Page 87 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

Seraphina was on the porch before the dust had even settled around my tires.

She was wearing a thick green sweater that looked three sizes too big, her dark hair pinned back haphazardly with that same loose plastic clip. The moment she stepped down the wooden stairs, her dark eyes swept over the three of us. She didn't blink. She didn't hesitate. I watched her face, and I could practically hear the gears clicking behind her eyes as she read both men in the space of a single breath.

She looked at Derek first noticing the rigid military posture, the way his weight stayed perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet, the slight heel-first stride of a man who spent years walking through terrain where a trip meant a detonation. Her eyes lingered on his right hip, where the bulk of his concealed Glock sat flat against his canvas trousers, before moving up to his friendly, crinkling eyes.

Then she shifted to Mason. Her expression went perfectly still. She noticed the lack of blinking the steady, predatory stare of a man who didn't use facial expressions unless they served a purpose. Her eyes tracked the old knife scar that split his left eyebrow, the dark Celtic ink crawling up his fingers, and the way his head swept from one side to the other, a mechanical scanning of the wood line and the two exit paths from the driveway.

"Elias, honey." she said, her voice bright and warm, that small, radiant smile breaking across her face.

"You brought company."

Fuck there she goes with that nickname.

"Seraphina, this is Derek and Mason," I said, my voice rough. "They’re... helping with the county grid."

"Friends of yours?" she murmured, her eyes shifting back to Derek and Mason before landing on me again.

I nodded once and her smile beamed. Fuck I like that she trusts me. She offered Derek a small, charming hand. "Any friends of Elias are friends of mine. I'm Seraphina."

"A pleasure, ma'am," Derek said, his voice dropping into that smooth, effortless flirtation he used on everyone from the governor’s secretary to the girl at the diner. He took her hand, his fingers wrapping around hers a fraction of a second too long, his grin widening as he looked down at her.

Motherfucker. I do not fucking like that. Not at all. Reminding myself he is my friend before I fucking kick his ass. I look at her. Seraphina smiled back. Don’t smile at him, smile at me baby. Put your eyes back on me.

It wasn't even a polite smile. It was a genuine, lingering curve of her lips that stayed fixed on Derek's face for three seconds. Four seconds. A sudden, hot surge of possessiveness flared in my chest, sharp and bitter. My jaw went rigid, my fingers curling into fists inside my pockets.

Why the hell was she smiling at him like that? Since when did I care who she looked at? Come on baby smile at me.

Since yesterday. Since the porch. Since her mouth had touched my skin. She became mine whether my mind wanted it or not. Fuck.

Derek was completely oblivious, playing the charming southern boy because it was his default setting, and Seraphina was simply being herself playful, curious, and entirely too magnetic for a small yard in the middle of a homicide investigation. Mason stood a yard back, his grey eyes moving from her face to my hands, watching the way my knuckles had turned white inside my jacket. He was watching everyone. He was always cataloguing everything.

"Would you like some coffee?" she asked, gesturing toward the screen door.

"I’ve just put a fresh pot on. It doesn't taste like an old boot, I promise."

"We’d love some," Derek said before I could open my mouth.

Fucker.

As she turned to step onto the porch, Mason didn't follow immediately. He lingered near the edge of the walkway, his boots silent on the damp pine needles. His eyes dropped to the small flowerbed next to the stairs.

The garden looked well cared for.

Fresh mountain soil framed the flowerbeds in neat, dark rows, still damp from the previous night's rain. Young hydrangeas pushed through the earth beside clusters of rose and rosemary, their leaves glistening beneath the pale morning light. A scattering of pine needles had drifted across the stone border, while wild clover stubbornly claimed the gaps between the stepping stones leading to the porch.

An iron spade rested against the white lattice beneath the steps, freshly rinsed after use. A pair of worn gardening gloves hung over the handle, their fingertips stained permanently brown despite countless washes. Beside them sat a galvanized watering can and a small wicker basket half-filled with weeds that had been pulled from the beds earlier that morning.

It smelled like damp earth. Like rain. Like someone who genuinely enjoyed putting their hands in the soil.

Mason slowed for barely a heartbeat.

His eyes moved over the yard in the same methodical sweep they always did, cataloguing details without conscious effort. The freshly turned flowerbeds. The trimmed shrubs. The stack of split firewood beside the shed. The clean gardening tools left to dry in the sun.

Nothing appeared neglected. Everything looked... lived in.

His gaze lingered for a fraction longer on the garden before drifting toward the surrounding tree line, automatically checking sightlines and exits out of habit rather than suspicion. Old instincts. They never really leave.

Without saying a word, he climbed the porch steps behind Seraphina. Most people would've seen a charming mountain cottage. Mason saw routines. Someone who watered her plants before the sun climbed too high. Someone who cleaned their tools after using them. Someone who took pride in keeping things exactly where they belonged.