Chapter 18: Red Paint
Noah woke to the sound of crows.
At first, it was just the usual morning chatter from the old sycamore outside his bedroom window. But as his eyes adjusted to the pale light, the calls took on a sharper edge—more frantic, as if something below had disturbed them.
He pushed off the blanket, swung his legs to the floor, and sat there for a moment, head heavy from a restless night. Dreams of fire again. His mother’s scream, the low roar, the shaking walls.
Coffee. That was the first step.
He moved into the kitchen, bare feet cold against the linoleum. The coffeemaker gurgled to life, filling the small space with the smell of dark roast. He stood by the counter, staring absently out the front window.
That’s when he saw it.
His car sat in the gravel driveway, dew clinging to the windshield, but the entire driver’s side door was slashed with color—thick, dripping strokes of blood-red paint.
Three strokes, to be exact. The first two made up the first letter: a crude “G.” The next strokes formed the rest, the word sprawling across the side in jagged, violent handwriting:
GUILTY
Noah didn’t move for a long moment. Just stood there, coffee forgotten, watching the paint slowly drip toward the ground. The color was fresh enough to glisten in the morning light.
When he finally stepped outside, the air was damp and cool, the smell of wet earth mixing with the acrid tang of the paint.
He walked up to the car, eyes tracing each letter. Whoever did this hadn’t rushed. The lines were deliberate, each curve and slash meant to be read from the road. A public declaration.
The crow in the sycamore let out a harsh caw.
“Welcome home,” Noah muttered under his breath.
He glanced toward the street. No one in sight. Just the long stretch of county road disappearing into the mist. But he felt it—that prickling at the base of his neck. Someone had stood here in the night, close enough to touch the car, close enough to look through his windows.
Noah crouched, touching a fingertip to the bottom edge of the word. The paint smeared across his skin, still tacky.
“Damn it,” he muttered, wiping it on his jeans.
Behind him, a voice called out. “Hey! What the hell happened to your car?”
He turned. Mrs. Crowley from next door stood at the edge of her porch in a pink robe and slippers, a mug of tea steaming in her hand.
“Someone left me a message,” Noah said.
“Looks more like they’re accusing you of something,” she said, squinting. “Should I call the sheriff?”
Noah straightened. “No. I’ll handle it.”
Mrs. Crowley gave him a long look, the kind that said she didn’t believe him but wasn’t about to argue. “Bellview hasn’t changed, Noah. Not one bit. Careful you don’t end up the next rumor.”
She went back inside without another word.
Inside again, Noah grabbed his phone and dialed Eddie from the motel. No answer. Straight to voicemail.
He left a short message: “We need to talk. Today.”
Then he sat at the table, hands clasped.
The red paint wasn’t just vandalism—it was a warning. The timing, right after the flash drive, wasn’t coincidence. Someone wanted him rattled. Someone wanted him to know they could get close.
His thoughts drifted back to the masked figure on the tape. Could they have done this? Or was this someone else entirely—someone inside Bellview who didn’t want him defending Isaiah or Jordan?
The paint shimmered in his mind again, the letters stark and loud.
GUILTY
Guilty of what? Guilty of defending two boys? Guilty of digging into the past? Or guilty of being his father’s son?
The coffeemaker beeped behind him, snapping him out of it. He poured a cup, black, and took it to the porch. Sat in the creaking chair, sipping, watching the road.
No cars passed for nearly twenty minutes. Just the crows and the dripping of last night’s rain.
But he knew, deep down, he was being watched.
When he finally stood to go back inside, something caught his eye on the hood of the car—a folded piece of paper, weighed down with a small stone.
Noah walked over, heart thudding, and pulled it free.
Four words, scrawled in black marker:
We know the truth.