Page 5 of Make Them Bleed (Pretty Deadly Things #1)

Arrow

The second Juno slips back into the Bean Flicker, I stay welded to the alley’s brick wall, waiting for my adrenaline to simmer down.

My lungs still churn like I ran a marathon, even though the only cardio I’ve managed tonight is anxiety.

But she’s alive. She’s safe. She has a partner—me, apparently—and that single fact steadies my pulse more than any breathing technique a therapist could sell.

I peer around the corner just in time to spot her through the café window.

She orders something and hugs the mug like it’s a thermal security blanket.

The tension in her shoulders loosens by degrees.

I watch every millimeter of those slackening muscles, counting it as proof I did the right thing by stepping into her vigilante job posting.

Still, spying on your best friend from an alley might rank as peak creep behavior.

Price of admission, Finn , I remind myself. I can’t protect her if I’m not willing to get my hands dirty.

Juno sips while scrolling on her phone. She’s trembling less now.

Eventually she exhales a breath that fogs the glass in front of her.

She gathers her bag and slips out the front door.

I melt deeper into the shadows until she hails a rideshare.

The sedan’s interior light flicks on when she climbs inside.

I memorize the license plate—an old habit from my true-crime-podcast addiction—and snap a quick photo with my burner phone.

The car rolls away, taillights glowing like wary eyes.

I jog to my bike chained nearby. Not the cool kind of bike—just a blue Schwinn hybrid I bought used.

I pedal at a leisurely distance, tracking the sedan’s progress through back streets.

Saint Pierce at midnight is quieter than you’d think for a city bleeding neon; only a handful of ride-hailed cars glide down the avenue, headlights carving pale tunnels.

The driver drops Juno a block from her apartment, exactly like the safety courses recommend.

She exits the vehicle, then marches the short stretch to her building, keys ready between knuckles like brass claws.

I hover beneath the awning of a closed bakery, my hood pulled up.

She scans the street—senses tingling; Juno’s always been intuitive—but doesn’t spot me in the gloom.

She slips inside, the security door clicking shut.

I let out a breath so sharp it whistles and lean my forehead against the bakery’s mural of a smiling cupcake. “She’s home. She’s okay.”

Relief is a warm flood over my chilled skin, but a tremor lurks beneath: now that I’ve committed to this charade, there’s no backing out. Whatever dark corners Juno wants to explore, I’ll be right there. Even if it means lying to her every step.

Thirty minutes later I’m wheeling my bike into my apartment foyer. Gage’s voice bellows from the living room long before I see him.

"Bro! You missed the final boss again—" He pauses mid-yell as I enter, kicking off my shoes. "Oh. You’re back. How’d your Hoover heist go?"

I hang my jacket on the over-burdened coat rack and toss the mask—now stuffed in a plain backpack—onto the sofa. "Long night." I run a hand through my damp hair, having sweated under the rubber monstrosity.

Gage mutes his game and swivels to face me, elbows on knees. "So? Juno buy it?"

"Yeah." I sink onto the opposite armchair with a groan. "She’s… determined doesn’t begin to cover it. If I hadn’t shown up, she’d probably be shaking down mobsters by sunrise."

Gage scrubs a hand over his face. "And you still think pulling this Batman-by-way-History-Channel act is safer than telling her the truth?"

"I think," I answer wearily, "that letting her wander into dark-web chats with real killers is a guaranteed disaster. At least with me she has a buffer." I tap my chest. "Bullet-sponge, guardian, whatever."

He watches me, eyes narrowing behind thick frames. "Gotta admit, part of me’s impressed. Part of me’s queasy."

"Story of my life," I murmur.

Gage stands and heads to the kitchen, returning with two canned iced coffees—our mutual vice. He tosses one, and I catch it mid-air.

"Look," he says, cracking his can, "I know I joke a lot, but I’m serious… if this goes sideways—like, really sideways—call me. Don’t pull some lone-wolf crap, okay?"

The sincerity in his voice punches a soft spot under my ribs. "You’d drop your controller for me? I’m honored."

He flips me off good-naturedly. "I mean it, Arrow. You need backup, I got you." He gestures toward the hallway. "You want me to read coded emails? Build spreadsheets? Hack a server? I know a guy who knows a guy."

I grin. "Your guy’s name is probably Reddit."

"Details," he says with a mock bow.

I pop the coffee tab and take a long swallow, the bitter sweetness jolting me awake. "Thanks, Gage. Really. Just having you on standby helps."

