Page 47 of Make Them Bleed
“Well, you’re not.”Oops. I can tell this was the wrong thing to say by the look on her face.
“I’m not?” she whispers, and I cross the room to touch her in some small way, reaching out my hand, but she blocks it. “Don’t touch me. Arrow, I’ve never been more mad in my life.”
“Juno, listen, your sister was murdered… we have no idea who did it, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t next.”
“So, you spied on me.” She moves toward the door. “No, I get it. Spy on me and make sure I’m good. Read my emails. Would you like me to install cameras so you can watch me?”
“Well, you already have Ring cameras,” I remind her, and somehow I think I’ve said the wrong thing again.
“And what… you can just hack my Ring, right?”
“Well, technically…” I need to stop with the honesty. I should definitely not tell her I’ve known her passcode to her Ring account for years, and no… I’ve never logged in. Not once.
“I hate you,” she says with conviction.
“That’s harsh.” I step back like she’s slapped me.
“I do…” she looks like she wants to say more, but instead she just hangs her head low and walks out the door, slamming it shut behind her.
And the silence she leaves behind in her wake is deafening.
19
Juno
The mandala on page forty-three is supposed to be about balance. Symmetry. A thousand tiny petals all taking turns being the center. My therapist would say that’s a metaphor. I say it’s a lie. Nothing in my life is symmetrical right now. Not grief. Not love. Certainly not trust.
It’s been three days sincethefight.
Three days since Arrow—my Arrow, my Hoover, my everything-I-didn’t-know-I-wanted—said “I’m sorry” for the spyware he installed on my laptop, and I said “I hate you,” and the words ricocheted around the loft until both of us flinched. Three days of texts I haven’t answered. Three days of me pacing my apartment like a cat that hasn’t decided whether to scratch or curl up and purr.
The pencil in my hand snaps. I drop the broken half into the mess on my coffee table—coloring book, scattered receipts, a half-eaten cranberry muffin that tastes like guilt—and scrub my face with my palms. On my phone: a row of unread messages.
Arrow 8:02 a.m. — Hey. You sleeping? Eat something.
Arrow 12:27 p.m. — Just checking. I’m here, no pressure.
Arrow 3:41 p.m. — Do you want space or company? I’ll do either.
Arrow 9:58 p.m. — Home? Safe?
Arrow (this morning, 7:12 a.m.) — Standing order still stands: you don’t do this alone.
Every time the phrasestanding orderpops up, my heart squeezes. It’s sweet. It’s also controlling. It can be both. The contradiction is what’s killing me.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three gentle taps. Our rhythm. My breath stumbles. I pad to the door and peek through the peephole. Arrow stands there, hoodie, jeans, and the defeated posture of a man who knows he’s the villain in his own romcom. He’s holding two coffees and a little paper bag—the bagels he knows I won’t buy for myself when I’m mad.
I press my forehead to the door. For two long beats, I do nothing. The smart part of me saysdon’t open it. The ache in my chest saysthrow the deadbolt and the rest of you at him.
I unlatch and crack it two inches. “Hey.”
His eyes brighten with hope. “Hey.”
The hallway smells like floor cleaner and someone else’s toast. The paper bag crinkles when he lifts it. “Cinnamon-raisin for you. Sesame for bribery.”
I swallow. “You shouldn’t have come.”
