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 touch one pink brushstroke with a reverence that hurts, then shake myself. Tonight matters now.
Inside my bedroom closet, I unearth the cross-body purse with the hidden slash-proof lining—one of Arby’s many influencer freebies. I load it with pepper spray, my phone, and the OPERATION JUSTICE folder. I’m tempted to slip Dad’s old revolver into the inner zipper, but common sense (and a freshly renewed CCW permit still lost somewhere in DMV limbo) nixes that idea.
A rideshare notification pulls me downstairs. The driver is a chatty retiree named Ruth who smells like lavender and thinks true crime podcasts are “too spooky.” I laugh in the right places, but my knee bounces the entire ten-minute trip downtown.
The coffee shop comes into view with string lights twinkling under the awning and a sandwich board that declares TODAY’S SPECIAL: HORCHATA COLD BREW + FREE SELF-LOATHING. Very on brand for The Bean Flicker.
I pay Ruth, tug my denim jacket tighter against the late-autumn bite, and step inside to order a decaf Americano. The barista, Melody, hands me my decaf like it’s my lifeline, and I nurse the drink at a corner table, every sip making me more jittery, not less. My gaze flicks to the back door—a narrow utility exit leading to the alley where smokers and cougars with Tinder dates come to hyperventilate.
Hoover said nine sharp. It’s nine-oh-eight. My heart trills like a bird trapped in my rib cage.
You’re sure about this? my brain whispers. Meeting a stranger again from the dark web in a dim alley?
Not a stranger, I argue back. An ally. And if he tries anything, pepper spray meets Adam’s apple.
My phone vibrates.
HOOVER: Outside. Alley.
I swallow, shove the folder under my arm, and stride through the café’s back hallway—ducking past a startled dishwasher—and push into the chill of the alley.
There he is: six feet of broad-shouldered mystery in dark jeans, a charcoal hoodie, and that ridiculous rubber Herbert Hoover mask. It gleams under the single flickering security light—jowly, smug, and slightly warped from heat guns or hellfire, who knows.
I stop four feet away, pulse a bass drum in my ears. “Herbert, right?” I joke.
“For tonight,” he answers, voice filtered through the cheap voice modulator that makes him sound like a bored Transformer.
I hold out the folder. “Everything I could find—Arby’s last sponsorship contracts, screenshots of threatening DMs, livestream timestamps.” My hands shake, so I jam them in my jacket pockets. “Now what?”
He accepts the folder, flipping through with gloved fingers. “Now I run these against a few databases, trace IP noise, look for patterns.”
He uses the same nerdy lingo Arrow uses. I bet these two would get along really well. I tilt my head. “Any patterns already?”
“Some chatter about a payout that hit the crypto markets the night she died,” he says. “Could be unrelated. Could be rent money for hired blades.”
Anger flares hot and bright. “I want names.”
“I get that.” He tucks the folder beneath his arm. “But you also need patience. Tracing these guys isn’t a quick TikTok hack, Juno.”
I cross my arms. “Patience is a luxury I don’t have.”
Something like humor softens his mechanical rasp. “You have caffeine and righteous fury. Those are assets too.”
Despite myself, my lips twitch. “Flattery, Hoover? Next you’ll call me feisty.”
He cocks his head, mask creaking. “You prefer tenacious?”
“I prefer results.”
He nods once. “Fair.”
A city bus wheezes past the alley mouth, headlights strobing over us. I shiver, more from nerves than cold.
“We need a real workspace,” I blurt. “Somewhere with walls and Wi-Fi and fewer rats.”
“I’m on that,” he says. “I’ll text a location once it’s secure, and I’ll bring coffee.”
“Herb, you poet,” I tease, and to my surprise he chuckles—a glitchy little sound behind the voice changer.
The streetlight sputters, plunging us into half-dark. He steps back into the deeper shadows, edges blurring. “Get home safe, Juno.”
“You too.” I hesitate. Thank you feels too fragile for the alley chill, so I let silence do the talking and slip toward the main street.
I grab another rideshare, this time with a driver who plays soft jazz and says nothing, which is either a blessing or confirmation I’ve used up my small talk karma for the week. The city blurs—brownstones, neon noodle shops, the boarded theater where Arby once MC’d a local pageant. I press a fist to my sternum, as if I can hold my heartbreak still long enough to breathe around it.
My phone buzzes again. Arrow.
Arrow: Netflix and chill was fun. You good tonight?
Guilt crashes over me in a wave so sudden I almost drop the phone. Arrow has been my anchor, my ride-or-die, my VHS-tape-of-The-Princess-Bride-on-repeat since fifth grade. And I’m lying to his face.
I stare at the blinking cursor in our chat and imagine him—tall frame folded over his gaming laptop, brows drawn in concern. If he knew I’d just passed classified intel to a masked stranger in a grimy alley, he’d lose what’s left of his chill.