what now? | outerbanks

• seventy-two •

Rafe

    Sarah's voice is strained. "And the cameras didn't catch any of it?"
    "It was too dark. You can see movement, but you can't actually make anything out," I tell her, running my hands over my head.
    "Did you call Shoupe?" John B. asks.
    "Yeah, yeah. He came over earlier, checked it all out."
    "And?" Sarah is inspecting the spray painted message for the sixth time like it'll finally reveal its artist.
    "He told me there wasn't a lot he could do. He's gonna put out a statement, but there aren't any leads for him to follow, so we're stuck for now."
    Behind me, I hear Sofia talking—arguing—on the phone with her mom.
    "No, Mami," she groans. "We can't push anything back. Rafi already ordered the caterers and the venue can't do any other date." She's clearly panicking, but I can't help but smile at the nickname she uses for me. She doesn't use it often, but when she does, my heart swells.
Listening to her argue back and forth about everything instinctively makes my heart race, and suddenly I'm just as panicked.
"I mean, of course this had to happen now! This is just—fuck!"
Just then, I see something twinge in Sarah's brow, but it's gone as soon as it showed. I think about asking her, but I know how she is. Maybe it'd be different if John B. asked her, but if I asked how she is, I know she'd lash out at me.
"Alright," John B. says loud and clear. "We're going to the office."
I shake my head, running a finger under my nose. I've been off drugs since two months into Sofia and I's relationship, but the stimming habit has stuck. "I told you, Shoupe already came over here."
"Yeah, but you know he won't help if you don't keep asking."
I huff, jabbing my tongue into the corner of my mouth. "Alright. We'll go."
Behind us, I hear Sofia's voice rising from inside. "Sí, Mami, pero ya está pagado!" she groans into her phone. "We can't just move the wedding because of some stupid vandalism!"
    She pauses, listening. Then louder, more frantic: "No, no fue una amenaza cualquiera, alguien rompió nuestras ventanas, Mami!"
    A beat. Then a sigh. "Sí, Rafi está manejándolo. He's going to the police right now. But we're not changing the date. We can't."
    Her voice cracks in a way that I feel it in my chest. I can hear shifting and creaks from inside, and I know she's probably pacing in the kitchen like she always does when she's overthinking.
    I look back at Sarah, as John B. says, "You coming, baby?"
    She answers too quick, too easy. "No. I'm good." She smiles up at John B. but there's something else in it too. I can see that something's off, but I'm not sure if he does because he seems content in her answer. "I'll stay here with Sof."
    "Okay. Call me if you need to, please," he hums, bending down to kiss her once before we leave. She just nods, looking up at him with her big brown eyes. Her eyes are incapsulating in every way, and they'll never not remind me of our mother. Ward's blue-eye genes passed to me, but Sarah is our mother all over again.
John B. heads down the front steps without any hesitation, and I start to wonder if he really doesn't notice that something's off about Sarah.

Shoupe's office hasn't changed—it still smells faintly like burnt coffee and damp paper. Suddenly, I'm right back to the day I was arrested for shooting Peterkin. I'm eighteen again, and I get a chill down my spine. He gestures for us to sit, but only I do. John B. stays standing, arms crossed.
"I already told you what I know," Shoupe says as he settles behind his desk. "It's vandalism. A threat, yeah, but without witnesses or clean footage, I've got nothing to go on."
John B. leans forward. "So that's it? You're just done?"
Shoupe holds up a hand. "Don't put words in my mouth. I've got patrols sweeping the area. I sent the spray paint in for analysis, not that I expect a hit. We're watching cameras at local hardware stores. It's in motion."
"But you're not treating it like it's serious," John B. snaps. "You're treating it like some neighborhood prank."
"John B.—"
"They slashed tires, broke a window, left a threat. That's not a prank. That's someone telling him to back off."
I speak up then, quieter. "This ties back to Miller and you know it. His death was too clean. Now this? Someone's making sure we don't dig."
Shoupe watches me for a second. "You think Miller had someone working with him?"
"Or someone watching his back," I say. "Either way, someone is not that happy I got involved."
He sighs, looking suddenly ten years older. "You want my gut? My real gut? Yeah, it feels off. But without proof—hell, without even a description—I can't put out a warrant. Can't arrest a ghost."
John B. slaps a palm against the desk. "Then what can you do?"
Shoupe doesn't flinch. "Keep my people looking. Quietly. You make too much noise, you scare off whoever's behind it. Or worse, you escalate it." He glances between us, serious now. "Let me handle this the right way." I exhale slow. It's not enough, but it's something.
John B. doesn't look convinced. "And if something else happens?"
"Then we'll come down on them hard," Shoupe says. "But right now, I need you both to stay out of sight. Keep your heads down." I nod, but it feels wrong. The quiet ones are always the most dangerous.
As we leave, John B. mutters, "He's not gonna do shit."
I glance back at the office, jaw tight. "No. But maybe I will."