“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.
CHAPTER 7
