Page 43 of Make Them Bleed
Except he’s already broken me, hasn’t he? Broken me and reawakened me at the same time.
I sink deeper into the couch cushions, picking the purple pencil back up. The mandala’s symmetry is a lie—my world feels anything but balanced. I try to keep the lines steady, but my mind drifts to that latex mask, its blank, screaming face hiding Arrow’s familiar mouth beneath.
Arrow is Hoover.
The revelation churns in me, simultaneously shocking and comforting. Alarming, sure—because it means my best friend has spent weeks lying to me, sneaking around under my nose. But also comforting, because the way he touched me, that deliberate, careful way his thumb traced my jaw…that was Arrow.My Arrow.The only person I trust implicitly.
I blow out a shaky breath, setting the pencil down again. My fingertips brush my lips unconsciously, replaying the ghostly kiss we shared. The mere memory sends warmth flooding through me.
Arrow Finn. Nerdy, brilliant, quietly brave Arrow Finn. I think back over the years—late nights editing my podcast, Arrow showing up at midnight with snacks and that easy smile; me sobbing after a bad breakup, his patient voice on the other side of my locked door until I let him in; Arrow defending my horror obsession to my mom at Thanksgiving, insisting my podcast was actually “cultural commentary” while I kicked his shin under the table.
He’s always been there, stitching himself into my life so seamlessly I hardly noticed. Has he always felt this way?
My stomach twists. I’m falling—no, I’ve fallen. Hard. And it terrifies me almost as much as it thrills me.
I stare at my phone again, still silent, still stubbornly devoid of Arrow’s name. Fine. Let him play his game. I have my own move to make.
I glance at the clock. It’s time.
I slip off the couch, abandoning my mandala mid-shade, and grab my jacket and keys. Ten minutes later, I’m walking swiftly down Riverside, heart beating harder with every step closer to our war room.
Tonight’s meeting feels urgent—Ghost’s text had said nothing but “New intel, come quick,” and the tension crackling between us over the past few days heightens the stakes.
When I reach the loft, my nerves hum with anticipation. I pause outside the familiar door, steadying my breathing. With one last deep breath, I punch in1948and push inside.
The loft buzzes with quiet activity. Screens flicker with data, and familiar faces—hidden behind comical president masks—turn toward me as I enter. My lips twitch into a smirk despite myself.
Ghostface steps forward first, his tall, lean frame now unmistakably Arrow. He nods a greeting, the vocoder giving his voice an edgy rasp. “Final Girl, glad you made it.”
I arch a brow, letting my gaze linger on him longer than necessary. “Wouldn’t miss it, Ghost.”
Behind him, four other masked figures—Polk, Hayes, Arthur, and Fillmore—wait quietly. My curiosity ignites. These men—Arrow’s friends—must be Ozzy, Knight, Render, and Gage, though I have no idea who’s who.
“Mr. Presidents,” I say, greeting them with a small salute. “Nice to see you again.”
Polk gives a sarcastic salute, Fillmore chuckles under his breath, Arthur huffs lightly, and Hayes tilts his head curiously. I study them closely, trying to guess identities by posture or height, but it’s impossible. They’re good at this.
Ghostface clears his throat. “We got a lead that flips the script. HOLO-BURST isn’t behind your sister’s murder.”
My pulse quickens. “You’re sure?”
Hayes steps forward, his voice a modulated bass. “We intercepted internal emails this afternoon. Payments we tracked were related to a PR disaster—a settlement with a different creator. They’re dirty, but not murder-dirty.”
Fillmore nods, arms crossed. “They were scrambling about Arby’s death because it messed up their optics, not because they ordered a hit.”
I feel my throat tighten. My knees soften, and I grip the edge of the desk to stay upright. Weeks of certainty crumble under me. “Then…who?”
Ghostface’s masked face tilts gently. “We need to look closer. Think, Juno—was Arby seeing anyone?”
The room feels too warm. A memory swims upward through my grief-fogged mind. Arby’s voice, casual over a Sunday brunch at The Spoonery.There’s this guy—Nico. Met him at some launch party. Nothing serious.
I close my eyes, gathering myself. “Nico. She mentioned him briefly. But I never met him, never saw a picture.”
Ghostface nods once. “We’ve come across Nico in her public records. But, he’s got no socials. He’s a ghost—maybe literally.”
A chill snakes down my spine. “You think Nico killed her?”
“Or at least knows who did,” Polk says grimly with a shrug of possibility. “The way her murder was staged, it’s personal. Not corporate.”
