Page 13 of Painter's Obsession

“It’s not hard, just take it slow,” I say, trying to sound like I know what I’m talking about. My own track record with relationships is garbage, but I still try to give her somethingsolid. “Get to know him. You never know where things can go. But, please, be safe.”

I can’t help but add, “You never know if Mr. Charming is the infamous—“ I air quote sarcastically—”‘Laguna Bay Painter.’” The words hang in the air, heavy despite my attempt at levity. That killer’s been leaving a trail of blood and horror, turning women’s bodies into his canvas. The victims? Women from low-income areas, the ones society ignores. Not Gabriela. Not while I’m here.

“Yeah, that’s the plan. Taking it slow,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“You slept with him already?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

She groans loudly. “Byron, what is this, the 1500s? So what if I did?”

“Nothing, I guess,” I mutter, focusing back on my sandwich. “Mary Jane hasn’t come back around, has she?” I ask. Her face hardens suddenly, her playful demeanor vanishing.

Mary Jane. The party-loving, pill-popping white girl from the trailer park—and Gabriela’s best friend. She’s been MIA for weeks now. Kind, sure, but beneath her innocent exterior, she’s got demons. Trust me, I know daddy issues when I see them. Hell, I’ve lived them.

She shakes her head. “No, nothing yet.”

“She’ll show up,” I say, trying to sound optimistic.

Gabriela fidgets with her hair again, her voice quieter this time. “Yeah, I hope so. I’m trying not to think about it, but it’s been weeks now.”

“I know, but you know Mary Jane. She disappears sometimes.”

“Yeah, but not like this,” Gabriela counters, her worry evident. “She always answers me—or her mom. She doesn’t just... vanish.”

Her words stick with me. Mary Jane’s the type to go on benders, sure, but something feels off this time. Even her mom hasn’t heard from her, and that’s not like her. I don’t want to say it aloud, but a pit settles in my stomach.

“She’ll turn up,” I say, though my gut tells me there’s more to this than just another bender. Her phone pings again, pulling her attention away. I watch her face light up, hazel eyes sparkling as she glances at the screen. A giddy smile spreads across her lips, and she holds the phone up like it’s the best news she’s gotten all week. “He wants to see me tonight,” she says, practically bouncing on her toes. Then, with a bit more hesitation, she adds, “Mind if I bring him by? Beer and tacos?”

I shrug, leaning against the counter. “Why not? If I can bring women home, why can’t you?” I smirk at the thought. Not that I bother with foreplay or the morning-after talk; that’s why I stick to simple arrangements, like Linda next door. No strings, no complications. Just sex. Besides, I’d rather have Gabby here under my roof than at some random guy’s place where she could get hurt.

“Fine with me,” I say, waving her off. “Just don’t let me hear you getting railed, alright? I don’t need to know what you sound like when you’re getting fucked.”

Her face scrunches in disgust. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I’m not even thinking about sleeping with him!”

“Yeah, sure,” I mock, raising an eyebrow. “And I was born yesterday.”

Gabriela glares at me but doesn’t argue. She focuses back on her phone, typing furiously, but then her fingers freeze. Her mouth falls open, her whole body trembling as her face drains of color.

“No,” she whispers, her voice shaky, barely audible. “No.”

I’m already on my feet, boots thudding against the floor as I cross to her. “Gabby, what’s wrong?”

The phone slips from her trembling hands, clattering against the counter. My gaze falls to the screen, and I feel my stomach drop. A picture of her childhood friend, Mary Jane, fills the screen—blonde hair, green eyes, that familiar pretty smile. But the image isn’t innocent. Her naked body is posed grotesquely against a tree, flowers carved into her pale skin. The caption beneath the photo reads:

“Woman found dead, no blood, perched in a tree. The killer named the art ‘The Nymph of the Wood.’”

Gabriela backs away, clutching her head, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. “No…no…no…” The words tumble out of her like a broken record before she collapses onto the couch, burying her face in her hands as sobs wrack her body.

I stare at the screen, the image burned into my mind. My jaw tightens as I glance at the time—three o’clock. I was supposed to finish a roof job today, but there’s no way I’m leaving her like this.

I sit beside her, resting a hand on her back. Her sobs cut through the quiet of the house, raw and heavy. “It’s okay,” I say softly, even though it’s a lie. Nothing about this is okay, but she doesn’t need to spiral. Gabby’s not like me—she can’t shut things out. She feels everything too deeply.

Her phone buzzes again, vibrating against the counter. I stand, grabbing it before it can fall. The screen lights up with a name.Ren Sato.Something about it makes my chest tighten, a flicker of unease I can’t shake.

“It’s Ren Sato,” I say, holding the phone out. Gabby looks up, tear-streaked and trembling, and weakly gestures for me to answer.

I press the green button, lifting the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

A deep voice responds, smooth but commanding. “Hey, is this Gabriela?”

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