22
I stumble back a step, the coffee and pastry spilling to the ground, my pulse pounding in my ears, half-convinced I’ve read it wrong. Maybe if I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again, the word won’t be there.
But it is.
WHORE.
Bold and ugly. Red as blood.
A sick, stunned weight presses down on my chest. It’s such an awful word. And it’s on my car for anyone to see.
Beside me, Joel’s hands fist at his sides and he mutters an angry curse. His eyes scan the street, as if the person who did this might still be lurking around. But the parking lot looks just like any other ordinary Saturday afternoon.
My body is rigid, hollowed out by disbelief.
Joel turns toward me. “Hey.” His hand closes gently around my arm and he tugs me closer to him. “It’s okay. I’m here. And whoever did this is gone.”
The steadiness in his tone works its way through my spiraling thoughts. I let out a shaky breath and lean into his strength, letting the warmth of him cut through the chill crawling over my skin.
Still staring at the windshield, I grip the pendant around my neck. “Maybe they got the wrong car.”
Joel doesn’t answer. When I glance up, I’m surprised by how shaken he looks.
He pulls out his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m calling the police,” he says.
“Do you think that’s necessary?” I ask, my voice trembling a little. “It might just be a stupid prank. I don’t want to waste Owen’s time.”
“Someone vandalized your car,” he says, his voice hard. “That’s not a prank.”
Within minutes, Owen Davis pulls up in his cruiser and steps out, wearing his sheriff’s department windbreaker and a frown. His ginger hair is threaded with gray, and deep lines are carved into his kind face.
He takes one look at the windshield and blows out a slow breath. “That’s a hard thing to walk up to. You doing okay, Kenzie?”
“I’m okay,” I assure him. “Sorry for the bother.”
Joel shoots me a look, his expression saying clearly, Why are you apologizing?
“You didn’t bother me,” Owen says firmly. “This is vandalism. I’m glad Joel called.”
I nod, wrapping my arms around myself.
Owen pulls a notepad from his pocket and flips it open. “Mind walking me through what happened? When did you park here?”
I nod and give him a brief rundown of my grocery shop with Reagan and her son.
“I loaded my bags into the trunk, and there was nothing on the windshield.” I glance at the red letters again, my throat tight.
“After that, I popped into Beth’s to grab a coffee.
Then I ran into Joel on Main Street, and we walked back to the car together.
” I swallow. “That’s when we saw...this. ”
“Did you see anyone near your vehicle?”
“No.”
Owen walks a slow circle around my car, snapping photos with his phone. “Any idea if someone might have a reason to target you?”
“No.” I wrap my arms around my stomach. The air feels colder now. “Not as far as I know.”
Joel stiffens beside me. He’s already angled himself to stand in front of the windshield, his body forming a barrier between me and what’s written there.
“This doesn’t look random,” he points out. “That word isn’t something you spray for fun.”
Owen sighs. “No, it’s not.”
“Has anything like this happened before?” Joel asks. “Not just tagging, but targeted language like this?”
Owen hesitates. “We’ve had some tagging. Symbols, phrases. Mostly on walls and buildings. Nothing this personal.”
“Any security cameras in this lot?”
Owen shakes his head. “Closest cameras are on Main, and they don’t reach this far back. We’ve never had a reason to put surveillance here before.”
Joel exhales, visibly working to keep his anger in check. He keeps glancing over at me, checking to see if I’m okay, as though he genuinely cares.
“What about dashcam footage?” he asks. “Any chance a parked car picked something up?”
“It’s worth asking. I’ll canvass the nearby businesses and see if anyone had a view.” He glances back at the windshield. “I’ll get a report filed. If it’s okay with you, Kenzie, I’ll need you to fill out a written statement at the station sometime in the next day or two.”
I nod. “Of course.”
Owen gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “It might just be a few teenagers letting off steam and they happened upon your vehicle. You know how it is with some of them.”
Honestly, I have no idea what teenagers are like nowadays. Is spray-painting someone else’s property a rite of passage now? It’s not something I ever did. Simply attending a house party felt daring enough. Tagging a car? I would have died.
“Teenagers?” Joel asks, his jaw tight.
Owen shrugs. “It’s possible.”
It’s clear from Joel’s expression he doesn’t believe it’s teenagers.
Owen turns to me, his brown eyes full of sympathy. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this. I’ll do what I can.”
I offer a faint smile. “Thanks, Owen.”
He gives Joel a nod, then heads back to his cruiser.
When he drives off, Joel turns to me. “Let me help you clean it off.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he says evenly. “Please.”
Worry is carved between his brows. He looks like he’s blaming himself for the graffiti, though I don’t know why. This isn’t his fault.
“Okay,” I say, my voice wavering slightly. “Thank you.”
“I’ll just be a sec,” he says. “Stay where I can see you.”
I watch as he heads into the grocery store. Through the front window, I see him speaking with the manager. A moment later, he returns with a bucket and cleaning supplies.
We work in silence, both of us lost in our thoughts as we tackle the angry red letters. The paint doesn’t come off easily, but Joel scrubs with a kind of ferocity that feels personal. He doesn’t stop until every last trace is gone.
When we finally step back, the word is gone and my windshield is clean, but the ugliness of it still lingers. I feel tainted, like the insult soaked into my skin. All I want is to go home, stand under hot water, and scrub the shame away.
“Are you heading home?” Joel asks.
I nod. “I need to get the groceries into the fridge.”
“I’ll follow you.”
“You don’t have to,” I start to say, but he cuts me off with a shake of his head.
“I’m following you home,” he repeats in a tone that invites no argument.