Page 12 of Make Them Bleed (Pretty Deadly Things #1)

Juno

Bills, like bad jump-scares, never stop coming.

It’s noon, there’s a half-eaten Pop-Tart on my keyboard, and I’m hiding in the bedroom closet—the only spot that doesn’t echo in the apartment now that Arby’s ring-light studio is dark.

A plaid comforter hangs behind me as a makeshift sound baffle, and the scent of her vanilla-amber diffuser clings to the wool like a ghost I can almost hug.

I clear my throat, tap the mic, and slip into my cheery “Final Girl Frequency” voice.

“Welcome back, survivors! I’m Juno Kate, your favorite scream-queen analyst, and today we’re unpacking the criminally underrated Grave Encounters II —yes, the found-footage sequel that proves locked psych wards are still a no-go zone.”

I breeze through thirty minutes of analysis—camera angles, creep-factor metrics, why the possessed janitor deserved an Oscar—and then pivot to the part that pays rent: the sponsor read.

“Before we wrap, huge thanks to SleepRite Weighted Blankets —the only blanket heavy enough to keep you safe when the demons crawl out of your TV at 3 a.m. Use code FINALGIRL for fifteen percent off and free shipping. Because nothing says self-care like a fifty-pound hug that whispers ‘you’re not alone.’”

I hit stop, exhale, and listen to the silence ring in my ears. One edit pass, upload, invoice sent—another week’s groceries secured. Arby would roll her eyes at the hustle, tell me to start a Patreon, but hustling feels like breathing when grief wants to drown you.

By two o’clock I’m parking a borrowed e-scooter in its designated spot, and making sure I return it through the app. I’m outside Saint Pierce Memorial Cemetery, a windswept sprawl of granite angels and lichen-slick headstones. I carry a single daisy in my hands.

Row D, plot 47: Arby Catherine Kate—Beloved Daughter, Sister, Friend. The marble still looks too fresh, too bright against gray Autumn grass. I kneel, brush away stray leaves, and place the daisy in the little bronze vase.

“Hey, star-sister,” I whisper. “Miss me?”

Wind answers, rattling the cedars. My throat tightens. “Update, uh, I’m doing the thing. The reckless thing you’d lecture me about. I found help with some guy who wears a Herbert Hoover mask and calls himself Hoover.” I huff a laugh. “You’d ship us instantly, I know. But don’t. He’s…complicated.”

My eyes sting. “I won’t stop, Arby. Not until I can say your name without flinching. Promise.” I press two fingers to the carved A, the marble ice-cold under my skin.

Footsteps crunch behind me. My shoulders snap tight. I stand, turning.

A man—a few years older than me, maybe early thirties—loiters near the next row. Curly hair, five-o-clock shadow, HOLO-BURST energy-drink logo blaring across his charcoal T-shirt. He jogs closer, easy smile in place.

“Excuse me,” he says, voice smooth. “Do you have the time?”

We’re twenty feet from a bench with a city-installed smart pole broadcasting the exact hour in neon green. There’s an Apple Watch on his wrist. Creepy.

I glance at my phone. “Two-fifteen.”

He nods, gaze flicking to Arby’s headstone. “Tough day to be here.”

“Every day’s tough,” I reply, non-committal.

He stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets. “Visiting family?”

My grief flares defensive. “Yes.”

“Sorry for your loss.” He draws out the syllables like he’s savoring them, eyes scanning my face. “I come here sometimes too. Helps, you know?”

Something in his tone crawls down my spine. “Sure.”

We stand in charged silence. Crows squawk overhead. I edge a step back, fingers curling around my pepper-spray in my pocket.

The man tilts his head. “Have a nice day,” he says as he trots away.

I swallow hard. That shirt—HOLO-BURST. Elijah’s conspiracy darts through my mind.

I watch until Curly Creep exits the cemetery, then whip out my phone—reflex says text Arrow, but Arrow isn’t the one skulking alleys with me. Hoover is.

Weird guy at cemetery. Asked time. Wearing HOLO-BURST shirt. Could be nothing, but vibes = ick.

Three dots bubble, then Hoover’s reply pops:

HOOVER: Get somewhere public NOW. Message me when safe.

Heat prickles my scalp—equal parts fear and a ridiculous flutter that he’s protecting me. I clench the phone, scan the paths. Nobody else nearby.

On it.

I power-walk to the gate, heart rabbiting. The air smells of damp grass and stone dust, and every creak of branches sounds like footsteps.

Once I’m outside the wrought-iron fence, I suck in a deep breath. I duck into a florist across the street—windows fogged, lilies overpowering the room. The clerk barely looks up as I hover by a shelf of sympathy candles, texting Hoover.

Inside shop on Maple. Crowded. Still feel shaky.

HOOVER: Stay put. Send description of the man.

I type a quick rundown—height, hair, brand shirt, unsettling smile. His reply is immediate:

HOOVER: Possible tail. Do not return home alone. Meet me at the loft.

Okay. On my way.

HOOVER: Use back entrance. Code is 1948.

The year Herbert Hoover died. Nerd.

I’m at the loft, safe behind double locks, yet my adrenaline still spikes. I pace, replaying Curly Creep’s every word. Hoover’s right… killers might be sniffing around. So what do I do? Retail therapy, obviously.

I flop onto the worn couch in the corner, open Amazon, and type “Ghostface mask high-quality” .

The Scream franchise is a comfort blanket.

Plus, Hoover deserves an upgrade from Dead President Chic.

I add a deluxe latex version to my cart—overnight shipping—and for good measure toss in a voice changer shaped like a vintage cassette.

A text flashes while I’m checking out:

HOOVER: Standing order: if odd strangers engage, disengage. Trust your read, Juno.

Warmth floods me despite the situation. This man—whoever he is—sees me. Really sees me. I thumb back:

Roger that, boss. PS: You allergic to horror classics? Asking for a friend.

Three dots. Then:

HOOVER: Horror is a lifestyle. Why?

I grin.

No reason.

Package confirmed, arrival tomorrow before 8 a.m. Perfect. If I’m going to chase corporate killers, I’m doing it with cinematic flair.

I set the phone down, sink into the couch, and press my face to the worn fabric. The day’s events catch up all at once—podcast hustle, graveside grief, halo-smiled stranger, protective masked vigilante. Tears seep hot and silent.

“I miss you,” I whisper into the empty space. “But I’m not alone. I’ve got help. Weird, rubber-faced help—but help.”

The emptiness doesn’t answer. Neither does the universe. But my phone lights again—Hoover:

HOOVER: ETA 20. Stay sharp.

I wipe my cheeks, shove determination back into place, and sit upright. Justice, like bills and jump-scares, doesn’t quit—and neither will I.