Page 46 of Make Them Bleed (Pretty Deadly Things #1)

Juno

Arrow’s left early to update Maddox on all the things, and I’m locking my door when the elevator dings and disgorges my mother’s perfume before it delivers my mother.

She floats down the hall in a camel coat and smile, and right behind her— oh god —is Bob, carrying a reusable shopping bag like a peace treaty.

“Baby!” Mom sing-songs, arms wide. “We were just in the neighborhood.”

On this side of town. On a Friday morning. With a bag. My face does the thing where it tries to be both daughter and detective. I choose daughter and hug her back, breathing in the powdery floral that has announced every good report card and bad breakup of my life.

Bob lingers, then steps in for a careful squeeze that lands more on my shoulders than my ribs. “Kiddo.” His voice has that smooth office warmth, the kind that could sell staplers to monks. “Got time for some shopping? We thought—” He hoists the bag. “—podcast upgrade. Microphones, doodads. On us.”

A normal daughter would melt. A normal daughter didn’t watch her stepfather at Club Greed last night with a woman who wasn’t her mother. Etta. I paste on a bright, adjustable smile. “Wow. You two on my side of town? Did Riverside get a Whole Foods since yesterday?”

Mom laughs. “We met Bob’s friend, Paul, for breakfast near the conservatory.” She pats my cheek, assessing. “You look pale. Eating? Sleeping?”

“Coloring,” I say, and she snorts because she knows that means barely .

They met with Paul. I quickly text Arrow as nonchalantly as possible.

Bob’s eyes do a quick inventory of my doorframe, the plant dying loyally on the entry table, the way I tighten my grip on the strap of my bag. He is good at this—being present without appearing to be taking notes. He looks rested.

“Gear shopping sounds perfect,” I lie. “I need a new boom arm. My old one squeaks on consonants.”

“See?” Bob says to my mom, relieved because now he has his purpose. “I told you. Consonants.”

We head downstairs. The air smells like wet pavement and coffee grounds.

Arrow has already texted me breathe / bagels?

/ later and I thumb back shopping with ‘rents / will report back with three emojis that mean do not panic / okay panic lightly .

He replies with a pepper and a key. I pocket my phone like a secret.

Bob drives. His sedan is too clean, the kind of clean that belongs to people who keep a lint roller in the glove compartment.

Mom puts the seat warmer on high and starts in on gentle mothering—have I paid my water bill, am I drinking water that isn’t coffee, am I wearing sunscreen in September?

I let her monologue because it means I can watch Bob in the rearview.

He checks mirrors, signals twice just to be safe, looks like a public service announcement for Good Decisions; the picture of a man who would never, could never , Not Bob.

I remember the way he touched Etta’s wrist last, familiar and proprietorial, and the part of my brain that saves tropes labels the moment: Men who keep receipts in their wallet and secrets in their calendar.

We park in front of Peak Audio, the boutique shop where things are out of my price range. Inside, everything is matte black and brushed steel, cables coiled like tame snakes. The wall of microphones looks like a sci-fi choir: dynamic, condenser, ribbon; big names and bigger price tags.

A clerk with a soft cardigan and sleeve tattoos materializes. “Welcome. Looking for podcast or music?”

“Podcast,” Mom says, proud, like she just announced I got into Yale. “My daughter does a show about—tell him?—”

“Scary movies,” I say. The clerk brightens in that I know exactly three horror films but want to be supportive way. He leads us to a display of dynamic mics. I reach for one on instinct.

“SM7B,” Bob reads off the little placard, like a man reciting wine notes. “Good for… plosives?”

“Exactly,” the clerk says, charmed. “Rejects room noise. More forgiving if your space isn’t treated.”

“Forgiving,” I echo, because the word hits somewhere dumb and tender.

While cardigan guy waxes poetic about shock mounts and pop filters, Mom drifts to the headphones wall and tries on three pairs like sunglasses. I let Bob stand beside me and pretend to weigh vibration dampeners while I build my script.

“So,” I say, lightly, “Mom says you two met with Paul near the conservatory.”

“Mm,” Bob says. “Donor breakfast. Lots of people. Boring, unless you enjoy bagels shaped like money.”

“Who else was there?” I keep my tone airy. I am nothing if not a breeze.

“Oh, you know,” he says, which is Bob for irrelevant peasants. “I talked to a utilities commissioner and a man with a mustache who runs everything.”

“Everything’s a lot,” I say.

He smiles. “Some men like the word.”

I lift a mic, testing the weight. “Did Arby ever talk about a guy named Nico?” There it is: casual, a pebble I toss to see how big the ripple is.

Bob scratches his jaw, fake-thinking. He does it when he’s buying time at work, when he’s pretending he remembers the name of a temp at the copier. “Nico… rings a bell. Influencer crowd is a blur. She kept names out of family dinner, mostly. Your mother’s no fun if she doesn’t like someone.”

Mom, who has returned with headphones that cost rent, inserts herself. “I don’t dislike —I have standards.” She squeezes my arm. “I told Arby if a man can’t set a table, he can’t sit at one.”

I laugh. Bob laughs. My stomach does a slow churn.

“What about now?” I ask, setting the mic down with care. “Any idea who she might’ve been seeing near the end? Blonde hair Arby. The last weeks.”

There’s a flicker—small, nothing, gone. Mom fills the silence, because that’s her job. “She mentioned a Nico once,” she says, surprised at her own memory. “But, sweetheart, you know your sister. She would say she loved a man and then switch hair colors and forget his last name.”

