Page 6 of Make Them Bleed
Great. Because alleys after dark have never been the opening scene of a slasher flick.
I inhale until my ribs protest, exhale slow, and slide from the booth. The family doesn’t look up; Moby Dick turns another dog-eared page. I shove my phone in my pocket, tug my hoodie’s hem past my hips, and march toward the exit like I haven’t just made the top of the “Girl Most Likely to Become Click-bait” list.
Outside, autumn air knifes my cheeks. The alley yawns between brick buildings, one dead bulb flickering overhead like a faulty strobe. Shadows drip from every corner, and I suck in a deep breath.
“Juno Kate?”
I jerk. A figure steps from the gloom, tall, broad-shouldered, hands thrust into black hoodie pockets. And on his head… an old-timey, rubber mask of a balding man with a dour mouth and caterpillar eyebrows.
“What in vintage Halloween hell—” The words tumble out before I can sound brave. “Are you my mystery guy or the ghost of old man bad decisions?”
A low chuckle crackles through a voice modulator, equal parts Darth Vader and customer-service hold music. “Herbert Hoover, at your service.”
I blink. “You couldn’t get, I don’t know,Batman?”
“Halloween stores were out,” he deadpans. “Besides, Hoover’s underrated.”
“I literally had to Google him for a history paper once. Pretty sure most people think he’s a vacuum.”
Another modulated huff that might be laughter. “Perfect disguise, then.”
The ridiculousness should calm me, but instead it makes my skin fizz. Something about the way he stands. So comfortable and solid.
Focus, Juno.
I cross my arms to still the tremor in my hands. “We don’t have all night. What’s your plan to find the Five?”
“The Five?”
“My sister’s killers,” I snap. “Five masked men. You saw the footage.”
Hoover nods once, slow. “I saw.”
Silence yawns. Wind rattles a loose gutter.
“You’re the one who offered help,” I press. “If you’re trying to scare me off with presidential trivia, it’s not working.”
“I’m trying to gauge how far you’ll go.”
“As far as it takes.” The words taste like blood and battery acid. “They livestreamed her death, and the world moved on in forty-eight hours. I won’t.”
Hoover’s shoulders rise and fall. “Even if you die before you get answers?”
“I already died,” I whisper, surprising myself. “The night they killed Arby, they killed the old me too. I’m just… what’s left.”
For a heartbeat the alley is unbearably still. Then he steps closer, light pooling over his chest, and I catch a familiar hint of soap and mint toothpaste. My breath hitches.
He’s so familiar, yet he’s not at all.
“Listen,” Hoover says, voice softer beneath the tech distortion. “Revenge tunnels fast. You think you’re steering, but anger does the driving.”
I meet the mask’s empty eye-holes. “So lecture me or help me. Pick one.”
He sighs—the sound tinny through the modulator—but nods. “All right. Ground rules. One: You never meet contacts alone.”
I arch a brow. “Bit late.”
“Startingnow,” he clarifies. “Two: You leave actual confrontation to me. You gather intel, you stay safe.”
