Page 25 of Make Them Bleed
Wind answers, rattling the cedars. My throat tightens. “Update, uh, I’m doing the thing. The reckless thing you’d lecture me about. I found help with some guy who wears a Herbert Hoover mask and calls himself Hoover.” I huff a laugh. “You’d ship us instantly, I know. But don’t. He’s…complicated.”
My eyes sting. “I won’t stop, Arby. Not until I can say your name without flinching. Promise.” I press two fingers to the carved A, the marble ice-cold under my skin.
Footsteps crunch behind me. My shoulders snap tight. I stand, turning.
A man—a few years older than me, maybe early thirties—loiters near the next row. Curly hair, five-o-clock shadow, HOLO-BURST energy-drink logo blaring across his charcoal T-shirt. He jogs closer, easy smile in place.
“Excuse me,” he says, voice smooth. “Do you have the time?”
We’re twenty feet from a bench with a city-installed smart pole broadcasting the exact hour in neon green. There’s an Apple Watch on his wrist. Creepy.
I glance at my phone. “Two-fifteen.”
He nods, gaze flicking to Arby’s headstone. “Tough day to be here.”
“Every day’s tough,” I reply, non-committal.
He stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets. “Visiting family?”
My grief flares defensive. “Yes.”
“Sorry for your loss.” He draws out the syllables like he’s savoring them, eyes scanning my face. “I come here sometimes too. Helps, you know?”
Something in his tone crawls down my spine. “Sure.”
We stand in charged silence. Crows squawk overhead. I edge a step back, fingers curling around my pepper-spray in my pocket.
The man tilts his head. “Have a nice day,” he says as he trots away.
I swallow hard. That shirt—HOLO-BURST. Elijah’s conspiracy darts through my mind.
I watch until Curly Creep exits the cemetery, then whip out my phone—reflex says text Arrow, but Arrow isn’t the one skulking alleys with me. Hoover is.
Weird guy at cemetery. Asked time. Wearing HOLO-BURST shirt. Could be nothing, but vibes = ick.
Three dots bubble, then Hoover’s reply pops:
HOOVER: Get somewhere public NOW. Message me when safe.
Heat prickles my scalp—equal parts fear and a ridiculous flutter that he’s protecting me. I clench the phone, scan the paths. Nobody else nearby.
On it.
I power-walk to the gate, heart rabbiting. The air smells of damp grass and stone dust, and every creak of branches sounds like footsteps.
Once I’m outside the wrought-iron fence, I suck in a deep breath. I duck into a florist across the street—windows fogged, lilies overpowering the room. The clerk barely looks up as I hover by a shelf of sympathy candles, texting Hoover.
Inside shop on Maple. Crowded. Still feel shaky.
HOOVER: Stay put. Send description of the man.
I type a quick rundown—height, hair, brand shirt, unsettling smile. His reply is immediate:
HOOVER: Possible tail. Do not return home alone. Meet me at the loft.
Okay. On my way.
HOOVER: Use back entrance. Code is 1948.
