Page 44 of Make Them Bleed
My heart sinks. Personal. The betrayal feels deeper, crueler. “How do we find a ghost?”
Fillmore leans forward, his tone eager. “We’ve been working her private Instagram. There are archived stories we’ve scraped—mentions of ‘Nico’ tagged to a private account. We’re still pulling details.”
Render—Fillmore, I realize suddenly—steps closer, his voice cool and confident through the mask. “We’re running a trace on Nico’s burner account, cross-referencing with location data from her final posts. We’ll know soon.”
I inhale shakily. “Good. Thank you—all of you.” I glance around at their unreadable presidential faces. “For helping me.”
They each nod, quietly respectful. The depth of their loyalty strikes me deeply. Arrow’s friends, loyal to him not me, yet they’re here, risking everything for justice. For Arby.
Ghostface gently touches my elbow. “We’re close. I promise. But we need more from you—anything she said about him. Anything at all.”
I frown, trying to force clarity through my grief. “She said he was older, charming. Said he traveled a lot. No details, just…she liked how mysterious he was.”
Ghostface squeezes my elbow once, lightly, reassuringly. The touch grounds me instantly, because it’s Arrow. It’s always been Arrow. The thought nearly brings me to tears, and I have no idea why.
“Older, travels often, mysterious,” he murmurs. “Narrows the field.”
He releases me gently, stepping away to type rapidly into a nearby laptop. My skin still tingles from his contact. A small, private smile sneaks onto my lips.
The others disperse around the loft, quietly diving back into data-mining, letting me breathe. I watch Ghostface—Arrow—as he types furiously. His focus is absolute. He’s here, masked and mysterious, because he’s always protected me. Always.
I take a slow, deliberate breath. Arrow Finn is the ghost behind the mask. He’s lied, sure. But he’s also risked his life for mine, his heart for my justice. He’s both the safest and most dangerousman I know. And I’m falling in love with him faster than I can handle.
Slowly, I cross the room, standing behind him. He pauses, sensing me close. “Final Girl?”
I touch his shoulder lightly. He tenses, fingers freezing mid-keystroke.
“You okay?” he asks quietly, concern cutting through the distortion of the modulator.
“Better,” I whisper. “Because you’re here.”
His shoulders soften slightly. “Always.”
Such an Arrow answer.
I let my fingertips linger, then draw back slowly. He returns to his typing, but I can feel the electric tension between us. It crackles with anticipation, with promises still unspoken.
Soon, very soon, I’m going to rip off that mask. But for tonight, I let it stay. I let Arrow keep his secrets, because I trust he has reasons.
I retreat, taking a seat nearby, quietly watching Arrow—my Ghost—as he chases leads. My eyes flicker to the others, wondering who’s Ozzy, who’s Gage, who’s Knight. Friends who’ve stepped into danger for me, no questions asked. Friends who hide behind masks because the world is full of shadows.
Tomorrow, I’ll get answers. Tomorrow, I’ll unmask them all.
But tonight, I sit back, pick up a stray pencil from the desk, and let the quiet murmurs of masked friends working around me become my new mandala.
Wait.
How the fuck did Arrow do this? How did he know I even hired someone to be able to impersonate him?
OMFG.
18
Arrow
The moment the outer door slams behind Knight, the loft exhales into silence. Without the whirr of three extra laptops and five sets of footsteps, the space feels too big, too echo-ey, like a cathedral long after mass has ended. Fluorescent strips buzz overhead, blinking against the concrete, while street-lamp glow slithers through the high windows and paints the floor in sodium rectangles.
I set the last empty coffee cup on the side table, waiting for its clack to stop echoing. Then I realize it isn’t the cup making my pulse throb in my ears—it’s Juno. She’s still here, across the room, and something in the set of her shoulders tells me we’re not done.
