’t match the FN-P90 submachine gun found.”
She read what he said then did so again. “What the donut holes is going on,” she muttered and turned back to the first page. Any information indicating which agency or who wrote the report had been redacted. Chelsea turned back and reread the paragraph in question. “I don’t understand.”
Crossing his arms, he arched his eyebrows in a way that made the skin at the back of her neck tingle. But he didn’t explain.
“Liam… the news said—”
“I don’t know what they said. But I know what I was told and what this says here.”
She cleared her throat. “The news said there was a shooter. One shooter.”
“I was told the weapon that misfired shot Julia. It might’ve been chaos, but those shots didn’t come from our side.” Liam jerked his head toward the table, pinpointing another document. “Read.”
She put the report down and skimmed the statements from the officers.
“Now the CCTV pictures,” he ordered.
Again, Chelsea cleared her throat. “I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”
“You know exactly what you’re looking for.”
Another shooter? Another gun? Yes, that was what she was looking for—an answer that explained why the public information didn’t mention anything of the sort.
“Dammit, tell me what you think, Chelsea.”
Pain coated his demand. She didn’t know how he’d spent the last year, but reliving the tragedy today of all days had to hurt. “Liam—”
“The first day I met Julia,” he abruptly changed the subject, “she told me that if I ever hurt her feelings, she had a best friend who would hunt me down.”
The unexpected story made her heart squeeze in a happy way. She’d had that wonderful feeling several times that day, and even if it took Liam all day to share a happy memory, she was glad he did. Chelsea let a grin grow. “Good thing you were a good guy.”
He let the tiniest flicker of a smile fight to the surface, but then he shook his head. “What do you think?”
I think today made Liam crazy. But she didn’t understand why he had this information. “I think you saved a lot of lives that day. Even if you couldn’t save everyone.”
He shook his head.
“You disarmed a shooter on mass transit,” she gently suggested, pointing out the obvious.
Tapping the redacted report, he said, “Different weapon.”
“Reports are wrong all the time.” Chelsea placed a hand on his bicep, hoping to ease the blow but pulled away when his muscle tensed.
“Sometimes.” He blew out a breath and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “God, I wish we knew where this envelope came from.”
She sucked on her bottom lip. There were sickos out in the world. Maybe someone was screwing with him. The timing of the delivery was questionable. Maybe it was a bad joke gone wrong. Maybe that sounded too cruel to be real, and it was merely a report that included a mistake.
“And who is this?” He tapped the CCTV pictures.
She picked them up. They were grainy. The cameras’ focus had been on the commuters lined up, waiting for the train. She squinted, cataloging each person for anything that would appear out of sorts.
At the mouth of the tunnel… Who is that?
She narrowed her eyes, trying to focus on the image, then she flipped to the next picture.
The small blur was larger. Chelsea checked the time stamps—seconds apart.
Again, she flipped to the next picture and the next and the next until she had no doubt that the small blur of an image had materialized into an out-of-focus person who emerged from the tunnel and melted into the crowd.
Her stomach tightened, and a curious tingle skated over her forearms as she placed the pictures in a neat pile, squaring them as Liam had done.
She rechecked all that she reviewed already, now noting the time stamps on the 911-call readouts and the witness statements.
“If,” she whispered, uncertain why she kept her voice low, “there was another weapon—”
“And shooter.”
Her mind raced. Nothing made sense. “Why didn’t anyone see them?”
“Because all attention was on me.”
She stared blankly.
“There was a fight. All eyes were on us and the FN-P90.”
That didn’t change her confusion.
“It’s a memorable weapon,” he offered.
“True—” She waved the point away. “But Julia?”
“Julia did exactly what I told her to. Get down and stay put.”
“What you’re suggesting—”
“I’m not suggesting shit. That report says there was another gun but doesn’t say what kind.”
“That would be…” Pins and needles numbed her fingertips, and a heavy weight lodged against her chest. “That really sounds like…” A conspiracy theory.
But she wouldn’t say that. She couldn’t.
Calling Liam paranoid seemed cruel and unnecessary.
Especially since his imaginative complot had some credence of truth. “It sounds like a stretch.”
He glowered. “Right.”
“I’m sorry that wasn’t what you wanted to hear.” She took another hard look. “You don’t know where it came from?”
He shook his head then shoved the pages he’d neatly organized toward the center of the table, squaring them into one pile. “Thanks for your opinion.”
“What are you going to do?”
He picked up the pile and tapped it on the table until the edges aligned, then he turned around. “Thanks again.”
“Wait.”
But he didn’t and walked away.
Chelsea followed. “Liam?”
“That’s all I needed.” He crossed the living room.
She trailed him. “Would you stop for a second?”
“Got things to do.” He powered toward the stairs.
She grabbed the back of his shirt, and Liam spun.
They stared at each other. His green eyes flared with ice-cold determination, and she gritted her teeth.
An unspoken showdown exploded—who hurt more, who lost more, who spent the last year searching for answers when senseless crimes didn’t have explanations.
“You don’t get to be the only one in pain,” she said.
His jaw ticked. “I never said that.”
“And you don’t get to ask for my help then act like a turd.”
His face froze. “A turd?”
“Yeah.” She pursed her lips, refusing to repent for her lack of f-bombs and five-dollar-word name-calling. She used them when necessary, but he didn’t need to know that.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it covered.”
She nearly tipped back in her high heels for how hard her eyes rolled. “You have it covered? You don’t even know what it is!”
“And neither do you. Which is what I want.”
Indignant, she straightened her shoulders. “And why is that?”
He jerked away, but she snagged his arm again. Liam pulled free but didn’t storm off. “What is going on with you?”
“I already let Julia die on my watch. I’m sure as shit not going to point you toward an early grave too.”
Her jaw fell, and her heart broke. For the second time, she wanted desperately to reassure him Julia wasn’t killed because of him—but after she set his butt straight. “You do not get to pull the uber-protective man card to keep me safe.” She was a US Marshal for crying out loud.
“I can pull whatever I want, Chelsea.”
Gah! He was infuriating. “Go blow your chauvinistic bull-spit out your pie hole.”
His brow furrowed as if she were the one who needed a mental-wellness check. “I’m going to take all my chauvinistic bullshit and keep you safe. Like it or not.”
He hustled away and left Chelsea with her head spinning.
So much had changed the day Mac gave her the news. Chelsea had fought for a new normal, searching for a way to live life without the best friend who had been close enough to be her sister. But now, with a pile of photos and anonymous redacted reports, questions shredded her healing.
If Liam had information about a second shooter, then nothing would keep Chelsea from inserting herself into the manhunt—whether he liked it or not.