Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
He curses, and releases me. I spin, bolting for the door. Behind me his foot slips on wet tile as he ducks out a back exit. By the time I yank the door open and explode into the hallway, he’s gone.
“SAWYER!” My voice cracks. I don’t yell like that. I hate yelling like that. But adrenaline is acid, and it’s burning fast.
Sawyer appears instantly—how does he do that?—hand already under his shirt where his weapon lives, posture widened. “Cam?”
I thrust the cardstock at him, shaking. “He was in there. Grabbed me. Said—said not to ruin his—no, my wall— I—”
“Description,” he barks.
I try my best to force air into my lungs and give him every detail I can recall.
Sawyer’s eyes go lethal-black. “Riggs, lock perimeter now. Male, six foot give or take, painter whites, N95, cap, sunglasses. Inside rec center bathrooms seconds ago. I’m with principal asset. Repeat: I am with Cam.”
“Copy,” crackles Riggs. “On the move.”
Sawyer slips the card into an evidence sleeve from his pocket (because of course he has one), then sweeps me visually for injuries. “Did he hurt you?”
“Just… uh, my arm.” I rotate my elbow, and an ache flares but nothing’s broken. “I kneed him. Maybe. He’s fast.”
He cups my jaw, forcing my eyes to his. “Breathe with me.” His voice drops to that steady detonator-timer cadence he used when calming the second-graders. “In, two, three. Out.”
It works embarrassingly well. Air trickles back. Color stops snowstorming at the edges of my vision. I lean into his palm because I can’t not.
“What’d he say?” Sawyer asks.
“‘Keep smiling, princess. Don’t make me ruin your pretty wall.’” I swallow. “And he pushed that into my hand.”
Sawyer opens the sleeve just enough to read. Block letters, cut-and-glued ransom style like before:
COLOR CAN’T COVER BLOOD. STOP PAINTING TARGETS. WALK AWAY, CAM. NEXT TIME I USE RED.
A smear of something dark streaks the margin—dried paint? Dried not paint? My stomach flips.
Sawyer seals it, already cataloging. “Riggs?”
Static, then: “Nothing in hallway cameras. Side exit camera smashed—wire snipped. Got partial witness: food truck guy saw painter coveralls bail westbound between cars, maybe hopped a scooter. Pushing city cams.”
Sawyer: “Copy. Call Dean. Code escalate.” He angles his body so I’m behind his larger frame, shielding me from the kids milling at the main doors, blissfully ignorant.
I hate feeling shielded. I also need it right now.
“Sit?” he suggests, steering me toward a bench.
“No. If I sit I’ll shake.” My laugh is brittle. “I need to finish the interview, right? Social media. Foundation. Show we’re not rattled.”
“Cam—”
“I mean it.” I lift my chin. “He wants me to walk away. I’m not giving him the wall.”
We stare each other down. He’s measuring the risk, and I’m measuring my backbone. Finally he nods once—sharp, proud, furious. “Then we lock it tighter and finish fast.”
“Deal.”
He keys his mic. “Riggs, tighten outer ring. We finish in fifteen.”
“Roger. And, Cam?” Riggs’ voice crackles through. “Whoever that was picked the wrong princess.”
Despite everything, I smile. It’s shaky, but it’s there.
We finish the top coat with parents flanking the kid zone like human bollards while Sawyer and Riggs patrol wider arcs. I give my interview: “Art turns neglected spaces into community. These kids deserve to see their colors towering over traffic.” I don’t mention masked cowards. I do grip Sawyer’s wrist off camera when the shakes threaten.
When the last brush is washed and the final group selfie snapped, we pack in a blur. Sawyer herds me to the van like he’s escorting state secrets. Inside, I cradle my throbbing elbow and stare out at the mural—our mural—now blazing against twilight.
“You okay?” he asks quietly once the doors close.
“I will be,” I say. “You?”
His jaw flexes. “I’m better when I can see the threat.”
“Same,” I whisper. “Guess we keep painting.”
He huffs something that might be a laugh, might be a growl. “Yeah, Cam. We keep painting. And we catch him.”
Outside, Riggs double-taps the van panel—clear to roll. As we pull away, I look back at the wall and make myself a promise: whoever thinks color can’t stand up to blood is about to learn what happens when you mix the two in equal parts stubborn and steel.
And if I have Sawyer Maddox at my side—no, if he has me at his—I like our odds.
7
Sawyer
When we arrive back to her place I keep Cam in my sightline all the way from the curb to the foyer. She walks steady—too steady—the kind of brittle composure you get when shock hasn’t decided whether to crash you or crown you. I don’t press. Not in front of staff. Not where cameras can memorialize tremors she doesn’t want trending.
Edgar meets us at the door with a damp cloth and a look that belongs on a battlefield medic. “Everything all right, Miss Cam?”
“We finished the mural,” she says, which is both true and not remotely the point. I give Edgar a tight shake of the head: no details yet. He pivots to logistics—tea, ice, dinner—and the routine becomes a ramp we can drive our frayed nerves up without flipping.