Page 93 of Make Them Bleed

“Hoover now knows where the mints are in Paul’s foyer,” he says, deadpan.

I bark another laugh that turns into tears at the edges, because everything does. He sees it and cups my jaw gently with that big, careful hand. “He sang, Juno,” he says softly. “We didn’t lay a hand on him. He just… spilled. And now, we have names.”

My pulse ticks up. “Say them.”

“Stanley Coleman,” he says first, and the room goes a shade darker. “The onyx ring. Gracewood’s fixer-in-chief.”

I nod once, jaw tight.

“Rook Salazar,” he continues. “Ex-something. Anchor ink under the collar.”

“Rook,” I repeat, tasting the weight of it. “Of course.”

“Beau Latham,” he says, and I can hear the contempt. “Hedge fund. Pinky ring with a B—or a thirteen.”

“Tassel loafers,” I say, and Arrow’s mouth curves in a humorless little line.

“Merritt Voss,” he adds. “Fixer with a smile like a paper cut.”

“And the last one?” I ask.

“Devin Pike,” Arrow confirms. “Old money, new problems. Wants to be Coleman when he grows up.” Arrow pauses, and then says, “He’s got a YouTube channel.”

I let the names march through my head and sit down in a row. Coleman. Rook. Beau. Merritt. Devin. The Five. I shiver at the thought of how close we’re getting.

“And Gray’s orbiting,” he says, because the sun exists even when it hides. “Julian Gray is above it, which is worse. Nico is the ferry. I’m not sure if anyone else is involved.”

I close my eyes. The matchbooks. The marina slip. The ring in all our pictures, compass rose over waves. “I want to see them again,” I say, opening my eyes. “In person. Tonight.”

He doesn’t flinch. He never flinches when I aim at something. He thinks for a beat. I can see him running through the map. “Stonehouse,” he says. “Or there’s also a warehouse we could go.”

“I think we need witnesses.” I smile. “So, it’s Stonehouse.”

“Stonehouse,” he agrees. “I’ll have Gage get a reservation. Render will sit on the alley cams. Knight will nurse a drink atthe bar and pretend to watch soccer. Ozzy will fall in love with a bartender and extract the POS system with charm alone.”

“And me?” I ask, even though I already know.

“You’ll sit with me at a table,” he says. “And when one of them does the stupid littlecheckwith his finger, I’ll put my hand over yours and we’ll handle him.”

I breathe. My face does that thing where it betrays gratitude by softening despite my best efforts. “I trust you,” I say, and mean it like a vow I’m not willing to break. “I don’t love that you went to Paul without me. But I understand why. Don’t make a habit of it.”

“I won’t,” he says. “Unless the habit is living long enough to tell you first next time.”

“Good habit,” I say, and crawl up his chest just enough to kiss him slow and certain.

We lie there for another minute, pretending time isn’t a thing, and then the coffee in the other room guilt-shouts in my brain and I roll away with a groan. “Our bagels and coffee are getting cold,” I announce, standing up from the floor and grabbing his sweatshirt on my way, because I am a thief with priorities.

He follows me to the kitchen in socks and sweats, hair a little worse for the best reasons. I plate sesame and cinnamon-raisin like it’s a sacrament and give him the fancy cream cheese because he will scowl if I don’t and I enjoy the scowl but not at breakfast.

We eat at the counter like it’s a normal morning and not the fork in a road. He tells me more details about Paul—how he cried,how he looked like a man trying to feel something on purpose at a place designed for it.

He pulls a folded sheet from his back pocket and slides it over: his tidy block letters with the five names, underlined, boxed, arrows toStonehouse / Cicely’s / Unit 14.

“Can I?” I ask, nodding at the crime wall.

“It’s your wall,” he says. “Write them as big as you need.”

I cross the room, uncap a thick black marker, and add the names to the center column, the one that used to sayFIND THE FIVEand now says each of their names in bold ink. I feel like a certain piece is missing, but can’t figure it out.