Page 24 of Painter's Obsession

“He was,” I say, my tone clipped, flattening any emotion threatening to surface.

“How’s your sister? Haven’t seen her much since I saw her with that suit,” John says, his voice shifting to something lighter.

My brow furrows. “Suit?”

John chuckles, leaning against the counter like we’re sharing some kind of inside joke. “Yeah, some fancy lawyer. He was here for a case, probably charity work. They met that day, and next thing I know, they were having lunch together.”

“What do you think of him?”

The question seems to catch him off guard. He leans in closer, lowering his voice as if the walls have ears. “If you ask me, he’s probably married and looking for some fun.”

I nod, steering the conversation away from my sister and whatever mess she might be tangled in. “I’m hungry. Let me get the usual.”

John straightens, hollering my order to his wife, Penny, who yells back an acknowledgment from the kitchen. I let my gaze wander across the diner, pretending to search for someone I already know isn’t here. Same faces, same tired conversations. Everything’s just as it always is—except for one glaring absence.

“Where’s the other girl? Theresita?” I ask, keeping it casual, her nickname rolling off my tongue like I’ve said it a thousand times before.

John pinches the bridge of his nose, his expression darkening. “Her mother’s been raising hell today. Theresa didn’t show up, and her mom thinks she’s missing. I think she’s just shacked up with some guy.”

Of course, he’d think that. People like John always do. But I’ve known Theresa for years. She had dreams, real ones. She wasn’t the type to throw everything away for some random hookup. If anyone should know that, it’s me—the guy she used to beg to cover for her in high school, back when she thought the world might actually give her a shot.

Before I can respond, Penny comes out from the kitchen, pot of coffee in hand. She sets down two mugs with the kind of authority that makes you shut up and listen. “Don’t say things like that,” she snaps, pouring the coffee like she’s trying to drown John’s nonsense in caffeine. “Theresa isn’t like that. That girl is saving herself for marriage.”

I nod slowly, processing her words. “Who’s been coming around that isn’t from here?” I ask, shifting gears.

John scratches at his chin, glancing at Penny for confirmation. “Besides the suit? No one, really. I mean, before he got close to your sister, he’d show up for the pro bono work.”

“Pro bono work,” I repeat, testing the words. Lawyers weren’t strangers to Laguna Bay, swooping in like saviors, building their reputations off the backs of small-town problems. But still, it doesn’t sit right.

“Yeah,” Penny chimes in, her tone softening. “That young man would spend hours here reading cases and talking to families. Always polite. Seemed like a good man.”

“You think so?” I ask, shifting in my seat. My knee bounces, betraying the calm I’m trying to project.

She doesn’t hesitate. “I’ve seen enough bad men to know one,” she says, a wry smile tugging at her lips. Her hand goes up in a gesture of surrender, the kind that says she’s seen more thanher fair share. “Hell, before this big teddy bear, I was married to one.”

Despite the confidence in her words, they do nothing to settle the nagging itch at the back of my mind. Something’s off. My thoughts keep circling back to him—Ren Sato. The suit. Mr. Fucking Prince Charming. Too perfect, too polished. Like he was plucked straight out of a glossy magazine and dropped here, smack in the middle of Laguna Bay.

The weight in my chest grows heavier, pressing down with an almost physical force. It’s spreading now, thick and unrelenting, like a storm cloud rolling in and refusing to break.

If no one else is going to look for Theresa, I will.

I owe her that much.

Chapter Fifteen

Byron

As I finish paying for my meal, I see John and Penny are deep in conversation with the regulars, so I make my way out, thankful that Sandra hadn’t been around much. Her anger and pain were always written on her face, and I hated seeing it. But the universe had other plans.

As I open the door and step into the night air, the sharp smell of cigarette smoke invades my nostrils. I instinctively reach into my pocket for my own pack when a familiar voice stops me in my tracks.

“You believe Theresa just left with some guy?”

The words startle me, and I turn slowly toward her. She’s leaning against the wall under the dull yellow light, her black puffer jacket half-zipped over her mustard-colored uniform.

“No. She’s not like that,” I say flatly, pulling a cigarette from the box and lighting it. I exhale the first drag and start walking toward my car.

“You know the cops won’t look for her,” she calls after me, her voice clipped.

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