Page 6

I plucked out the black can of spray paint and shook it out of idle habit. "I think I have an idea."

"Good." She pointed to the respirator mask in the crate. "Don't be a martyr."

"You're unfunny." I snatched the mask, still speckled with the wear and tear of my previous work. "Meaning you were once funny and now you're not."

"Ha." She flipped me off then melted into a cocky grin. "Ever think you'd be tagging with a badge and gun strapped to your belt?"

I cocked a brow at her, extended my left arm, and sprayed a straight line across the wall for no particular reason. "Go away."

She laughed at me. "'Kay. Bye."

"Bye," I grumbled and pulled the respirator mask over my face.

I turned to face the exposed brick in all its bareness. Ever since my early teens, I could barely resist the call of a naked urban wall. Dingy and wearing the stains of the people who slept under it, peed on it, or ignored its existence, I felt compelled to leave my mark. I would make it so that everyone would look at it, so that they could catch a glimpse of something a bit more than the inner world that stole them so far away from connecting. The thing about it was that blank walls themselves often captured the inner world of most people anyway.

Frankie preferred bold colors and designs that made a statement. Her style, as brazen as her tattoo work, would find a suitable home here.

With the mask fixed in place, I took to the task that calmed my insides, and connected me to nothing save for the colors and smell of the paint. Nearly two decades defacing property now only to be encouraged to commit the same acts. A mixed message caught in time. When I was a kid, I dreamt that I was destruction. That everywhere I went, I left a path of devastation in my wake. I was a residue left behind like spray paint trapped in my fingernails after a long night of tagging. Even if I created beautiful, illegal art, my nails always gave away the artist. I ended up in juvie because of my nails. And because of the damaged trail that followed after me.

I lost myself in time, in the hiss of the nozzle and the crack of a fresh seal when I opened a new can. With no plans, no predicted vision, I melded with my work, guided only by the fluid movement of my arm and the support of the rickety ladder under me.

My phone rang an hour later after I'd covered the wall with the majority of my design. I'd always prided myself on the speed of my work. Getting run out of places on the daily meant moving fast, and that was something I was good at. With my less-painted hand, I pulled out my phone and swiped to answer when I saw Zay's name.

"Yeah?"

"Moreno has a connection with the M.E. who did the autopsies of the two vics from 2019. We can meet up with her tonight."

"Who is it?"

"Why's your voice sound funny? Ainsley Monson. Know her?"

"Yeah. I know her." I glanced at the wall in front of me while slicing a deep yellow across the bold pink I laid before it. "Didn't really need Moreno for that connection."

"Yeah, well, whatever he did got us an audience with her. Can you make it?"

"What time?"

"Eight. Downtown."

"All good. Yeah."

"Later."

"Bye."

I pocketed my phone and stepped back to take a look at my work. It wasn't done, which annoyed me, but I reminded myself this wasn't a tag. I set down my gear, wiped my hand on Frankie's shirt, then grabbed my jacket before heading back out front.

Tatiana slid into the front door, announced by the sound of the doorbell that growled anytime someone entered. Metal music blasted through the speakers and both Thiago and Frankie's chairs were now occupied by people ready to be stabbed with colorful needles. Wyatt sat with Reagan at the front desk while he taught her how to play air guitar and headbang. The sight before me belonged to that of an average day with my friends. Tati rushed over to her kid, grabbing her in a surprise hug from behind. Reagan squealed in delight and latched on to her arms.

"Hi, Mamã."

"Hi, querida. How was your day?" Tati smooched her cheek then waved at me when I joined them at the desk.

"Good. Fun. Did you get a painting show?" Reagan asked, her smile broad as she hung on to her mother's neck.

Tati lifted her off the counter, shoved Wyatt playfully, then took his seat with Reagan in her lap. "We'll find out tomorrow."

"Aw, man. Why does everything always have to be tomorrow?" Reagan flopped her hands in her lap.