Page 20 of Make Them Bleed (Pretty Deadly Things #1)

Juno

Mandala coloring books are my new therapy. I never thought repetitive patterns and cheap colored pencils could ease my anxiety better than prescription meds, but here I am, sprawled on my sofa, purple pencil in hand, lost in the hypnotic spirals of page thirty-two.

Outside my window, Saint Pierce is gray and damp, the streets slick from an earlier drizzle.

My apartment hums with silence, the ticking of the old wall clock my only company.

I shade carefully inside the lines, filling one petal after another, each stroke a little prayer of patience, waiting for my phone to buzz with a text notification.

It’s been two days since I’ve heard from Arrow. I’ve heard from Hoover, but not Arrow as Arrow.

The absence gnaws at me, worse than I imagined. The empty spot where our morning ritual used to be feels raw. I set my pencil down, hesitating only a second before grabbing my phone. I bite my lip, thumbs tapping out a message before I can overthink it:

Hey stranger, wanna chill tomorrow? Coffee’s on me.

I watch the screen, irrationally hoping for the tiny bubbles of his reply. Nothing. Not even a “read” confirmation.

Frustration knots my chest. I’m torn between wanting to march straight to his apartment to shake answers from him and wanting to curl up in a stubborn ball and ignore his existence until he breaks first.

Except he’s already broken me, hasn’t he? Broken me and reawakened me at the same time.

I sink deeper into the couch cushions, picking the purple pencil back up. The mandala’s symmetry is a lie—my world feels anything but balanced. I try to keep the lines steady, but my mind drifts to that latex mask, its blank, screaming face hiding Arrow’s familiar mouth beneath.

Arrow is Hoover.

The revelation churns in me, simultaneously shocking and comforting.

Alarming, sure—because it means my best friend has spent weeks lying to me, sneaking around under my nose.

But also comforting, because the way he touched me, that deliberate, careful way his thumb traced my jaw…

that was Arrow. My Arrow. The only person I trust implicitly.

I blow out a shaky breath, setting the pencil down again. My fingertips brush my lips unconsciously, replaying the ghostly kiss we shared. The mere memory sends warmth flooding through me.

Arrow Finn. Nerdy, brilliant, quietly brave Arrow Finn.

I think back over the years—late nights editing my podcast, Arrow showing up at midnight with snacks and that easy smile; me sobbing after a bad breakup, his patient voice on the other side of my locked door until I let him in; Arrow defending my horror obsession to my mom at Thanksgiving, insisting my podcast was actually “cultural commentary” while I kicked his shin under the table.

He’s always been there, stitching himself into my life so seamlessly I hardly noticed. Has he always felt this way?

My stomach twists. I’m falling—no, I’ve fallen. Hard. And it terrifies me almost as much as it thrills me.

I stare at my phone again, still silent, still stubbornly devoid of Arrow’s name. Fine. Let him play his game. I have my own move to make.

I glance at the clock. It’s time.

I slip off the couch, abandoning my mandala mid-shade, and grab my jacket and keys. Ten minutes later, I’m walking swiftly down Riverside, heart beating harder with every step closer to our war room.

Tonight’s meeting feels urgent—Ghost’s text had said nothing but “New intel, come quick,” and the tension crackling between us over the past few days heightens the stakes.

When I reach the loft, my nerves hum with anticipation. I pause outside the familiar door, steadying my breathing. With one last deep breath, I punch in 1948 and push inside.

The loft buzzes with quiet activity. Screens flicker with data, and familiar faces—hidden behind comical president masks—turn toward me as I enter. My lips twitch into a smirk despite myself.

Ghostface steps forward first, his tall, lean frame now unmistakably Arrow. He nods a greeting, the vocoder giving his voice an edgy rasp. “Final Girl, glad you made it.”

I arch a brow, letting my gaze linger on him longer than necessary. “Wouldn’t miss it, Ghost.”

Behind him, four other masked figures—Polk, Hayes, Arthur, and Fillmore—wait quietly. My curiosity ignites. These men—Arrow’s friends—must be Ozzy, Knight, Render, and Gage, though I have no idea who’s who.

“Mr. Presidents,” I say, greeting them with a small salute. “Nice to see you again.”

Polk gives a sarcastic salute, Fillmore chuckles under his breath, Arthur huffs lightly, and Hayes tilts his head curiously. I study them closely, trying to guess identities by posture or height, but it’s impossible. They’re good at this.

