Page 8 of Make Them Bleed (Pretty Deadly Things #1)

Juno

I stare at the blank page in my bullet-journal as if it owes me answers. Funny how I used to fill these dotted lines with sticker-cluttered to-do lists—Film unboxing! Edit reel! Remember to moisturize!—and now I can barely scribble past the first sentence:

Find the men who killed Arby.

Ink pools beneath the period like a bloodstain, and my stomach knots. I flip the journal shut just as my phone buzzes across the kitchen counter, rattling an abandoned teaspoon. Mom lights the screen.

Great timing, Universe. Way to toss me a guilt grenade.

“Hi, Mom,” I answer, sliding onto a barstool and forcing some sunshine into my voice.

The apartment is quiet except for the clack-whirr of the ceiling fan, yet I take the call on speaker so I can keep stuffing evidence—flash drives, printouts, a half-eaten protein bar—into the blue pocket folder I labeled OPERATION JUSTICE with glitter pen.

“Junebug, sweetheart, how are you?” Mom asks. Her North Carolina twang thickens whenever she’s worried, which lately is always. “You sound tired.”

“I’m fine, really.” Lie number one of the phone call, but it trips off my tongue like muscle memory. “Just writing.”

A pause. In the background I hear the distant barks of Bob’s geriatric beagle and the metallic clink of Mom’s knitting needles. “Honey, you know you can call me and Bob for anything, right? Groceries, doctor appointments…just to talk.”

I press my fingertips to the cool quartz countertop, grounding myself. “I know. And I appreciate it. I’m okay, Mom. Promise.”

She sighs—soft, resigned. “You sure you don’t want to come stay here in Fox Hollow for a few weeks? There’s plenty of room. Bob’ll make his famous peach cobbler.”

Peach cobbler. Arby’s favorite. Grief twists inside my ribs like a screwdriver, but I keep my tone breezy. “Tempting, but I need to stay in Saint Pierce for work stuff. Maybe next month?”

“Well…all right. But keep us posted, okay? If you need anything?—”

“I’ll call. Love you.”

“Love you too, Junebug.”

The line clicks dead. I set the phone down, exhale, and let the empty apartment settle around me.

White walls, curved floor lamp, succulent graveyard on the windowsill because I always forget to water them.

Everything here reminds me of Arby—her neon ring light boxed in the corner, the vintage mic stand we thrift-flipped for her Twitch streams, the half-painted mural of pastel clouds she splashed across the living-room wall before deciding neutral chic fit “the brand” better.

I touch one pink brushstroke with a reverence that hurts, then shake myself. Tonight matters now.

Inside my bedroom closet, I unearth the cross-body purse with the hidden slash-proof lining—one of Arby’s many influencer freebies.

I load it with pepper spray, my phone, and the OPERATION JUSTICE folder.

I’m tempted to slip Dad’s old revolver into the inner zipper, but common sense (and a freshly renewed CCW permit still lost somewhere in DMV limbo) nixes that idea.

A rideshare notification pulls me downstairs. The driver is a chatty retiree named Ruth who smells like lavender and thinks true crime podcasts are “too spooky.” I laugh in the right places, but my knee bounces the entire ten-minute trip downtown.

The coffee shop comes into view with string lights twinkling under the awning and a sandwich board that declares TODAY’S SPECIAL: HORCHATA COLD brEW + FREE SELF-LOATHING. Very on brand for The Bean Flicker.

I pay Ruth, tug my denim jacket tighter against the late-autumn bite, and step inside to order a decaf Americano.

The barista, Melody, hands me my decaf like it’s my lifeline, and I nurse the drink at a corner table, every sip making me more jittery, not less.

My gaze flicks to the back door—a narrow utility exit leading to the alley where smokers and cougars with Tinder dates come to hyperventilate.

Hoover said nine sharp. It’s nine-oh-eight. My heart trills like a bird trapped in my rib cage.

You’re sure about this? my brain whispers. Meeting a stranger again from the dark web in a dim alley?

Not a stranger , I argue back. An ally . And if he tries anything, pepper spray meets Adam’s apple.

My phone vibrates.

HOOVER: Outside. Alley.

I swallow, shove the folder under my arm, and stride through the café’s back hallway—ducking past a startled dishwasher—and push into the chill of the alley.

There he is: six feet of broad-shouldered mystery in dark jeans, a charcoal hoodie, and that ridiculous rubber Herbert Hoover mask. It gleams under the single flickering security light—jowly, smug, and slightly warped from heat guns or hellfire, who knows.

I stop four feet away, pulse a bass drum in my ears. “Herbert, right?” I joke.

“For tonight,” he answers, voice filtered through the cheap voice modulator that makes him sound like a bored Transformer.

