Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
I screenshot everything, toss my gear in my bag, and bail.
Dusk paints the city pink by the time I push through my apartment door. 8-bit music roars from the living room. Gage is perched cross-legged on the floor, headset askew, mashing buttons like the controller owes him money. Next to him sprawls Knight Hayes—six-foot-three, short boxed beard, and grinning like a devil out past curfew. He waves a bag of take-out fries as a greeting.
“Yo, Hero Hoover!” Knight booms. “Gage filled me in.”
I shoot Gage a look. “Loose lips, bro.”
Gage pauses the game, and shoves chips into his mouth. “Hey, Knight’s rock solid. We figured an extra player can’t hurt.”
Knight props his elbows on his knees. “Look, man, high-school bros honor code. If I can body-check some scumbags for your girl, I’m in.”
I drop my backpack, and toe off my shoes. “Appreciate it. Just… keep it quiet. We can’t have Juno spooked.”
“Secrecy level: ninja,” Knight promises, zipping imaginary lips.
We crash onto the couch. Knight unpauses Galactic Mayhem 9 and we trade controllers between firefights. Conversation weaves around explosions.
“So,” Knight says over the chaos, “any new suspects?”
“Working theories,” I answer, thumb gunning lasers. “Dean’s pulling strings, checking for chatter. Got a lead on a crypto wallet that paid out five equal slices the night Arby died.”
Gage whistles. “Sounds like contract payouts.”
“Exactly my thought.” I land a head-shot combo, and pass the controller to Knight. “Question is: who funded it?”
Knight leans forward. “Was Arby seeing anyone shady? Ex-boyfriend, stalker fan?”
My chest tightens. “I don’t know. She was private about dating, weirdly. Juno might know something.”
Gage pauses mid-sip of soda. “But if you ask, she’ll smell something.”
“Yeah.” I scrub a hand over my face. “I’ll have to tread lightly.”
Knight elbows me. “Could scan her socials. Cross-reference frequent commenters, DMs. If a dude got ghosted, might’ve snapped.”
Gage nods enthusiastically. “Digital jealousy leaves footprints.”
I grin despite exhaustion. “You guys are psychopaths—but useful ones.”
Knight raises his soda can. “To useful psychos!”
We clink cans, resume the game, and strategize between shouts and laughter. For a couple of hours, the weight lifts; pixels explode instead of real people. But underneath, a current of purpose hums—we’re forming our own little task force.
When the final boss collapses in 16-bit glory, Knight stretches, cracking his neck. “Anything, Finn, you holler. I live for this shit.”
“I might take you up on that,” I admit, heart steady with new resolve. “We’re just getting started.”
Knight grins. “Then let’s make sure the next stream the world sees is those mask-wielding bastards getting exactly what they deserve.”
Amen to that, I think, as nine ticks closer… and Juno’s next alley rendezvous draws near.
7
Juno
I stare at the blank page in my bullet-journal as if it owes me answers. Funny how I used to fill these dotted lines with sticker-cluttered to-do lists—Film unboxing! Edit reel! Remember to moisturize!—and now I can barely scribble past the first sentence:
Find the men who killed Arby.
Ink pools beneath the period like a bloodstain, and my stomach knots. I flip the journal shut just as my phone buzzes across the kitchen counter, rattling an abandoned teaspoon. Mom lights the screen.
Great timing, Universe. Way to toss me a guilt grenade.
“Hi, Mom,” I answer, sliding onto a barstool and forcing some sunshine into my voice. The apartment is quiet except for the clack-whirr of the ceiling fan, yet I take the call on speaker so I can keep stuffing evidence—flash drives, printouts, a half-eaten protein bar—into the blue pocket folder I labeled OPERATION JUSTICE with glitter pen.
“Junebug, sweetheart, how are you?” Mom asks. Her North Carolina twang thickens whenever she’s worried, which lately is always. “You sound tired.”
“I’m fine, really.” Lie number one of the phone call, but it trips off my tongue like muscle memory. “Just writing.”
A pause. In the background I hear the distant barks of Bob’s geriatric beagle and the metallic clink of Mom’s knitting needles. “Honey, you know you can call me and Bob for anything, right? Groceries, doctor appointments…just to talk.”
I press my fingertips to the cool quartz countertop, grounding myself. “I know. And I appreciate it. I’m okay, Mom. Promise.”
She sighs—soft, resigned. “You sure you don’t want to come stay here in Fox Hollow for a few weeks? There’s plenty of room. Bob’ll make his famous peach cobbler.”
Peach cobbler. Arby’s favorite. Grief twists inside my ribs like a screwdriver, but I keep my tone breezy. “Tempting, but I need to stay in Saint Pierce for work stuff. Maybe next month?”
“Well…all right. But keep us posted, okay? If you need anything—”
“I’ll call. Love you.”
“Love you too, Junebug.”
The line clicks dead. I set the phone down, exhale, and let the empty apartment settle around me. White walls, curved floor lamp, succulent graveyard on the windowsill because I always forget to water them. Everything here reminds me of Arby—her neon ring light boxed in the corner, the vintage mic stand we thrift-flipped for her Twitch streams, the half-painted mural of pastel clouds she splashed across the living-room wall before deciding neutral chic fit “the brand” better.