Chapter 6 #2
She turns to face the square with me. The minutes crawl by. Each second feels like an hour. I hold my phone like it’s a lifeline, paint-sticky fingers leaving a smudged red handprint on the case.
Where is he?
It’s been forever. It’s been—
I check the time. Three minutes.
How is it only three minutes?
Macy looks at my hand. “Do you want me to get you something to wipe that off?”
I shake my head.
A truck engine rumbles nearby.
Mateo pulls up to the curb. He’s out in seconds.
He takes in the storefront first. I watch his face harden, his whole body going rigid as his eyes scan across the words. Then his gaze shifts to me—my paint-covered hands, my face—and the rage gives way to something else. Not soft exactly. Furious and tender at the same time.
“Who did this?” His voice is low, threatening.
“I don’t know.” My voice cracks.
His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping.
“When I find out who—“ He stops himself, turning back to me. Really looking at me for the first time.
And that’s when I break.
The tears I’ve been holding back since I saw the paint, since I read those words and realized someone hates me so incredibly much, come all at once. I can’t stop them.
Mateo’s to me in two strides, pulling me against his chest. His arms wrap around me, solid and warm and safe.
“I’ve got you, tesoro,“ he murmurs into my hair. “I’ve got you.”
I’m sobbing into his shirt, getting tears and probably paint all over him, but he doesn’t let go. He just holds me tighter, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other firm against my back.
“I decided to stay,” I choke out between sobs. “I unpacked everything, and I decided to stay and then—“
“It will be okay.” His voice is rough. “You’re not in this alone.”
A police cruiser pulls up. Officers O’Brien and Vasquez step out. Mateo doesn’t let me go until I pull back on my own. Even then, his hand stays on my lower back. Grounding. Present.
The officers approach, and Macy steps forward immediately.
“I’m the one who called,” she says. “I got here maybe ten minutes ago and found Sadie standing in front of—“ She gestures at the door. “This.”
The younger officer, Officer Vasquez, takes photos while Officer O’Brien pulls out a notebook.
“Can you tell me what happened, Sadie?”
“I was coming down to do some inventory and prep the shop for tomorrow. I didn’t even notice it until…” I hold up my paint-covered hand. “I touched the door handle before I realized.”
He looks at my hand and nods. “What time did you discover the vandalism?”
“Around seven. Maybe a little after.”
They take down everything. The timeline. The exact wording of the vandalism. Whether I saw anyone suspicious—I didn’t. Whether I have security cameras—I don’t. Whether I have any idea who might have done this—I don’t say Owen’s name, but I think it.
“We’ll file a report,” O’Brien says as Vasquez takes one last photo. “Chances are, without cameras or witnesses, we won’t be able to identify who did this. But we’ll have it on record. You’ll want to document everything for insurance.”
“That’s it?” Mateo’s voice is tight. “Someone does this and you just... file a report?”
O’Brien’s expression is sympathetic but resigned. “Without evidence or witnesses, there’s not much more we can do. I’m sorry.”
They leave, just like that.
“I’m installing a camera tomorrow,” Mateo says after they leave. “This doesn’t happen again without us knowing who did it.”
Macy hovers near me, wringing her hands. “Sadie, I’m so sorry. This is my fault. If I hadn’t posted—“
“This isn’t your fault,” I say firmly. “You didn’t do this. You didn’t spray paint my door. Whoever did this made a choice, and it’s on them. Not you.”
“But—“
“You made a mistake. An honest, well-intentioned mistake. This?” I gesture at the door. “This is hate. You don’t get to take responsibility for someone else’s hate.”
Her eyes well up. “Do you want me to stay? I can help clean it up, or just... be here.”
I shake my head. “I’ll be okay.”
She hesitates, looking between Mateo and me, then nods. “Okay. But call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”
After she leaves, it’s just us. Mateo, me, and the vandalized shop.
“I should clean this up,” I say numbly.
“Tomorrow,” Mateo says. “You don’t have to look at this anymore today.”
“I can’t just leave it. People will see.”
“Tomorrow,” he repeats. “Right now, you’re going upstairs. You’re going to try to eat something and rest. And I’m staying. At least for the rest of today and tonight.”
I look up at him. “Mateo—“
“Non-negotiable.” His voice is gentle but firm. “I already told you you’re not dealing with this alone.”
I should argue, tell him I’m fine, that I don’t need someone to stay with me like I’m some fragile gothic heroine that might break.
Except I already broke. He saw it and held me through it, and the thought of being alone tonight, in my apartment above this shop, with those words still on the glass of the door.
“Okay,” I whisper.
We climb the stairs together, his hand firmly on my lower back, guiding me. Steady. Present.
I decided to stay today, and someone decided to punish me for it.
But I’m still here. And so is he.