“Do you think he’s in trouble?” Mitch asked.
“I can’t tell. He doesn’t seem like he’s on drugs, and he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave.”
Mitch’s anger seemed to deflate, and concern filled his eyes. “He might be staying at the shelter or looking for work.”
“Possibly. They don’t have many beds, so he could be sleeping on the beach. There are spots in the coves where someone could camp without being obvious. I haven’t seen him since last week.”
“I feel kind of bad for him,” Mitch said quietly. “Still, if he wrecked my mural and destroyed property, that’s not okay. But if he’s homeless or running from trouble, that’s another story.” He trailed off, continuing to stare in thought. “There’s a reason people lash out like that. Usually, they’re hurt or angry.”
“Doesn’t make it right.”
“No, but it’s understandable.” Mitch picked up his toolbox, sliding it toward the dock. “The artist who painted the original mural is Carmella. She paints murals all over Southern California and got her start as a graffiti artist. I’m not saying that was right, but she’s talented and learned her craft. Now she paints a lot of murals. Anyway, my regulars at Java Beach set up a fund to pay her to repaint it, and they’ve already raised enough. So that’s taken care of. Carmella can use the work, so in a funny way, it’s a win.”
Bennett lifted a corner of his mouth. “The community sure shows up for you.”
Mitch climbed onto the dock, offering Bennett a hand up. “Doesn’t mean I wasn’t disappointed about thevandalism when it happened. But at least the place wasn’t robbed or the kitchen smashed up.”
They secured the boat, double-checking lines before gathering their tools. The afternoon sun hung low over the water. A few other boat owners worked on their vessels nearby, calling out greetings as Bennett and Mitch headed from the marina.
Bennett was reaching for his keys when Mitch stopped abruptly.
“Hey, is that the dude?”
Bennett followed his gaze. Walking along the marina access road, head down and shoulders hunched, was the guy. Same dark hoodie with faded lettering. Same jeans, torn at the knees. Same defeated posture.
“That’s him,” Bennett said softly.
They exchanged a look. Mitch set down his toolbox by the vehicle. “Let’s talk to him.”
They approached carefully, not wanting to spook the kid into running. Bennett took the lead, keeping his voice neutral and non-threatening.
“Hey, buddy. Excuse me.”
The kid froze, eyes darting between them like he was calculating escape routes. Up close, Bennett saw he was younger than expected. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. Gaunt cheeks. Dark circles under wary eyes.
“I didn’t do anything,” the kid said automatically.
“Didn’t say you did.” Bennett stopped a few feet away, keeping his posture open. “Just want to talk to see if you need help. I’m Bennett Dylan. We’re not cops.”
“I know who you are.” The kid’s voice carried an edge. “You’re the mayor. Saw you in the paper.”
Bennett gestured toward Mitch. “And this is Mitch Kline. He owns Java Beach, the coffee shop.”
Something flickered across the kid’s face, maybe guilt, but he masked it quickly. “So?”
“Someone vandalized Mitch’s place a couple nights ago. Spray-painted the mural on the side wall and broke some furniture.”
The kid’s jaw tightened. “That doesn’t mean it was me.”
“You’re right. It doesn’t.” Mitch stepped forward, his voice gentler than Bennett expected. “It’s cool, though. The artist is going to repaint it. You know, when I landed in Summer Beach, I was kind of lost and hungry. Now that I have my coffee shop, I usually make more food than I need. Some of the surfers chasing the waves stop by. I’m usually in the kitchen, and there’s a back door. Come anytime you’re hungry.”
“I don’t need help.” The words came out defensive, brittle. “I’m fine.”
“Are you?” Bennett asked. “Because from where I’m standing, you look like someone who’s been sleeping rough and hasn’t had a decent meal in days. Maybe you left home, and maybe you had good reason.”
The kid’s eyes went glassy. He blinked hard, looking away. “I didn’t mean to,” he began, then stopped.
“Listen, dude,” Mitch said, lowering his voice. “If you did it, you need to own that sometime. But I think you’re hurting. And I’d rather help you than throw you to the cops. I know what the inside of a cell looks like. It ain’t pretty.”