"Anytime." He drops back onto the couch, though the controller stays forgotten on the armrest. "So… you gonna tell me what the plan is?"

I exhale. "Tomorrow she’s bringing me everything—Arby’s schedules, screenshots of trolls, blocked followers. We’ll start sifting for patterns." I drum my fingers against the can. "I’ll have to set up a dropbox under the vigilante alias. Keep it separate from my real accounts."

Gage whistles low. "You’re going full spy."

"Yeah, well, step one: figure out how to be convincing as a hardened street avenger when I nearly hyperventilated using the voice modulator tonight."

He laughs, the sound easing my tension. "You’ll get there, Herbert."

A yawn ambushes me. The clock reads 1:47 a.m. My eyes feel like sandpaper. "I’m tapping out. Gonna do a quick system check, then crash."

"Night, lover boy," Gage calls as I shuffle down the hall.

My bedroom is half tech cave, half laundry graveyard.

I kick aside a stray hoodie, plop into my swivel chair, and wake my desktop.

Multiple monitors bloom to life—green code lines on black, email dashboards, a live city-camera feed of Saint Pierce intersections (public access, totally legal.

Well, mostly). Juno’s machine pings my network, the spyware sending its hourly sync.

I open the encrypted folder marked JK Monitoring —heart pounding with the guilt that never fully silences. The latest keystroke log scrolls: random BuzzFeed quiz, Amazon search for “therapeutic weighted blankets,” then one line that twists my stomach:

Journal Entry: “Meeting went well. More hopeful than I’ve felt in months.”

Hopeful. Because of me. My chest tightens—not unpleasantly, exactly, but not comfortable either. I’m relieved she feels lighter, yet every spark of hope she places in Hoover is another brick in the wall of lies I’m building.

I sift her incoming email queue. Mostly condolences that arrived weeks too late, brand deals that dried up but still spam her with sales codes.

One fresh alert from InfoBounty catches my eye—some tabloid site offering cash for “exclusive updates on the Kate murder mystery.” Scavengers.

I move the message to junk automatically.

Satisfied her inbox is clear of immediate threats, I open my own mail—mostly server alerts, freelance web-design gig invoices, and spam. So much spam.

I minimize windows, but sleep remains reluctant. My mind spirals through worst-case scenarios: The Five spotting Juno, cops tracing Hoover’s IP, Juno discovering the spyware. The biggest fear, though, is simpler—her looking at me with betrayal instead of trust.

I push back from the desk and pace between bookcase and bed, stepping over piles of comics. I force-march my thoughts into a mantra: Protect her first. Confess later.

Eventually exhaustion wins. I set phone alarms—one for sunrise recon of Juno’s building, one for the fake account drop.

I crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling fan, counting rotations.

Somewhere around the three-hundredth spin, I drift into shallow sleep populated by rubber Hoover masks and Juno’s scream turning into laughter I can’t quite reach.

The buzz of incoming mail snaps me awake at 4:06 a.m. I’m upright before consciousness fully returns, fingers flying across the keyboard. It’s nothing—just a social-media digest. But the adrenaline is pure rocket fuel. No going back to sleep now.

I open a blank notepad and start mapping tomorrow’s tasks:

Create a secure dropbox for Juno’s files.

Run facial-recognition on Arby’s final followers list vs. local arrest records.

Cross-reference the timestamp of masked intruders’ entry with city-grid power fluctuation data (someone cut cameras—maybe they hit power junctions?).

Buy a second, breathable mask.

Flowers for Juno—no, scratch that. Hoover wouldn’t send flowers.

Halfway through item five my phone vibrates.

Gage: U awake?

It’s followed by a bleary selfie with coffee. I chuckle and text back:

Insomnia posse never sleeps.

He thumbs-up reacts, then:

Gage: Seriously, anything I can do?

I hesitate, then type:

Know how to set up a shell corporation?

I follow it with a winking emoji.

Gage: (gif of Kermit flailing) Maybe ask me after caffeine.

I grin. Even at 4 a.m. I’m not alone.

That thought settles something inside me.

This operation may be built on lies, but the foundation—keeping Juno alive—is rock-solid truth.

And as I queue up a script to scrape police blotters for fresh leads, I promise myself again: I’ll walk through hell in a Herbert Hoover mask if that’s what it takes.

For now, hell can wait until daylight.