Chapter One: Spray Paint
"Did you get those files in?" Sheriff Noah Stilinski asked as the car slowed down for a red light. When the car was completely stopped, Stiles Stilinski looked over at his father.
"I already gave them to Deputy Parrish, don't worry," he told him, a hint of sarcasm prominent in his voice. "I'm responsible, remember?" A smirk tugged at the right corner of his lips.
Noah rolled his eyes. Multiple memories of Stiles doing ridiculous, and even odious, things flashed in his mind. Actions spoke louder than words, and they proved Stiles' statement wrong.
"Just yesterday, you had almost let the robbery suspect free, Stiles. If that's what you call responsible, I think it would be in your best interest to buy a dictionary."
The light turned green and Stiles lifted his foot off of the break. His right stepped lightly down onto the gas pedal, sending the car into motion.
"That wasn't completely my fault. The handcuffs didn't lock. Sometimes the old ones get rusty and malfunction, which is something beyond my control." Stiles smirked. He was only trying to get a rise out of his father.
"Malfunction?" Stilinski laughed, "The handcuffs were perfectly fine, Stiles. You just didn't check to see if you locked it right."
"No, no. I don't think so, Dad."
"I know what you're doing," Stilinski said with an exasperated look, "So quit it. You're twenty-four years old, Stiles, and yet you continue to poke at me like a child. If you aren't going to take your job seriously, I can and will take your badge away, Son. This job is a privilege, not a righ—"
"I was just joking with you, Pops. I know and I'm sorry, alright? And you know better than anyone that I take this job seriously. I have big shoes to fill," Stiles told him, and he meant every word. Stilinski softened and nodded his head.
"I'm proud of you," he told him, "And I know. Just be a little more aware, alright? It's always the little things that really screw things up." Stiles nodded.
The radio's music filled the car as the two sat in a comfortable silence. As Stiles drove, he couldn't help but glance at the bridge they were approaching. It had the oddest of shapes and words spray painted onto the metal beams. The paint appeared brighter at this time of day due to the sunset in the distance. The Sheriff stared at it all in disbelief.
"Look at this garbage," he muttered. "Kids these days, always acting out to prove something. It looks like a mess!"
Stiles peered at his father while he looked out the window. Stiles didn't particularly agree with what his father had said, but he didn't want to start an argument by telling him so. He decided to drive the conversation elsewhere.
"So, what's the problem this time? Theft? Stoners? Domestic?" he asked, referring to the reason why they were called out to this part of town. They were no longer in the city, but still in their force's domain. Stilinski shook his head.
"Some kid graffitied a side of the Grab and Go again. There's been multiple calls made from around here by many businesses reporting the same problem," Noah explained, moving his hands as he talked. "I'm assuming the kid's a local. Lives around the outskirts."
Stiles raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think it's a kid? And how old?"
"Forensics has a few spray cans that we found. Whoever it was left them behind. They got a few fingerprints, but they weren't in our systems already. Even still, fingerprints tell a lot about a person, unidentified or not. They were smaller than that of an adult's, but everyone's different in size. Outliers and such exist. But the ridges of these fingerprints were very prominent. Almost like they were new. As you get older, the ridges fade out — or get smoother, and some people even have a bit of scarring from every day activities. So, I think it's safe to assume it's a young kid, or younger person, that we're looking for."
Stiles looked at his father in disbelief. "You sure know a lot about this stuff."
Stilinski laughed. "It's almost like it's my job."
Stiles rolled his eyes. "Well then how come I didn't know any of that?"
Stilinski shrugged and gave his son a sideways look. "Considering it was part of your training, you tell me?"
Stiles' cheeks warmed and he was at a loss for a decent comeback. "Alright, you got me there."
Stiles pulled into the Grab and Go's parking lot and turned the car off. He pulled his phone off of the mount and closed out of his GPS app. He and his father stepped out of the police car and walked into the store, triggering a small bell. A tall, slender man, who looked like he was in his early thirties, walked out of what seemed like a break room and sat down behind the counter.
"Can I help you, Officers?"
Another man, who was short, chubby, and around his late fifties, stalked over to the Stilinski's. He eyed their badges. "You're the Sheriff?" he grumpily asked Stiles.
"I'm the Sheriff," Noah told him. The older man moved his circular glasses further up his nose. His eyes widened.