“Right,” I say, smiling like the cut didn’t land. “Classic Arby.”

Bob clears his throat. “Juno, your sister made friends everywhere. I don’t want you chasing ghosts.”

I don’t want you making time at Club Greed, I think, and the words taste like pennies. I keep my voice sweet. “Speaking of chasing—what did you two do last night?”

The clerk’s eyes light up. “We were open late,” he volunteers, oblivious. “If you ever need?—”

“Thank you,” I say, and aim my question more directly. “Mom?”

She tilts her head, considers. “Last night? I was in bed early. My skincare says sleep is the most important serum.”

I look at Bob. He sips his water from the store’s little paper cup like he’s auditioning for an ad. “I had a meeting that ran late,” he says without blinking. “Committee thing. At Stonehouse.”

There it is, the clean lie laid on a linen napkin. He doesn’t flinch. I don’t either.

“Fun?” I ask, because I’m a menace.

“Nothing about Stonehouse is fun,” he says, and I almost bark a laugh, because that’s exactly how a man would describe a very fun night he wants to call a meeting.

Cardigan returns with a boom arm demo and bless him, he is earnest. I let him show me how it doesn’t squeak, and I nod solemnly as if I care this much about shock absorption because right now I do. Mom oohs at the little felt pads. Bob taps the edge of the counter obviously bored.

“Let us get it,” Mom says when the clerk totals the pile (arm, mount, pop filter, braided cable that costs like a brunch). “Please. I know we only said one boom arm, but let us get you all of it. I know you hate when we do, but let us.”

I should say no. I should refuse. I should hold out for some medium of ethics that makes me feel less like I’m laundering guilt money through retail therapy.

Instead I let her hand over Bob’s card because it makes her happy to be a mother who buys protection against plosives, and because I’m tired of paying for everything with my own blood.

Outside, the day is brighter than it has any right to be. We load the bag into Bob’s trunk. Mom tucks my hair behind my ear like I’m seven. “Dinner Sunday?” she asks. “Roast chicken? Or tofu. We can be modern.”

“Sunday,” I agree, because I want to see her again, and because I want to see if Bob mentions Stonehouse or any other house by name.

He closes the trunk and looks at me for a long second like he’s trying to align a photo in a frame. “You doing okay?” he asks. It’s not nothing. It also isn’t everything.

“I’m working,” I say. “I’m recording.” I don’t add I’m hunting the men you may or may not know, because we are playing the long game and I refuse to win it by shouting in a parking lot.

On the drive back, Mom hums along to the radio and Bob tells a story about a vendor who thought procurement was a synonym for magic.

I throw one more pebble. “You ever hear the term check used like a joke?” I ask, watching him in the mirror.

“Like—finger guns at a fundraiser. Men who think they’re clever. ”

He blinks, annoyed at the image. “Grown men doing finger guns need hobbies,” he says, and for the first time today I believe him. He might be lying about rooms. He isn’t lying about taste.

We pull up to my building. Bob puts the car in park. Mom twists to kiss my cheek and reassure me I look, quote, “alive enough.” Bob clears his throat. “We’ll get out of your hair.”

“Thanks for the gear,” I say, earnest slipping out. “Really. It helps.”

He ducks his head, pleased. He likes to be useful; it’s his favorite flavor of absolution. “Anything for my girl,” he says, which is a sentence I used to love without footnotes. Now I want it notarized.

They wave. They drive off. I stand on the curb with my bag of microphone guts and my brain buzzing like a live wire. The second they’re out of sight I text Arrow:

Me: I asked about last night. Mom says bed early. Bob says late meeting at Stonehouse. Subtle Nico mention—Mom remembers the name. Bob gives blur.

Me: He lies neat. Not sloppy.

He replies before my phone can settle.

Arrow: Sloppy men make mistakes.

Arrow: Good pulls. I’ll see if Stonehouse receipts match anything.

A long beat passes, then…

Arrow: You okay?

I stare at my reflection in the dark phone screen, hair a mess, mouth a line. The right answer is no. The useful answer is I’m upright.

Coloring later. Recording a mini. Meet me at 6 to wire the arm?

Arrow: I’ll bring pizza and a screwdriver.

Arrow: Proud of you for not flipping a table.

I can flip a table later if needed.

Arrow: I know. That’s why I’m bringing a screwdriver and not bail.

I smile despite the knot in my chest and head upstairs. The apartment smells like lemon cleaner and new beginnings in cardboard boxes. I unpack the arm and the mount with surgical care, laying things out on the coffee table like a ritual. Ready for installation.

I sit, mic in front of me, and press my palms flat to the desk.

The wall hums, the names stare. Merritt’s line has already faded a shade in my mind, and I hate myself for that and forgive myself in the same breath because I have to keep moving.

Someone wrote a check. Someone signed with clean hands.

The Five were hired, or nudged, or given cover. Sloppy men are good at cover.

I hit record and talk—not names, not Club Greed, not Stonehouse—just a voice in a room, telling the story of a city where men make jokes with their fingers and think no one will notice the echo. I end with, “Some of us are listening now,” and let the mic go quiet.

When it’s done, I text my mother: Sunday works. I’ll bring a pie. Then I stand in the doorway and look at my apartment like it’s a stage where something true might happen tonight.

I don’t know yet if Bob is a lever or a confession. I do know this… he’s lying about last night, and I am done pretending not to notice. If he’s an edge, I’ll hold it. If he’s a thread, I’ll pull until something unravels that looks like an answer—or a noose.