Page 13 of The Savior

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.

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