"Of course, of course," he said and began to walk the other way. "It's out here, if you want to see it." Stiles looked at Noah and he promptly nodded.
They followed the old man out of the building through the side door. When Stiles stepped out of the brick building, he saw what the fuss was all about. He thought the graffiti would be small, like the others on the bridge. But this was a mural. It was mixture of vivid colors–yellows and blues and reds. In the midst of the colors, you could see the face of an unhappy woman. It was beautiful, breathtaking even. Stiles noticed that there was a scribbled signature at the bottom. It was illegible.
"Just last month there was one like this," the man said, "And a few months before that too! I want this person punished and I want to make sure that they never vandalize my store again!"
"We'll find them," Noah assured him.
"I'm going to press charges!" he exclaimed.
Stiles turned back towards the spray-painted portrait and stared at it. His hand cupped his chin and his pointer finger laid against his top lip.
I'm going to figure this one out, he thought, without any help and without any screw-ups. Or at least major screw-ups. This is going to be my case, and this is how I'm going to prove to Dad that I can do this shit on my own.
-
"And where have you been?" Jacob Martin asked his younger sister as she crept into their trailer home. He was only older than her by a year, but he let it run to his head. Jacob leaned against the sink with a half empty water bottle in his hand.
Lydia took off her black hat that perfectly hid her red hair. It freely fell down her shoulders in a shower of orange. She stuffed the hat into her dark grey duffle bag and held it close to her body.
"At Allison's," she told her brother. She tried to walk past him but he sidestepped into her. She gave him a dirty look. "Don't mess with me. I'm tired and cranky."
"Little sister, I've known you for nineteen years," he said, making her roll her eyes, "I know when you lie to me."His eyes drifted to the bag in her hands. She sighed.
"What's in there?" he asked while trying to reach out to grab it.
"Go away, Jake," she grumbled, pushing him to the side. "Seriously. Move."
"Were you with a boy?" Jacob questioned, wiggling his eyebrows.
Lydia scoffed. "God, no."
He paused for a slight second. "Were you with a girl?"
Lydia reached up into the small space where she slept. It was a tiny compartment with a bed, barely big enough for her. It hung over the kitchen area. She pulled off a pillow and threw it at his head. It hit his glasses and bounced onto the floor. Jacob fixed his glasses, pushing them farther up the bridge of his nose.
He threw up his hands and gave a shrug. "Hey, hey, I don't know what you're into."
Lydia threw her bag up first and the sound of her aluminum cans bouncing off of each other echoed throughout the mobil-home. She climbed into bed after them.
"What do you have in there?" he asked, setting down his water. He reached up and tried to grab the bag once again. Lydia, who was fast with her reflexes, snatched it before he did.
"Go to bed! Jesus, you're annoying as all hell!" she yelled.
The small room towards the back of the trailer opened and another red haired woman, Natalie, their mother, stood in the doorway. Her hair was tousled and misshapenly, sticking up in every which way. She rubbed her eyes.
"Why are you two fighting?" she asked, her voice groggy and hoarse. She lifted her wrist, realizing that she still had her watch on. Her eyes widened slightly. "Seriously? It's almost one in the morning! You know that Elias has school tomorrow!" As if on cue, Elias, Lydia and Jacob's brother who was only nine, walked out of the room beside their mother's.
"Sorry, Mom," Jacob and Lydia muttered in unison.
Their mother sighed and looked at Elias, whose gold hair was disheveled from sleep, just like hers. "Eli, go to bed, Sweetheart." Elias sighed and shut the door behind him.
She looked back at her other two children. "Both of you, bed, now." And with that, she went back into her room and closed the door.
"Lyds–"
"Go to bed Jacob. Seriously."
"Lyd–
"Jacob. Mom's got a lot of shit going on right now, give it a rest and do as she says," Lydia exasperated.
Jacob's mouth opened to speak but he abruptly shut it. "You know, sometimes I feel like you all left along with Dad. All of you are so fucking different now, it's beyond me." He walked away and into the room he shared with Elias.
Lydia's face warmed and she felt her eyes begin to burn with tears. Their father's abandonment wasn't new, he had been gone for years, but Jacob's words were like daggers. Her father's departure still hurt, and there were times where she actively broke down about it. Some wounds just refused to heal.
And Jacob was right. A piece of each Martin had left with their father as he walked out of the front door that one summer night. None of them were the same after that.
They were all a little broken.