I hold out the folder. “Everything I could find—Arby’s last sponsorship contracts, screenshots of threatening DMs, livestream timestamps.” My hands shake, so I jam them in my jacket pockets. “Now what?”

He accepts the folder, flipping through with gloved fingers. “Now I run these against a few databases, trace IP noise, look for patterns.”

He uses the same nerdy lingo Arrow uses. I bet these two would get along really well. I tilt my head. “Any patterns already?”

“Some chatter about a payout that hit the crypto markets the night she died,” he says. “Could be unrelated. Could be rent money for hired blades.”

Anger flares hot and bright. “I want names.”

“I get that.” He tucks the folder beneath his arm. “But you also need patience. Tracing these guys isn’t a quick TikTok hack, Juno.”

I cross my arms. “Patience is a luxury I don’t have.”

Something like humor softens his mechanical rasp. “You have caffeine and righteous fury. Those are assets too.”

Despite myself, my lips twitch. “Flattery, Hoover? Next you’ll call me feisty.”

He cocks his head, mask creaking. “You prefer tenacious?”

“I prefer results.”

He nods once. “Fair.”

A city bus wheezes past the alley mouth, headlights strobing over us. I shiver, more from nerves than cold.

“We need a real workspace,” I blurt. “Somewhere with walls and Wi-Fi and fewer rats.”

“I’m on that,” he says. “I’ll text a location once it’s secure, and I’ll bring coffee.”

“Herb, you poet,” I tease, and to my surprise he chuckles—a glitchy little sound behind the voice changer.

The streetlight sputters, plunging us into half-dark. He steps back into the deeper shadows, edges blurring. “Get home safe, Juno.”

“You too.” I hesitate. Thank you feels too fragile for the alley chill, so I let silence do the talking and slip toward the main street.

I grab another rideshare, this time with a driver who plays soft jazz and says nothing, which is either a blessing or confirmation I’ve used up my small talk karma for the week.

The city blurs—brownstones, neon noodle shops, the boarded theater where Arby once MC’d a local pageant.

I press a fist to my sternum, as if I can hold my heartbreak still long enough to breathe around it.

My phone buzzes again. Arrow.

Arrow: Netflix and chill was fun. You good tonight?

Guilt crashes over me in a wave so sudden I almost drop the phone. Arrow has been my anchor, my ride-or-die, my VHS-tape-of-The-Princess-Bride-on-repeat since fifth grade. And I’m lying to his face.

I stare at the blinking cursor in our chat and imagine him—tall frame folded over his gaming laptop, brows drawn in concern. If he knew I’d just passed classified intel to a masked stranger in a grimy alley, he’d lose what’s left of his chill.

But dragging Arrow into this mess could paint a bullseye on his back too. He deserves better than my spiraling vendetta.

I thumb a reply:

Exhausted but okay. Just getting ready for bed.

Another lie, but close enough to truth that my conscience only squirms instead of screams.

Three dots bubble. Then:

Arrow: Get some sleep, Queen of Crime. Breakfast tomorrow?

Warmth unfurls in my chest. Breakfast means he’ll bring bagels and that lavender-honey cream cheese he pretends to hate. Comfort cloaked in carbs.

Wouldn’t miss it. Night, Arrow.

I pocket the phone, lean my head against the window, and let the city lights smear like wet paint across the glass.

Somewhere out there, Five Monsters still breathe the same air as my sister once did.

Somewhere closer, a man in a Hoover mask sifts through data, stringing clues like fairy-lights toward them.

And me? I’m a girl balanced on the wire between justice and obsession—liar by necessity, sister by love, vigilante by sheer freaking force of will.

Sleep will be elusive, but determination is a fierce replacement.

By the time the driver turns onto my street, I have tomorrow’s to-do list drafted in my head: print fresh copies of the DM screenshots, email Etta Hoy, the podcast host who interviewed Arby last, scour ticket stubs from her final meet-and-greet for familiar names.

I tip the driver, climb the stairwell, unlock my apartment door, and pause in the threshold. The air smells faintly of Arby’s vanilla-amber diffuser, the one I can’t bring myself to shut off while I’m home. My muscles sag with exhaustion.

I text Hoover a single line:

Thank you for not letting me do this alone.

Three beats pass before the reply pings back:

HOOVER: You’re not alone. Not while I’m breathing.

I clutch the phone to my chest, exhale, and finally step inside.

Tomorrow, the hunt truly begins. Tonight, I tuck the journal under my pillow, whisper a promise to the silent ceiling, and let memories of my sister’s laugh propel me toward sleep—restless, righteous, and brimming with new, reckless hope.