Page 2 of Make Them Bleed (Pretty Deadly Things #1)

Juno

THREE MONTHS LATER

The problem with hunting down murderers on the dark web is that it seriously interferes with my sleep schedule.

And worse, my skincare routine. I stare into the mirror, scrutinizing the deep purple crescents beneath my eyes.

They're dark enough to have their own gravitational pull at this point.

"Juno Kate, influencer extraordinaire," I mumble bitterly.

I used to say it proudly, snapping selfies and posting boomerangs of mimosas and avocado toast. Now, saying it feels hollow, even cruel.

Ever since Arby was brutally murdered on her livestream, my life feels like a blurred after-image, stuck in perpetual darkness.

It's not just losing Arby—it's losing everything I knew about myself. Followers tripled overnight. New brands offered deals. My inbox exploded with condolences and emails looking for answers. It’s as if the whole world wants an explanation and I’ve got nothing. I rarely even go online anymore.

"Former influencer," I correct myself, squeezing out a pathetic dollop of overpriced eye cream. The bottle promises miracles, claiming it will erase "years of trauma and sleepless nights." At this point, I'd settle for a few hours without reliving that horrific livestream.

My chest tightens sharply at the memory. It’s vivid, replaying in high-definition whenever I close my eyes—the five masked figures bursting into Arby's frame, the chaos, her terrified screams. I shake my head violently, willing the images away.

Just as I'm halfway through applying the miracle cream, a loud knock startles me, making me smear the stuff down my cheek. My pulse spikes.

"Juno?"

Relief floods through me, instantly calming the panic. Arrow. Of course. My best friend since elementary school, the boy who shared my crayons and later my secrets. Arrow Finn, the living embodiment of stability in my unraveling world.

"Coming!" I shout, quickly wiping my face clean.

"You promised you wouldn't dive back into conspiracy theories," he calls through the door. He sounds genuinely concerned, which twists my stomach even tighter with guilt.

Taking a deep breath, I plaster on a brave face and open the door. "Hey, Arrow. Missed me?"

He raises an eyebrow, immediately zeroing in on the smudge of cream I missed. "Were you trying some abstract makeup look, or...?"

"Hilarious," I mutter, dabbing at my cheek again. "It's supposed to fix trauma."

He steps inside, his familiar presence comforting yet oddly vulnerable. "Any luck so far?"

"Still traumatized," I joke weakly.

Arrow follows me into my living room, and I cringe inwardly as his eyes sweep over the chaos—papers sprawled across tables, empty mugs stacked precariously, a massive corkboard covered in tangled strings, notes, and the grim, masked faces of Arby's killers. He pauses, jaw tightening slightly.

"You've really leaned into the detective aesthetic," he comments dryly, though I hear the underlying worry in his tone.

"It's organized chaos," I protest softly, sinking onto the worn sofa.

Arrow picks up a mug, inspecting the thick coffee residue inside with obvious distaste. "You know coffee isn't a sustainable diet, right?"

"Detective work isn't glamorous," I retort, irritation masking my embarrassment. "Besides, caffeine keeps me functional."

He sighs, setting the mug aside carefully. "Juno, maybe it's time you let the police handle this."

"The police?" My laughter borders on hysterical. "They’ve got nothing to go on."

He studies me, his expression softening. "And you think you do?"

I swallow thickly, unable to meet his concerned gaze. "It's all I've got left."

Arrow moves closer, gently placing his hands on my shoulders. The warmth and steadiness of his touch almost undoes me. "You're not alone, Junebug. You never were."

I want to lean into him, to admit how exhausted I am from carrying this weight alone, but the darkness I've waded into feels contagious. Arrow doesn't deserve this burden. He's always been my safe place, my dependable, slightly nerdy counterpart. Dragging him down isn't an option.

Instead, I summon a shaky smile. "Okay, fine. You can help, and order a pizza."

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. "You're impossible."

"Extra cheese," I call out as he retreats to the kitchen to place the order.

The moment he's out of sight, I open my laptop. My screen illuminates instantly, revealing the dark web forum I've been frequenting. Tonight, an anonymous vigilante expert has agreed to meet me to discuss tracking down Arby's murderers.

The sound of Arrow's footsteps jolts me back, and I snap the laptop closed guiltily.

"What were you doing?" he asks suspiciously, setting the laptop aside gently. His brown eyes search mine carefully. "Juno?"

My heart thuds heavily. I've never been able to lie convincingly to Arrow, but the alternative—admitting the lengths I've gone—is unbearable. "Nothing," I say quietly, my voice thick with deception.

We lapse into silence when the pizza arrives, the familiar aroma breaking some tension. We eat quietly, Netflix playing softly in the background, an old favorite series that we both know by heart.

"Seen this one already," I tease gently.

Arrow shrugs. "Familiarity is comforting."

Comforting. That's Arrow in a nutshell. He's steady ground beneath my crumbling feet, and recently I've found myself noticing him differently. The easy, boyish smile, the warmth in his eyes when he laughs. But it feels wrong to even think about romance while Arby's killers still walk free.

Arrow catches me staring, tilting his head curiously. "Something on my face, Junebug?"

Heat creeps up my neck, and I quickly look away. "Just pity," I joke weakly.

He grins, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil inside me. "I'll take it."

As we settle deeper into the couch, an unsettling calm descends. It's as though, for just a moment, the ugliness of reality is held at bay. Arrow's presence has always made the unbearable feel slightly manageable.

"Thanks," I whisper.

"For what?" His voice is soft, genuine confusion flickering in his gaze.

"For always being here. I don't say it enough."

Arrow smiles, eyes glinting. "Always, Junebug."

Later, after he leaves, the emptiness returns instantly, swallowing me whole. I open my laptop again, pulse racing as I see a new message from my mysterious contact:

"Ready to catch your sister's killers? Meet me tonight at midnight."

My breath catches. This is dangerous. Reckless. But my desperation outweighs any caution. "I'll be there," I reply quickly.

Glancing at Arrow's empty spot beside me, guilt stings my throat.

If he knew what I'm planning, he'd stop me.

Maybe I secretly hope he will. But I can't let Arby's death remain unavenged.

The ache of her absence is unbearable; it shadows every waking moment.

I owe it to her to find closure, even if it costs me everything.

With shaky resolve, I close my laptop. Tomorrow, everything might change. Tonight, though, the familiar loneliness is all I have.