Page 113 of Make Them Bleed
She taps the map. “Devereaux shadow-mapped for you, didn’t he? He and I sleep fine because we never mix business and family. But I will take this,” she says, slipping the anonymized cluster into a folder. “And I will ask a judge for a warrant that gets me the names you didn’t bring.”
“Thank you,” Arrow says.
Chloe leans back, studying both of us. “You have a talent for finding fires,” she says to me. “I do not say that as a compliment. Stay out of living rooms.” Her mouth ticks, humor as dry as a police report. “And for the record… I tell my spouse everything. You will not get Devereaux to betray a house rule. He will, however, protect his house from wolves.”
“Good,” I say, and mean it in a way that surprises me.
When we leave, Arrow squeezes my hand and doesn’t let go until we hit the parking lot. The sun is out in that autumn way that looks like sincerity and feels like a joke.
“Plan,” I say. “What’s next?”
He exhales. “Two fronts. Devereaux is pulling Marina cross-refs; Gage’s chasing Etta Hoy through LLC hay bales. Knight and Render will sit on Gray’s conservatory dinner. Ozzy will charm a Stonehouse bartender into telling us who drank what on Wednesday.”
“And me?” I ask. “Because I can’t just color all day.”
“You,” he says, choosing each word like it’s a piece of evidence, “are going to record a short. Something smart, not self-incriminating. You’re going to eat. You’re going to nap if your body lets you. Tonight we watch the conservatory and we do not start fights we can’t finish in daylight.”
I give him a look. “I’m not a toddler.”
“You also aren’t bulletproof,” he says. “I need you breathing.”
It’s not a romantic line, but feels like one anyway.
He drops me at my building with a kiss to my temple that feels like a signature and heads off to Maddox to print out paperwork. I ride the elevator up, unlock the door, and let the quiet rush me the way the ocean does when you insist on standing in the shallows.
I hit record.
The episode is a scalpel, not a scream. I talk about money disguising itself as philanthropy and sponsorships that arrive as“opportunities” and leave as knots. I don’t say Devin’s name. I don’t sayknifeorbloodorI will never not feel his weight in the air as he fell.I say, “When a brand asks you to bid against your friend, that is not a game. That is a test to see if you’ll bleed for them.” I end with, “Some of us learned to stop auditioning.” My voice doesn’t break. After, my hands do.
I make eggs. I do a page in my mandala book that looks like a bruise that went to prom. I change my hoodie. I stand at the window and watch Saint Pierce pretend it isn’t full of princes and parasites.
At 2:18 p.m., a text comes through.
Mom: On your side of town again! Thinking of grabbing a new lamp at the vintage place on Alder. Need anything?
My stomach does a ridiculous acrobat routine.
I’m home today. Love you.
Mom: Love you more. Call me tonight?
I put the phone down and breathe. A minute later, it buzzes again.
Etta: Juno. I believe we can help each other. If you’d like to meet somewhere neutral—public—I’m at Bower & Bloom on Hazel for the next hour.
My mouth goes dry.
“Arrow,” I say out loud, and reach for my phone to forward the message.
I stop.
Etta set up the pass-throughs. Etta might be the pen. If I ask Arrow, he will saywe go together.If I ask Chloe, she will sayrecord the call, don’t go at all.If I hesitate, Etta will float back into the polite dark where money likes to live.
I am so tired of asking permission to walk into rooms I know how to live in.
I text the group thread because I am not completely reckless:
Etta Hoy at Bower & Bloom. One hour. Public. I’m going to talk.
