Page 11 of Make Them Bleed (Pretty Deadly Things #1)

Arrow

A sensible human would text: Juno Hey, remember to wear shoes you can sprint in , but I’m not that brand of sensible. I’m the brand currently sweating inside a seventy-year-old president’s rubber face while triple-checking the motion camera feeds for stray raccoons.

The abandoned Riverside print-shop office looks good—better than I dared hope.

Knight’s extra monitors glow soft aquamarine, Gage’s sticky-note constellations drape the whiteboard, and ethernet cables snake everywhere like neon spaghetti.

It’s equal parts murder board and LAN party—a shrine to my inner nerd—and seeing it like this makes me ready to catch some murderers.

Footsteps sound on the metal stairwell outside. Heart in my throat, I pull the mask on fully, modulator mic in place. Deep breath. I unlock the steel door, and my breath catches at the sight.

Juno steps in, wide-eyed. She wears black skinny jeans, a cropped denim jacket, and that knit beanie with cat ears that makes her look five seconds from starring in an indie romcom. Behind the wary determination in her eyes is awe, which tugs something warm in my chest.

“Whoa.” She spins slowly, taking in cable bundles, taped-up floorplans, corkboard maps connected by red string. “This is…intel Narnia.”

I modulate my voice down a notch. “War rooms are overrated. I prefer ‘creative problem-solving environment.’”

She laughs. It’s bright and genuine as it lights up the room. “It looks like something my best friend would design. He’s got a Pinterest board for ‘Vigilante Loft Aesthetic.’”

My throat tightens. Play it cool . “He’s got good taste.”

She roams, fingertips brushing a stack of old print rollers turned desk legs. Her gaze lands on the corkboard titled POTENTIAL LEADS. I’ve made sure Kiwi-green sticky notes cover any handwriting she’d recognize, but one address— ELIJAH123 —sits dead center with a big red circle.

“Who’s Elijah123?” she asks.

“Local handle flagged from Arby’s hate-comment dump.” I keep my posture relaxed, but my pulse spikes. “Rabid fan. Usually harmless, but he spammed her last livestream with skull emojis.”

Juno’s jaw tightens. “Skull emojis the night she died? That’s not harmless.”

“We don’t know he posted them that night. The account timestamp is spoofed.”

She studies the Post-it, then turns to me. “Is the address legit?”

“Appears to be.”

“We should go.”

Alarm bells clang in my head. Too fast, too risky, too everything. “Recon first,” I suggest. “Digital footprint, bank statements?—”

“I can’t sit behind screens anymore, Hoover. I need to look someone in the eye.” Her voice cracks on eye and it guts me.

I pivot to strategy mode. “Fine. One pass-by drive. We don’t engage unless it’s safe.”

“Deal.” Determination ignites in her gaze.

Five minutes later we’re outside flagging a rideshare. I text Gage a silent SOS—just our shared emoji code for tail us on GPS; call if I go dark. He thumbs back an emoji and a taco. Because well, Gage.

The driver, Carlo, is playing lo-fi hip-hop at headache volume.

Juno and I slide into the back seat; her knee bumps mine, sending static along my skin.

I keep Hoover’s mask tucked high, hoodie hood pulled low.

Carlo glances in the rearview and takes in Juno’s face and my mask and decides we’re either cosplayers or burglars.

He doesn’t ask, and I silently thank him for that.

Juno eyes the houses rolling past. “Arrow once said this neighborhood had the fastest fiber in the city,” she mutters.

“He would know, huh?” I ask, heart trotting double-time.

“Arrow knows everything,” she says quietly, staring out the window. The streetlights strobe across her profile. Guilt punches me. Here I am lying to her face while she praises me.

Carlo slows at a grimy one-story house, halfway through a roof replacement that looks abandoned mid-hammer. ELIJAH123 in real-life form. We thank him, slap five-star promises, and step onto the sidewalk.

Juno tugs her jacket tight. “Okay. We just look from here, right?”

“Correct.” I scan. Two cars in the cracked driveway, fading bumper stickers for a local high school marching band. Curtains half-drawn, TV glow inside. Wind rattles a chain-link gate.

Then the front door opens. Out waddles who I'm assuming is Elijah —hunched, lanky, wearing Pikachu pajama pants, dragging a trash bin. Kid can’t be older than eighteen. His earbuds blast tinny rap.

Juno’s shoulders sag. “He’s a baby.”

“Cyber fanboys start young.”

She steps forward anyway, determination hardening her posture. “He might know something.”

I exhale, tug my hoodie higher, and follow. When Elijah sees us approaching, he freezes, earbuds dangling. Recognition flashes across his acne-speckled face.

