LITMIR.BIZ

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sighed and flopped down onto the sofa, unable to believe this had happened. It felt surreal—Callum whom she’d only just met here helping her, yet Muffin achingly absent. Since she rescued Muffin from a shelter almost three years ago, he’d always, without fail, met her at the door with his tail wagging and his tongue hanging out when she’d returned home. It was true what they said about no one loving you quite as much as a dog did; she’d never had anyone who even came close.

      She’d tried to make this house a home by filling it with bright cushions, bookshelves, funky ornaments and life-affirming, happy quotes, but without Muffin, it felt empty.

      “A patrol unit will be here as soon as they can,” Callum said, coming back into the room.

      “Oh, thank you.”

      He sat down on the other end of the sofa and her belly did a little flip at his proximity. She hadn’t had a man in her house for... Well, not since she’d moved to Bend actually.

      “Now,” he continued, not at all affected by her proximity to him, “the police suggested you make a list of what’s been taken for when they arrive. They don’t want you to move or touch anything, if possible. While you do that, I’m going to call the local vets and animal shelters and give them Muffin’s description. Have you got a photo?”

      “Um...” She nodded and gazed around the mess, looking for her framed photos, but in the end, gave up and dragged out her cell. “Here,” she said after a few seconds of scrolling through photos. The majority of her photos were selfies of herself and Muffin—walking in the park, chilling on the couch—but she didn’t want to show Callum those photos. Eventually she found one of Muffin standing on the front porch looking out onto the street at something. It was one of the rare moments that her hyperactive dog had stood still.

      “He’s a cutie.” Callum took her phone to look at the photo and his fingers brushed against hers in the exchange. Something warm and tingly curled low in her belly but she tried not to show it on her face.

      “He is.” She sighed. “I guess I’ll go make that list.”

      * * *

      The first call Callum made was to a local security firm, asking them to stop by Chelsea’s house ASAP to fix her windows and change her locks. He hoped she had insurance to cover this disaster, but if not, he’d foot the bill—call it his good deed for the day. Then, he called every refuge and vet clinic he could find on the internet in the vicinity of Bend, leaving his cell number as a contact because, as he realized when speaking to the first place, he had no idea what Chelsea’s was. Besides, he guessed her contact details were on Muffin’s collar, so if anyone found him, they’d likely call her first anyway.

      As he was disconnecting the final call, a police patrol car rolled to a stop on the curb. He shoved his cell in his pocket and went over to meet the cops.

      “You call in a burglary?” asked cop numero uno as the two officers climbed out of the car.

      “Yes, I did,” he said, trying not to smirk as he eyed the pair who were each other’s opposites in almost every possible way. One was short and fat with gray hair and smile lines around his eyes. The other was tall and thin, looked like he’d gotten his police badge from the toy section in Kmart and wore a scowl on his face as if a mere neighborhood burglary wasn’t at all the excitement he’d hoped for when he’d signed up.

      “Your place?” asked the young guy.

      “No,” Callum explained as he led them through the sparse front yard to the house. “It’s owned by Chelsea Porter. She’s a...” What the heck was she besides a woman who’d walked into his workplace and dropped a bombshell on his world? Or what should feel like a bombshell but after the initial shock didn’t make him feel anything much more than annoyed. At Bailey, not Chelsea. “She’s a friend,” he concluded, deciding the officer didn’t need to know their exact relationship as it had no bearing on the case.

      They stepped in through the front door to find Chelsea staring at the mess in the living room, a notebook in her hand, a pen caught between her lips and a frown on her face. Even with this expression, she was gorgeous, and the fact he could think such thoughts made him wonder if perhaps he owed Bailey a favor. While he loved her—they’d known each other since they were in diapers and had a lot of fun together—he couldn’t deny he’d gotten engaged to show his dad he could settle down. Also because he wanted a family and was traditional in the sense that he believed children should be raised within a marriage. He didn’t believe in the type of love his mom and sisters gushed about while watching sappy made-for-television movies, but he did believe any relationship could work if you put in the hard yards.

      “Jeez, what a freaking mess,” commented the younger man, echoing Callum’s thoughts as the two officers surveyed the crime scene.

      Chelsea looked up and took the pen out of her mouth.

      “Good afternoon. I’m Sergeant Moore and this is Officer Fernandez. You must be Chelsea,” said the older officer. “I’m sorry this has happened and I know you probably want to get things cleaned up as soon as possible, so—”

      “Frankly, I don’t give two hoots about the mess right now,” Chelsea interrupted. “Ask me what you need to and then tell me you can help me find my dog,”

      “Your dog’s missing?” questioned Sergeant Moore.

      She nodded.

      “And—” Officer Fernandez gestured toward the notebook in her hand “—is that a list of the things that were taken?”

      “That’s just it.” Chelsea glanced down at the notebook as if she’d forgotten she was holding it. “I don’t think anything was.”

      Officer Fernandez frowned. “Except the dog?”

      Shock flashed in Chelsea’s eyes. “You think they stole Muffin? I just imagined he got scared and ran away.”

      She sank down onto the sofa and Callum found himself crossing the room to sit beside her. He glared at the young cop.

      The older one offered Chelsea a sympathetic smile. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. I’ll ask you a few questions and we’ll go from there.”

      “Okay,” Chelsea whispered, her voice shaky.

      The sergeant ran through the usual questions—how long Chelsea had been out of the house, what time she came home, had she touched anything, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Callum could see her getting more and more agitated as the questions became more and more repetitive.

      “Do you think they could have been looking for something?”

      She quirked an eyebrow at the cops. “I earn an honest living, but I haven’t got any family jewels lying around if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

      Callum couldn’t help but smile at her sass.

      “Okay. And what do you do for a living?” asked the tall, young cop. The way he spoke made it sound as if Chelsea was the one who’d committed a crime and Callum fought the urge to say so.

      “I’m a breakup expert,” she said, in much the same manner she might say she were a hairdresser or a nurse.

      Like Callum had done earlier that day, the officers raised their eyebrows and adopted mutual expressions of confusion at this reply.

      Chelsea offered a short explanation. “I break up with other people’s partners, via phone, email or in person, so they don’t have to do it themselves. But I really don’t see what my career has to do with this.”

      “Hmm...” Sergeant Moore pondered. “Could any of these men you’ve broken up with bear a grudge? Could they want to hurt you like you hurt them?”

      “First,” she said, her eyes sparking, “it’s not just men I dump, and second, I am good at what I do. So no, I think that is a highly unlikely possibility. Are we almost finished? While we’re sitting here, none of us are out there looking for my dog. What

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