He Deserved It

CHAPTER 29 – Fragments

Mila couldn’t take one more freaking second inside that house.

Her youngest brother was screaming bloody murder about Joaquin stealing his Pokémon cards. Her mom was half-buried in the fridge, ranting in Spanglish about onions and “cómo nadie ayuda en esta casa.”

Meanwhile, the telenovela in the living room kept screeching about betrayal like somebody was getting stabbed every five seconds. And her dad was yelling from the garage, demanding someone—anyone—come help carry in the groceries before the ice cream melted.

Mila ducked past the kitchen doorway, heart thudding like she was escaping a crime scene. Snatched her backpack off the hook. Bolted for the front door before anyone could shout her name.

Some people went to church. Mila went to walls. And right now, the only salvation she trusted was a yet-to-be-started mural and a spray can.

So she let her feet guide her, leaving the noise of home behind, and ended up under the overpass by the train tracks.

It smelled like wet cement and leftover rain. Rust and old spray paint ghosts. The walls were washed in gray shadows that pulsed each time a car rumbled overhead.

She’d been scoping this spot for days.

Perfect blank canvas. Close enough to danger to feel alive. Far enough to maybe get away if things went sideways.

She’d sketched the piece in her spiral notebook a half a dozen times already: blazing oranges, slashes of turquoise, a swirl of shapes that felt like breathing after holding it too long.

She dropped to one knee. Unzipped her backpack and shook each can, loving the rattle deep in her chest.

Then she saw it.

And stopped cold.

The wall wasn’t blank.

Someone had been here first.

A single tag sprawled across the concrete in thick black letters. Big enough to cover half the wall she’d been dreaming of for days. The paint glistened under passing headlights like oil.

ASK IMANI WHO SHE’S PROTECTING

Mila blinked hard. Her chest felt like it shrank two sizes.

The letters were sharp and aggressive, scrawled fast but deliberate. Like whoever wrote it wanted her—and anyone else wandering under this overpass—to know exactly who the message was for.

This wasn’t random. This wasn’t art. This was a knife pressed flat against all of their throats.

She stepped closer. The paint was still wet enough that her fingers came away streaked black. Her heart banged against her ribs.

The letters loomed huge and dark. No beauty. No rhythm. Just raw threat.

ASK IMANI WHO SHE’S PROTECTING.

This was supposed to be her wall. Her colors. Her name.

Instead, it felt like someone had carved open her chest and scribbled secrets across her ribs.

Then her gaze dropped lower. Near the bottom corner, scrawled in thin red letters beneath the bigger words, was another tag:

LIAR.

Mila’s breath caught.

This wasn’t just a message. It was a target list. And tonight, she was at the top.

Her mouth went dry.

First came the heat—a flash of pure, white-hot fury that shot up her spine and made her grip the spray can so tight her fingers cramped.

Then confusion twisted in her gut.

And finally, something colder. Sharp and crawling under her skin.

Who the hell knew this wall was mine? And who’d drag Imani into this like a bargaining chip?

She spun around, breath coming short. Scanned the shadows pooling under the overpass, every hair on her arms standing on end.

The pavement stretched empty. Only the hiss of traffic above. No footsteps. No voices. No one.

But it felt like someone was still there. Watching.

She swallowed hard, throat tight enough to hurt.

Was someone following me? Is this about prom… or something else entirely?

She lifted her spray can, finger trembling over the nozzle. Every instinct screamed to bury those words under a flood of color. To make the threat disappear.

But she forced her hand steady.

Covering it up was easy. But if this was about Imani… if this was about all of them… they’d need proof.

She yanked out her phone and snapped a quick photo. One. Two. Three. Just in case.

Then she lowered the phone and raised the can again.

No way in hell was she leaving that message up for the world to see.

She pressed down on the nozzle. Paint hissed out in thick, angry lines, swallowing black letters under a wave of turquoise.

She kept spraying until the fumes burned the back of her throat. Until the black was gone. Until the wall was hers again—even if only for tonight.

Then, her adrenaline began to fade. And reality slammed back in.

Time to move.

Mila packed up fast, shoving cans into her backpack like evidence she couldn’t afford to leave behind.

She yanked her hood over her hair and started the long walk home, pulse still pounding in her ears. Every crunch of gravel behind her made her spine jerk. Every brush of wind felt like someone’s breath against her neck.

But the street stayed empty.

Still, the message kept pulsing in her skull, like it had been spray-painted right across her brain.

Ask Imani, who she’s protecting.

And beneath it, the smaller, meaner word:

Liar.

Mila tightened her grip on the backpack straps until her knuckles ached.

No way am I letting whoever wrote that decide what comes next.

⋆⸻⸻⋆

That night, Mila lay in bed, paint still crusted under her nails.

She stared at the photo on her phone. Pinch-zoomed in until the words warped into jagged blocks of color. Until ASK IMANI WHO SHE’S PROTECTING twisted and blurred across her screen.

She should’ve deleted it.

But she couldn’t.

Instead, she set the phone face-down on her chest, like that might keep the message from crawling back up her throat.

Why Imani? And why call me a liar?

She rolled onto her side, pressing her fist under her pillow until the ache in her chest felt physical.

This was supposed to be over. Prom. Jordan. All of it. So why does it feel like it’s just starting again?

Outside, a car rumbled past. The shadows on her ceiling twisted and shifted.

Mila squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to wonder who else might be waiting in the dark.