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)
While Cam disappears to scrub paint (and evidence powder I dusted along her sleeve) off in the downstairs bath, I step into the side courtyard and dial Dean.
He picks up before the first full ring. “Report.”
“Level just moved from nuisance to credible threat with proximity breach,” I say. “Contact at rec center women’s restroom. Male, approx six foot, athletic build, masked. Grabbed Cam’s elbow long enough to pass a written message—same cream cardstock, ransom-block lettering. Line read: COLOR CAN’T COVER BLOOD. STOP PAINTING TARGETS. NEXT TIME I USE RED. Tone’s controlled. Not junkie erratic.”
Dean swears low. “Is she injured?”
“Minor contusion at left cubital. No penetration, no chemical transfer that I could detect visually. She countered with a knee strike, and created separation. Subject exfil’d via side exit with disabled cam. Wire was cleanly cut. He knew the layout.”
“So we’ve got a planner who’s watched the site, maybe had access to volunteer logistics.” Another pause. “Chain-of-custody on the note?”
“Bagged. I’ll courier to lab via BRAVO courier at 0600. I also swabbed her sleeve and the cardstock edge; if he had residue—paint, oil, nitrile transfer—we might pull a trace.”
“Good.” A keyboard clacks. “Riggs staying on your flank?”
“Yeah. I want him embedded here. Also request mobile facial-rec kit for tomorrow’s vendor load-ins and a list comparison—anyone with access to Foundation volunteer rosters, Kingsley vendor databases, recent layoffs from Kingsley Aeronautics security. If this is leverage against Gregory through Cam, we tighten both ends.”
Dean exhales—approval salted with worry. “Done. How’s Cam mentally?”
“Angry, shaken, performing calm.” I glance through the French door. She’s back in jeans and a soft gray tee, fingers white around a mug. “She’s not backing off the mural program.”
“Did you expect her to?”
“Nope.”
“All right. Call if she spikes or if anything twitches the perimeter. I’m spinning up OSINT to scrape forums for that phrase—Color can’t cover blood. Might be a signature. Take care of yourself, Sawyer.”
“Always.”
The line goes dead. I pocket the phone and take one more breath of cooling rosemary hedge before heading inside.
Dinner is an afterthought—her nibbling, me not. Riggs texts twice with updates (no usable prints on the snipped cam housing; local PD report filed but sanitized per client privacy). Cam jokes with Edgar, asks for extra lemon, thanks him for the grilled halibut she barely touches. Her elbow’s swelling. I clock it, but she pretends it’s fine.
After plates clear she says, “I’m heading to the studio.”
“Want company?”
“You’ll hover anyway.” She tries for light, and it lands fragile. “Might as well invite the gargoyle.”
I follow her across the courtyard flagstones, past lavender pots, through the converted carriage house that serves as her home studio. Inside is riot: canvases leaned in stratified color, drop cloths, dangling clip lights, fans, turpentine, drying racks of palette knives like silver tongues. She flicks on music—volume borderline OSHA violation—some driving drum-and-violin track that drills straight into marrow.
Then she paints.
No warm-up. No sketch. Just a loaded trowel of cadmium red hurled across gesso like arterial spray, followed by punches of indigo, char streaks of carbon black, an almost obscene squeeze of titanium white clawed through with the end of the brush handle. The piece is big—six by eight feet—and she attacks it like she’d gladly wrestle the threat straight out of existence if the wall would hold still.
I stay in the doorway, hands loose at my sides, letting the blast wash over me.
People assume a bomb guy like me is immune to spectacle. Truth is, we chase clarity. A device is a puzzle—wires, triggers, force vectors. You learn to see patterns at speed, to track trajectories in chaos. Watching Cam paint is like watching a high-speed x-ray of her nervous system externalize. Every strike, every blend reveals load paths—fear, fury, defiance—before she reins them into composition. She’s venting pressure and rebalancing simultaneously, a controlled burn. It’s... beautiful. Terrifying. Familiar in a way I didn’t expect.
The track crests. She stabs, drags, backhands a splash that freckles her cheeks. Sweat beads at her throat. Her braid loosens until her hair sticks to paint down her forearm. She plants one bare foot on the low rung of the easel, leans, and a small sound leaves her—half growl, half sob—so soft the music almost swallows it.
Almost.
My chest tightens.
I don’t speak until the song crashes and she slaps the remote, killing the volume. Silence surges in behind the ringing.
She startles when she turns and sees me still there. Color floods her face—genuine blush, not acrylic. “How long—?”
“Long enough to know the wall lost,” I say.
A laugh slips out of her, wet with leftover adrenaline. She drags the back of her wrist over her forehead, leaving a comet of white. “You ever watch somebody cry and punch a pillow at the same time? That’s what that was.”
“Healthier than bottling.” I cross in, slow, letting her choose whether to step back. She doesn’t. “Arm.”