“Holy crap—Juno Kate?” Voice cracks. “I watch your livestream breakdowns! Uh—watched, I guess.” His expression crumples, apology shimmering. “I’m…sorry about Arby.”

Juno forces a smile. “Thanks, Elijah. Can we talk?”

His gaze snaps to my mask. “Why’s Herbert Hoover here?”

“Economic turmoil’s making a comeback,” I deadpan through the modulator.

The kid snickers, and pushes his glasses up. “Okay, that’s kinda funny.”

We guide him to the porch steps. Porch light spills sickly yellow over peeling paint. Elijah hugs the trash lid like a shield.

Juno keeps her tone gentle. “Elijah, we found your username linked to some aggressive comments on Arby’s channel.”

His eyes widen. “Whoa—those skull emojis? That wasn’t hate. That was my gamer clan dropping support. Like, SkullSquad stands with Arby. It was a thing.”

Juno frowns. “You never met her?”

“I wish.” He pulls out his phone, shows a lock screen of Arby mid-laugh. “She was the realest influencer. When she dumped HOLO-BURST energy drink after they tried to rebrand her as ‘Gamer Barbie’. Iconic.”

A bolt of interest shoots through me. “She ended the sponsorship?”

“Oh, yeah.” Elijah nods vigorously. “They kept ghosting her invoices. Shady as hell. She posted about it on her close-friends Insta two days before she…you know.”

Juno and I exchange a glance. I can almost see the suspicion form behind her eyes.

Elijah continues, words tumbling. “I did some digging. HOLO-BURST’s shell company is run by a venture-capital guy in Saint Pierce. Gracewood Holdings? Same dudes backing a crypto casino that got hacked last year. Total scammers.”

Kid’s better at OSINT than half the PD. I reach into my hoodie pocket, slip out a business-card-sized sheet of paper—blank except a protonmail address. I hand it over. “Anything else you find, send it here. Encrypted.”

He stares at the card like it’s a Hogwarts letter. “Yes, sir, Mr. Hoover, sir.”

Juno gently touches his arm. “Thanks, Elijah. And hey—maybe tone down the skull emojis for now?”

He blushes. “Right. Sorry.”

We retreat to the sidewalk as Elijah drags the trash bin back like a dutiful nonplayer character. Juno exhales a shaky breath, adrenaline fading.

“So, energy-drink money laundering,” she murmurs. “That’s new.”

“Could be a motive,” I say. “Corporate sabotage, hush money, influencer liability.”

She tugs her beanie. “Next step?”

“We go back. Run HOLO-BURST’s ownership tree.”

Juno glances at me—mask, hoodie, looming. “You sure you’re not Arrow under there?” Her laugh is half joke, half genuine wonder.

I manage a robotic chuckle. “This Arrow guy your boyfriend?”

“What?” Her eyes widen. “Uh, no no no no no. He’s definitely not.”

“Wow, five no’s. Must be a serious no.”

She laughs lightly. “Sorry, he’s my best friend, and no he’s not my boyfriend.”

The air sizzles between us, and I don’t know what it is, maybe it’s the mask making me feel braver. “So, you’re single then?”

“Um, yeah,” she breathes out. “I guess I am.”

“Good.”

She gives me a mega-watt smile, and I wonder how it’s physically possible to be jealous of myself. “We need to get you a new mask, Hoover.” She pushes against me as we walk down the street.

“C’mon, Herbie here is underrated.” I hail a rideshare on my app.

She snorts as she starts walking. The night air is crisp, carrying distant sirens. With each step, guilt and protectiveness wrestle in my gut. We got useful intel—but I dragged her into a stranger’s yard. Rookie move.

Halfway down the block she stops, and pivots. “Thank you for listening to me, Hoover. Most people treat me like fragile glass.”

I keep my modulator low. “Glass can cut if mishandled. You’re steel, Juno.”

In the sodium streetlight her eyes glisten. She looks like she might step closer, seek comfort, but the rideshare’s headlights swing around the corner, breaking the moment.

We climb in. She stares out the window, fingers worrying the edge of her sleeve. I want to reach over, lace them with mine—to tell her I’m here as Arrow, as Hoover, as whatever she needs. But Hoover can’t act like Arrow. Hoover’s a mission, Arrow’s a man in love.

So I sit, silent, as the city crawls past and neon reflections ripple over the mask’s blank Hoover grin.

Tomorrow we’ll tear into HOLO-BURST. Tonight I memorize the exact slope of Juno’s shoulders as she whispers the names of energy-drink moguls under her breath—warrior preparing for battle—unaware her oldest ally is right beside her, wearing history’s most unpopular president as armor.