Page 14 of Make Them Bleed
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 muralof 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 declaresTODAY’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.”
