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)
When he’s gone, I boot my laptop and slide the Herbert-Hoover mask from my backpack, setting it upright on the desk. Knight whistles low. “That thing’s nightmare fuel.”
“Tell me about it,” I mutter, wiping my finger across the rubber brow.
Knight tilts his head, studying me. “Look, man, you’ve been in love with Juno since dinosaurs. You sure this secret-identity thing won’t blow up in your face?”
I tap the mask’s cheek, and hear the hollow rubber echo. “I’m sure it will. But keeping her alive counts more.”
Knight nods—solemn for once. “Ride or die, huh?”
“Exactly.”
“And if she figures it out?”
The air between us feels thin. I picture Juno’s wide hazel eyes filling with betrayal. I picture her forgiving smile, too. Unsure which hurts more.
“I’ll deal with it,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll apologize for lying…after she’s safe.”
Knight claps a hand on my shoulder—weighty but reassuring. “Then let’s make damn sure she lives to yell at you.”
We get to work. Knight scrubs forum archives; I set up encryption keys; Gage returns with plastic bags rattling full of energy drinks, beef jerky, and suspiciously neon pastries. We dive into theory swapping while joystick duels break the tension every forty-five minutes.
At one point Knight pauses the game, controller dangling. “Rumor says, Arby was dating someone?”
“I never saw evidence,” I admit, scrolling through an archival ZIP. “But she guarded her private life like Fort Knox.”
Gage tears open jerky. “We should cross-match her last sponsorship trips with city CCTV. Maybe she traveled with a mystery plus-one.”
“Good,” I say. “I’ll send the itinerary to Dean’s contact and see if airport security cams pick up her entourage.”
Knight grins. “Look at us, baby birds leaving the nest, flapping into felony territory.”
“Cyber-felony,” I correct. “Totally different sentencing.”
We laugh, but the drive is relentless. At some point my phone buzzes with a message from Hoover’s encrypted channel—me, reminding myself to text Juno the new meeting location.
I type:
Warehouse loft, 142 Riverside. Midnight tonight. Come alone.
Her reply arrives a minute later:
Juno: Got it. Bringing more stuff. Thank you.
Three little words from behind her screen, but they thump against my rib cage like fists.
Knight slaps another magazine into his pixel-blaster. “You okay, dude?”
I pocket the phone. “Yeah. Just—ready to make a difference.”
“Hell yeah.” He unpauses the game. “Dibs on the rocket launcher.”
The digital carnage resumes, neon streaks lighting our improvised HQ, but my thoughts drift to Juno walking into this echoing print shop, trusting Hoover with the last pieces of her shattered heart. And me standing there, face hidden behind the worst president mask in history, trying to be her hero while praying she never sees how scared I really am.
I can’t promise I won’t break her trust.
I can promise I’ll never let anyone break her again.
9
Juno
I’ve lost the ability to breathe around Arrow Finn.
Not in a melodramatic, oh-my-corset, Victorian fainting-couch way. More like every inhale sticks somewhere behind my ribs and refuses to leave, because apparently that’s where my best friend lives now—inside my chest, rearranging the furniture of my feelings without permission.
Tonight is supposed to be easy: sweatpants, pizza, and our semi-sacred tradition of “Netflix and aggressively not thinking about our problems.” We’ve done it a hundred times—back when Arby was alive and life felt wide-angle and brightly filtered. But tonight my tiny living-room sofa suddenly feels intimate, like an invitation I’m not sure I’m brave enough to send.
Arrow stands in my doorway balancing two pizzas, a six-pack of ginger beer, and the softest grin I’ve ever seen on a human. Oversized hoodie, wind-mussed hair, a smudge of code-ink (aka dry-erase marker) on the back of his left hand. He looks devastatingly ordinary and impossibly dear.
“Delivery for the grief gremlin,” he says.
I snort. “Pretty sure grief gremlins only eat soggy cereal at three a.m.”
“Great,” he deadpans, stepping inside. “I got pepperoni and existential dread on thin crust.”
I tug the pizzas from his arms. “The secret topping Italians never want you to know about.”
We kick off our shoes, settle on opposite ends of the sofa, and wedge a throw pillow between us like a neutral zone. I hit play on The Great British Bake Off—comfort viewing: pastel tents, sugar highs, zero murders. The episode hums in the background while Arrow and I demolish half a pie. Crumbs collect on my leggings, but I don’t care; he’s already told me I could wear a trash-bag and still be “top tier.”
Thirty minutes in, I realize I’m not watching the show—I’m watching him. Every time he laughs at a punny cake failure, the corners of his eyes crinkle just a bit. There’s a freckle on his nose I swear wasn’t there before, and the way his throat works when he swallows ginger beer is…weirdly captivating.
When did your best friend’s Adam’s apple become haute couture? my brain squeaks.
I flush, grab the remote, and turn down the volume. “Hey, Arrow?”