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)
He sighs. “I’ll text my contacts. Pull favors. But you stay two steps back from the fire, understood?”
“When has staying back ever worked?” The frustration slips out before I can reel it in. “Arby’s dead. Juno’s barely holding on. Waiting isn’t an option.”
Dean’s steady gaze softens—just a hair. “You love this girl.”
I look down at the table’s smooth glass surface; my reflection looks like a ghost behind the fluorescents. “Since we were ten.”
“Then protect her smart, not loud.” He pockets the drive. “I’ll let you know when something shakes loose.”
“That’s all I need.” I straighten, shouldering my backpack. “Thanks, Dean.”
“Arrow,” he calls as I reach the door. I pause. “Stay safe out there.”
I almost smile. “Copy that, boss.”
The sun has climbed to a merciless angle by the time I pull into the parking lot of my apartment complex—a squat three-story brick building with fading teal trim and a resident raccoon that raids the dumpsters like clockwork. I’m still replaying Dean’s warning when I climb the stairwell and push into Unit 2B.
The living room smells like cold French-fries and victory-sweat—never a good sign. Battalion-level explosions ricochet from the TV, and Gage, in Jurassic-Park pajama bottoms, sits cross-legged on the rug like a meditation guru for chaos. Beside him lounges Knight, currently balancing a controller in one hand and a greasy takeout carton in the other.
Knight looks up, salute-flicks two fingers off his brow. “General Hoover, reporting for after-action.”
I kick the door shut with my heel and drop my pack. “Please don’t call me that in public.”
Gage pauses the game—pixelated carnage freezes mid-explosion—and peers over his glasses. “So? Dean hook you up with the CIA yet?”
“Working on it.” I toe off my sneakers and flop onto the couch, exhaustion seeping into the cushions. “He’s got feelers out. Could take time.”
Knight shoves the carton at me—lo mein, looks like. “Carb up, soldier. We were reconning in your absence.”
My eyebrows climb. “Reconning, huh?”
Gage nods enthusiastically. “Knight pulled Arby’s old TikTok lives, scraped the chat for recurring user handles. We isolated a dozen that spammed hate comments the month before she died.”
Knight beams like a cat that hacked a Roomba. “Already dumped the usernames into a relational DB, cross-referenced with breach lists from HaveIBeenPwned. Two of ’em have Saint Pierce addresses.”
I blink, genuinely impressed. “Dude. That’s…fast.”
Knight cracks his neck. “I live for this shit, remember?”
Gage nudges a plate of fries toward me. “Eat while the details are fresh.”
I grab a fry, chew, then lean forward. “Okay. Any signs they escalated beyond trolling? Threat DMs, doxxing?”
Knight brings up a laptop—the sticker-plastered beast whirs like a jet engine. “One dude sent Arby a ‘Your time is coming’ message three weeks pre-attack. Account nuked day after the murder.”
My fists clench. “Coward.”
Gage spins around, head tilted. “Were you able to tie the burner email domain you found to this guy?”
“Not yet,” I admit. “But Dean’s people might.”
Knight scrolls. “Also, rumor on a gossip forum claims Arby was secretly dating someone ‘problematic.’ No name—just vague ‘older-guy bad vibes’ posts.”
I exchange a look with Gage. “If that’s real, motive could be jealousy. Or blackmail.”
“Or sabotage,” Gage adds. “Toxic ex leaks her address to psychos for notoriety.”
Knight shrugs. “Influencer murders get clicks. Dark corners pay for ’em.”
“There’s also another user. Looks like a stalker. Elijah123 is the handle.” Gage shrugs. “Could be nothing.”
“He local?”
Gage nods. “Yeah, he’s either really stupid, or not a threat because we have an address.”
“Text it to me,” I say in a flash.
“I think we look at the older man theory as well,” Knight says.
My stomach knots. I shove the carton aside. “We need Juno’s blessing before we dig deeper into Arby’s love life. But first—I promised her I’d secure a workspace.”
Gage perks up. “Knight’s uncle owns that abandoned print shop near the river. Still got power.”
Knight smirks. “Place smells like ink and disappointment, but it’s empty and locked. I can get keys.”
I consider. Riverfront’s isolated, but not deserted. Close enough to Juno’s apartment. “Make it happen. I’ll rig Wi-Fi through a tethered node, keep everything air-gapped.”
Gage claps once, triumphant. “Boys’ clubhouse, but for murder investigations.”
Knight stands, and stretches like a panther. “Cue the montage.”
Two hours later, we’ve turned the print-shop office into a makeshift war room: spare desks dragged into a rough horseshoe around a thrift-store whiteboard, extension cords snaking like vines, my portable router blinking amber. Knight’s hauled in two extra monitors and a gaming tower that hums like a dragon.
I test the VPN tunnel—green. Data sandbox—green. Motion camera at the door—live feed pops onto Screen 3.
Gage plasters the whiteboard with sticky notes: Troll Handles, Crypto Wallet, Possible Exes, Power-Grid Outages. It looks half conspiracy theory, half startup incubator.
“Not bad for zero budget,” Knight says, parking his hands on his hips. “Needs snacks, though.”
“I’ll hit the bodega,” Gage volunteers, grabbing his wallet. “Nobody steals my code fuel.”