Ghostface clears his throat. “We got a lead that flips the script. HOLO-BURST isn’t behind your sister’s murder.”

My pulse quickens. “You’re sure?”

Hayes steps forward, his voice a modulated bass. “We intercepted internal emails this afternoon. Payments we tracked were related to a PR disaster—a settlement with a different creator. They’re dirty, but not murder-dirty.”

Fillmore nods, arms crossed. “They were scrambling about Arby’s death because it messed up their optics, not because they ordered a hit.”

I feel my throat tighten. My knees soften, and I grip the edge of the desk to stay upright. Weeks of certainty crumble under me. “Then…who?”

Ghostface’s masked face tilts gently. “We need to look closer. Think, Juno—was Arby seeing anyone?”

The room feels too warm. A memory swims upward through my grief-fogged mind. Arby’s voice, casual over a Sunday brunch at The Spoonery. There’s this guy—Nico. Met him at some launch party. Nothing serious.

I close my eyes, gathering myself. “Nico. She mentioned him briefly. But I never met him, never saw a picture.”

Ghostface nods once. “We’ve come across Nico in her public records. But, he’s got no socials. He’s a ghost—maybe literally.”

A chill snakes down my spine. “You think Nico killed her?”

“Or at least knows who did,” Polk says grimly with a shrug of possibility. “The way her murder was staged, it’s personal. Not corporate.”

My heart sinks. Personal. The betrayal feels deeper, crueler. “How do we find a ghost?”

Fillmore leans forward, his tone eager. “We’ve been working her private Instagram. There are archived stories we’ve scraped—mentions of ‘Nico’ tagged to a private account. We’re still pulling details.”

Render—Fillmore, I realize suddenly—steps closer, his voice cool and confident through the mask. “We’re running a trace on Nico’s burner account, cross-referencing with location data from her final posts. We’ll know soon.”

I inhale shakily. “Good. Thank you—all of you.” I glance around at their unreadable presidential faces. “For helping me.”

They each nod, quietly respectful. The depth of their loyalty strikes me deeply. Arrow’s friends, loyal to him not me, yet they’re here, risking everything for justice. For Arby.

Ghostface gently touches my elbow. “We’re close. I promise. But we need more from you—anything she said about him. Anything at all.”

I frown, trying to force clarity through my grief. “She said he was older, charming. Said he traveled a lot. No details, just…she liked how mysterious he was.”

Ghostface squeezes my elbow once, lightly, reassuringly. The touch grounds me instantly, because it’s Arrow. It’s always been Arrow. The thought nearly brings me to tears, and I have no idea why.

“Older, travels often, mysterious,” he murmurs. “Narrows the field.”

He releases me gently, stepping away to type rapidly into a nearby laptop. My skin still tingles from his contact. A small, private smile sneaks onto my lips.

The others disperse around the loft, quietly diving back into data-mining, letting me breathe. I watch Ghostface—Arrow—as he types furiously. His focus is absolute. He’s here, masked and mysterious, because he’s always protected me. Always.

I take a slow, deliberate breath. Arrow Finn is the ghost behind the mask. He’s lied, sure. But he’s also risked his life for mine, his heart for my justice. He’s both the safest and most dangerous man I know. And I’m falling in love with him faster than I can handle.

Slowly, I cross the room, standing behind him. He pauses, sensing me close. “Final Girl?”

I touch his shoulder lightly. He tenses, fingers freezing mid-keystroke.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, concern cutting through the distortion of the modulator.

“Better,” I whisper. “Because you’re here.”

His shoulders soften slightly. “Always.”

Such an Arrow answer.

I let my fingertips linger, then draw back slowly. He returns to his typing, but I can feel the electric tension between us. It crackles with anticipation, with promises still unspoken.

Soon, very soon, I’m going to rip off that mask. But for tonight, I let it stay. I let Arrow keep his secrets, because I trust he has reasons.

I retreat, taking a seat nearby, quietly watching Arrow—my Ghost—as he chases leads. My eyes flicker to the others, wondering who’s Ozzy, who’s Gage, who’s Knight. Friends who’ve stepped into danger for me, no questions asked. Friends who hide behind masks because the world is full of shadows.

Tomorrow, I’ll get answers. Tomorrow, I’ll unmask them all.

But tonight, I sit back, pick up a stray pencil from the desk, and let the quiet murmurs of masked friends working around me become my new mandala.

Wait.

How the fuck did Arrow do this? How did he know I even hired someone to be able to impersonate him?

OMFG.