Page 106 of Make Them Bleed

He closes the trunk and looks at me for a long second like he’s trying to align a photo in a frame. “You doing okay?” he asks. It’s not nothing. It also isn’t everything.

“I’m working,” I say. “I’m recording.” I don’t addI’m hunting the men you may or may not know,because we are playing the long game and I refuse to win it by shouting in a parking lot.

On the drive back, Mom hums along to the radio and Bob tells a story about a vendor who thought procurement was a synonym for magic. I throw one more pebble. “You ever hear the termcheckused like a joke?” I ask, watching him in the mirror. “Like—finger guns at a fundraiser. Men who think they’re clever.”

He blinks, annoyed at the image. “Grown men doing finger guns need hobbies,” he says, and for the first time today I believe him. He might be lying about rooms. He isn’t lying about taste.

We pull up to my building. Bob puts the car in park. Mom twists to kiss my cheek and reassure me I look, quote, “alive enough.” Bob clears his throat. “We’ll get out of your hair.”

“Thanks for the gear,” I say, earnest slipping out. “Really. It helps.”

He ducks his head, pleased. He likes to be useful; it’s his favorite flavor of absolution. “Anything for my girl,” he says, which is a sentence I used to love without footnotes. Now I want it notarized.

They wave. They drive off. I stand on the curb with my bag of microphone guts and my brain buzzing like a live wire. The second they’re out of sight I text Arrow:

Me: I asked about last night. Mom says bed early. Bob says late meeting at Stonehouse. Subtle Nico mention—Mom remembers the name. Bob gives blur.

Me: He lies neat. Not sloppy.

He repliesbefore my phone can settle.

Arrow: Sloppy men make mistakes.

Arrow: Good pulls. I’ll see if Stonehouse receipts match anything.

A long beat passes, then…

Arrow: You okay?

I stare at my reflection in the dark phone screen, hair a mess, mouth a line. The right answer is no. The useful answer isI’m upright.

Coloring later. Recording a mini. Meet me at 6 to wire the arm?

Arrow: I’ll bring pizza and a screwdriver.

Arrow: Proud of you for not flipping a table.

I can flip a table later if needed.

Arrow: I know. That’s why I’m bringing a screwdriver and not bail.

I smile despite the knot in my chest and head upstairs. The apartment smells like lemon cleaner and new beginnings in cardboard boxes. I unpack the arm and the mount with surgical care, laying things out on the coffee table like a ritual. Ready for installation.

I sit, mic in front of me, and press my palms flat to the desk. The wall hums, the names stare. Merritt’s line has already faded a shade in my mind, and I hate myself for that and forgive myself in the same breath because I have to keep moving. Someone wrote a check. Someone signed with clean hands. The Five were hired, or nudged, or given cover. Sloppy men are good at cover.

I hit record and talk—not names, not Club Greed, not Stonehouse—just a voice in a room, telling the story of a city where men make jokes with their fingers and think no one will notice the echo. I end with, “Some of us are listening now,” and let the mic go quiet.

When it’s done, I text my mother:Sunday works. I’ll bring a pie.Then I stand in the doorway and look at my apartment like it’s a stage where something true might happen tonight.

I don’t know yet if Bob is a lever or a confession. I do know this… he’s lying about last night, and I am done pretending not to notice. If he’s an edge, I’ll hold it. If he’s a thread, I’ll pull until something unravels that looks like an answer—or a noose.

36

Arrow

The boom arm swings over Juno’s desk like it was built for her hands. We tightened it just enough to move when she wants and not when gravity gets ideas. The new dynamic mic hangs there, fat and matte, with the pop filter hovering like a second moon.

“Say the line,” I tell her, mostly because I like the way her mouth shapes it.