Page 52 of Bend & Break
I shrug. “At least we have a concrete lead now. Kind of. Maybe we can figure out who this Jonah guy is and do a little light trespassing? Baby’s first B&E.”
She exhales an annoyed breath through her nose. “Or we start with the list and see if anyone else stands out before we go full criminal.”
I pull my hood up as the wind picks up. “What’s a tiny felony if it brings us one step closer to solving a murder?”
“We already got onto the movie set last night under false pretenses. Maybe there’s an easier way,” she pauses to think for a second. “Maybe the universe will give us another breadcrumb. Or four.”
I huff out a laugh. “We can’t possibly get that lucky twice or four times in a row.”
We slow down as we reach her building, and for a second, I forget how to walk like a normal person. She’s already fishing out her badge, probably thinking about whatever assignment she’s been putting off, and I’m just… standing there.
Like an idiot.
Like someone who really wants to kiss his maybe-girlfriend goodbye but isn’t sure if that’s a step too far. Too soon.
Which is ridiculous considering that not very many hours ago, my dick was down her throat.
I’m half hard just thinking about it now.
But then she glances up, eyes bright, and I think,fuck it. I lean in. She doesn’t move away. In fact, she tilts her chin like she was waiting for it. The kiss is brief, ridiculously perfect, and when I pull back, she smirks and says, “See you in a few hours.”
As soon asthe lecture slides flicker onto the projector screen, I stop pretending I’m going to pay attention. My eyes are wide, pen in hand, but the part of my brain meant for learning is already elsewhere—tangled in Blake’s hair, back in that supply closet, replaying every sound she made with painful clarity.
Except now it’s competing with something less fun but equally all-consuming.
I tap my pen twice against my notebook, already mentally searching through every name-drop, social media breadcrumb,and blurry group photo I’ve seen in the last week. The professor drones on about information security protocols, and I nod once to keep up appearances, even though I couldn’t repeat a single word he’s said if someone held a gun to my head.
I’ve been crawling through Kai’s sign-in list since breakfast, eyes blurring from one faceless name to the next. Half of the names I search on social media, the accounts are private, the other half are useless—no posts, no pictures, nothing that connects. Then I hit the last page, damn near ready to give up, and there it is.
Jonah.
And of course, this fuck is the only one who didn’t list his last name.
I run the name over in my head again, fitting it to the profile Kai gave us. Vintage cameras, probably the kind of guy who posts film grain selfies with captions about “aesthetic decay.” It’s not a lot to go on, but in the age of oversharing and geotags, it doesn’t need to be. Social media’s basically built for stalking. I just need to find the right thread to follow.
I open my laptop.
It’s nottechnicallystalking if the information is readily available to the public. I tell myself this as I begin typing, already flipping between search tabs and social media apps. Instagram’s a goldmine for this kind of thing. Everyone wants to be seen. And guys like Jonah? They want to be envied. I just have to find the right curated section of the internet where he’s busy doing both.
I search, “Jonah Briarwood.”
Unsurprisingly, there are a lot of guys named Jonah at and near Briarwood. Some in clubs. Some on sports teams. One with a SoundCloud and a cowboy hat who definitely isn’t the one I’m after, but will haunt me anyway.
I lean into the vintage camera angle and search “Jonah Briarwood Communication and Media Studies.”
It takes a second, but then—there he is. Found via a tagged reel from the university’s media showcase. A student film clip with a behind-the-scenes featurette no one asked for. And smack in the middle? A guy with artfully disheveled hair and a Leica strapped across his chest. The caption confirms it:Jonah Smith, head of the Briarwood Film Collective.
This has to be him.
I click on his profile.
His bio reads:Filmmaker. Collector of light. Party architect.
Gag.
I scroll past the pretentious profile pic (black and white, blurred background, obnoxious smirk) and hitFollowwithout a second thought. Might as well make myself known.
He lives in a sprawling, exposed-brick flat that’s definitely one of those showy lofts near Briarwood’s campus. Edison bulbs, a neon sign that saysWelcome to the Shitshow, and a giant-ass speaker setup.
