Page 15 of Sawyer
Not Sawyer.
Tall. Hoodie zipped. Disposable painter’s coveralls on top, the cheap kind we hand out for splatter. N95 mask. Ball cap pulled low. Sunglasses even though we’re indoors. For a split, stupid second I assume volunteer dad. “Sorry?—”
He grips my elbow hard enough to pinch a nerve. Cold shoots up my arm.
“Keep smiling, princess,” he says, voice filtered through the mask, pitched low. “Don’t make me ruin your pretty wall.”
Every cell in my body goes high voltage. “Let go.”
He shoves something into my palm—a small rectangle, thick cardstock. Familiar dread spikes. It’s the same stock as the envelope at the house. I try to twist free, but he clamps harder. My self-defense training kicks belatedly. I pitch forward like I’m collapsing, free hand snapping up with the wet paper towel I’m still holding, and I mash it into his face, and drive my knee toward his thigh. I miss his groin (damn) but connect with muscle hard enough to jolt him.
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,mywall— 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? Driednotpaint? 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—”
