Page 48 of Make Them Bleed

He nods, accepts the blow. “Probably not. But I needed to see you breathe.”

“I’m breathing.” It comes out flat, so I soften. “Thanks for the coffee.”

He holds mine out. My fingers graze his. We both flinch. He winces like I slapped him. “Juno, I?—”

“Don’t,” I whisper, and push the door another inch between us. “Not today.”

His jaw tightens. “Okay.” He sets the bag on the floor, careful, like leaving an offering at a shrine. “I’ll go.”

“Arrow—” The apology climbs my throat and dies there. I hate this. I hate that I miss him inside the same beat that I imagine throwing his laptop out the window. “Just…not today.”

He nods again. There’s a tiny wrinkle between his brows I’ve only ever seen when I cry or when a server’s packet drops. “I’m here when you want me,” he says, and the hall swallows the sound of his retreating steps.

I shut the door. Lock clicks like a gavel. Immediately the apartment feels colder, bigger, wrong. The bag sits there like dogs waiting for permission. I pick it up, and then do what any modern woman does after telling her almost-boyfriend to go away: I open my phone and stare at the live view from my Ring camera.

Arrow’s back is a slumped, gray smudge moving down the stairs. He pauses on the landing and looks back up at my door as if he can see through wood and indecision. The feed glitches, then smooths. He disappears.

The little blue light on the Ring blinks at me. I narrow my eyes at it. “You watching now?” I ask the camera like it’s him. “You lurking on my doorstep the way you lurked in my inbox?”

Silence, except for the fan whir and a neighbor’s laugh down the hall. The camera’s eye remains unblinking. I know the logical thing: Arrow doesn’t have my Ring login. But logic left three days ago holding a suitcase and a note. He is a security consultant. He knows backdoors I don’t.

“I’m going to disable you,” I say to the camera.

My phone buzzes in my hand.

Arrow 8:31 a.m. — Don’t disable your Ring. Please. It’s another set of eyes. I’ll stop checking. Promise.

Heat scalds my cheeks. “Of course you checked,” I mutter, staring into the tiny black lens. “Of course you did.”

I prop the phone on the entry table and look straight at the camera. “I’m shutting you off,” I tell it, voice steadying as I speak. “Not forever. Just…for me. For now.”

The phone buzzes again, immediate, like a heartbeat.

Arrow 8:32 a.m. — Juno, don’t. It’s not safe. At least leave notifications on. I’m not watching. I swear.

Swear. Promise. Standing order. My throat tightens. “You put spyware on my laptop,” I tell the Ring, “and you want me to trust your swears?”

The blue light blinks like an eye twitching. I hold the button, tap through menus, and shut it down. The screen goes to black. The apartment exhales in a way I didn’t know it needed to. Quiet. Mine.

Almost at once another text:

Arrow 8:33 a.m. — Okay. I hear you. I’m…here anyway. Text if you need me. I’ll back off.

Back off. The phrase lands like a stone in a pond, sending rings of pain outward. I want to textI always need you, but pride has sharp edges. I put my phone face-down on the table and go to the kitchen to pour the coffee into one of Arby’s old mugs.

I can’t drink without seeing her. Her grin in that stupid Christmas photo. The day she stole my favorite hoodie and said it looked better on camera. The time she fell asleep on my couch with a horror movie paused at the scariest frame—monster mid-lunge, teeth like knives—and woke up laughing because my scream had scared the monster back.

Safe or not, camera on or off, Arrow near or far—none of it matters if I don’t do the one thing I promised at her grave.

Find the men who killed her.

HOLO-BURST are snakes, but maybe notoursnakes. The team’s new intel made that clear: lots of money, lots of cover-ups, not necessarily murder. Which means I’m back at square one with the one lead that stayed in my head like a splinter.

Nico.

A guy with a nice smile and traveler’s tan and a name that could belong to anyone. Arby had mentioned himonce, over eggs and hash browns at The Spoonery, in that airy tone she used when she didn’t want me to worry.It’s nothing, Junebug. He’s older. Fun. He travels. No photos. Keeps it simple.

No photos.Keeps it simple.Yeah, okay, assassin.