Page 43 of Make Them Bleed (Pretty Deadly Things #1)

“I keep thinking,” I say into his shirt, which smells like driftwood and good decisions, “that someone wrote a check. For them. For Arby.”

“Yeah,” he says into my hair. “And we’re going to find them.”

“And make them bleed,” I add.

“And that,” he says.

I pull back, wipe under my eyes with the flat of my finger, and try on a smile that doesn’t fit yet but might later. “Help me write the script?”

He sits cross-legged on the floor like a camp counselor and I fold down across from him, our knees almost touching, the coffee table between us a makeshift desk.

We write. My podcast. Ozzy chimes in from a thread with a line about the way certain men do finger guns when they think they’re clever.

Gage drops in a sentence shaped like a dagger that is somehow legally neutral.

Render suggests I say I see you without saying I see you.

We build a ten-minute episode that tastes like thunder and restraint and posts at six with a title that isn’t clickbait but might as well be— “Funerals With Better Lighting” —and a description that has just enough italics to make narcissists think the italics are about them.

I record at my kitchen table, mic propped on a stack of books like a makeshift pulpit.

I keep my voice low and even and let my breath do the work.

I tell a story about rooms with rules and rooms without them.

About masks and no masks; about how predators use the word bright when they mean small.

I don’t say Club Greed. I don’t say Stonehouse.

I say, “If you nicknamed your jokes checks , consider this me cashing one.” I say, “I’m closer than I sound.

” I say, “We are not the ones who should be afraid.”

I hit publish. The little blue progress bar crawls, and my heartbeat does too. Then it’s done. It’s out there, slotted between my episode about cursed VHS tapes and my episode about haunted basements.

“I hate this part,” I say, staring at the analytics that mean nothing and everything. “The waiting.”

“We don’t wait in here,” Arrow says. “We wait in motion.”

He texts Devereaux Huxley:

Arrow: Conversation? Not as cops. As people who respect your house.

Devereaux replies ten seconds later with a time— 8:15 —and an emoji that looks like a sphinx telling a joke you’re missing.

Gage slides Stonehouse 9:00 into the calendar like he’s dealing a good card.

Render sends a selfie of the inside of his jacket and I try not to laugh and fail, which is good, because laughing makes the room feel less like it will turn into the worst room of my life again.

At 6:10, my episode catches a little fire. Comments. DMs. An email from someone with a subject line that just says brave and I don’t know if they mean it or they’re trying to get me to open a link. Ozzy filters, like a bouncer for data.

Gage texts: Gray watched. Three minutes. Scrolled. Stopped on the line about ‘checks.’

“Good,” I say, even though my hands are shaking.

At 7:02, I change into a red dress that thinks it’s armor and the boots that make me taller and scarier than I feel. Arrow ties his shoes like he’s about to outrun something. He looks at me like I’m a small city he knows the map to and still wants to get lost in.

“What color band should we do tonight?” I ask him.

“Red?” he asks gently.

“Yes, red,” I say.

“Good plan,” he says.

We walk to the door. I check the knob twice, then a third time because Bob’s voice in my head is alive and well and I am my mother’s daughter in some ways that infuriate me and keep me alive. The Ring camera’s on. The hall is ordinary. The elevator is slow. The city outside is not.

Knight is there to pick us up, our getaway driver in case it’s needed.

In the car, Arrow reaches across the backseat and finds my hand.

He doesn’t lace our fingers. Instead, he rests his hand on mine.

The distinction matters. We drive past the store that sells locally sourced ice and Instagram regrets.

We pass the mural with the magenta fish.

We pass the alley where Gage once tried to adopt a raccoon and I had to explain rabies politely.

“Club Greed,” I say, as the neon swoop of the G appears in the corner of my vision like a stepmother with money.

“Hopefully Devereaux can help.”

“If I see Coleman, I will be okay,” I promise, and he squeezes my hand once like a seal on a document.

“And after?” he asks, like he knows my brain has already moved three moves ahead.

“Stonehouse,” I say. “Peacocks. Mirrors. A drink we don’t drink. And then, we make a list of who flinched when.”

“And then,” he says, “we sleep.”

“Lie,” I say with a smile.

“Yeah,” he admits.

Knight parks. We step out. The night is a sharp inhale. Club Greed’s foyer smells like bergamot and quiet power. Adele is on the rope with cheekbones and a smile that warns and welcomes in equal measure.

“Back again,” she says. “Yellow?”

“Red,” I say, holding up my wrist.

“And a chat with Mr. Huxley,” Arrow adds.

Adele’s eyes flick to the little sphinx emoji in Arrow’s text and back. “He’s expecting you. Pride, corner seat.”

I don’t plan to fight. I do plan to watch. I do plan to listen. I do plan to peel back whatever quiet the Five (well, now the Four) have wrapped themselves in and find the shape of the person who wrote the check.

The room opens. The mirrors know how to lie and tell the truth at once. Pride hums. My pulse hums. Arrow’s hand at my back is a line on a map that says you are here.

I am. And if the Four are radio silent, we’ll be the static that makes them adjust their dial and, in doing so, finally make a mistake.