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)
My stomach twists. “How do you know which is which?”
“You don’t.” He scoots closer, voice low. “You just hope the people you love understand why you kept the secret when they finally learn it.”
Love. The word ricochets around my skull. Does he mean friend-love or capital-L, kiss-me-now love?
“Arrow…” My heart is pounding so hard I can hear blood in my ears.
He reaches up, tucks a stray curl behind my ear. His fingertips brush my cheek and suddenly breath is a rumor.
“I think you’ll figure it out, Junebug,” he murmurs. “You always do.”
I lean into his hand without thinking. The air between us vibrates—one tilt of my head and our lips would meet. My brain screams yes, my phone screams buzz buzz buzz.
Reminder: Midnight.
I jerk back. “I—should clean up. Pizza fossilizes if you let it sit.”
Arrow’s hand drops, disappointment flickering across his features before he masks it with a smile. “Sure. I’ll load the dishwasher.”
Together we work in a silence threaded with unspoken things. My heart aches with the weight of them. When the kitchen’s spotless, Arrow checks his watch.
“Ten-thirty,” he says softly. “I should bounce.”
I walk him to the door, hug him goodnight. His hoodie smells like his coastal driftwood soap and ginger beer. I want to keep him here, safe, oblivious. I want to drag him with me, because if the world is dangerous I trust Arrow to swing first. I want too many things.
He releases me, and steps into the hall. “Tomorrow? Bagels?”
“Always.” My smile trembles.
He hesitates. “Get some sleep, Juno.”
“You too.” I shut the door, pressing my forehead against the cool wood, and exhale shakily.
Inside my bedroom I swap leggings for black jeans, denim jacket, and running shoes. Pepper spray. Folder. Heartbreak.
At 11:40 I send Arrow a quick text—Hope you made it home safe, thanks for tonight—and pocket the phone before it can vibrate back.
The city outside is sharp and glittering, full of secrets and terrible men. I’m about to meet one of the good ones wearing a dead president’s face. At least, I hope he’s good.
I lock the apartment, step into the night, and head for Riverside, every footfall echoing with a truth I’m terrified to speak:
I think I’m falling for Arrow Finn, and if this goes wrong, I might lose him.
10
Arrow
A sensible human would text: Juno Hey, remember to wear shoes you can sprint in, but I’m not that brand of sensible. I’m the brand currently sweating inside a seventy-year-old president’s rubber face while triple-checking the motion camera feeds for stray raccoons.
The abandoned Riverside print-shop office looks good—better than I dared hope. Knight’s extra monitors glow soft aquamarine, Gage’s sticky-note constellations drape the whiteboard, and ethernet cables snake everywhere like neon spaghetti. It’s equal parts murder board and LAN party—a shrine to my inner nerd—and seeing it like this makes me ready to catch some murderers.
Footsteps sound on the metal stairwell outside. Heart in my throat, I pull the mask on fully, modulator mic in place. Deep breath. I unlock the steel door, and my breath catches at the sight.
Juno steps in, wide-eyed. She wears black skinny jeans, a cropped denim jacket, and that knit beanie with cat ears that makes her look five seconds from starring in an indie romcom. Behind the wary determination in her eyes is awe, which tugs something warm in my chest.
“Whoa.” She spins slowly, taking in cable bundles, taped-up floorplans, corkboard maps connected by red string. “This is…intel Narnia.”
I modulate my voice down a notch. “War rooms are overrated. I prefer ‘creative problem-solving environment.’”
She laughs. It’s bright and genuine as it lights up the room. “It looks like something my best friend would design. He’s got a Pinterest board for ‘Vigilante Loft Aesthetic.’”
My throat tightens. Play it cool. “He’s got good taste.”
She roams, fingertips brushing a stack of old print rollers turned desk legs. Her gaze lands on the corkboard titled POTENTIAL LEADS. I’ve made sure Kiwi-green sticky notes cover any handwriting she’d recognize, but one address—ELIJAH123—sits dead center with a big red circle.
“Who’s Elijah123?” she asks.
“Local handle flagged from Arby’s hate-comment dump.” I keep my posture relaxed, but my pulse spikes. “Rabid fan. Usually harmless, but he spammed her last livestream with skull emojis.”
Juno’s jaw tightens. “Skull emojis the night she died? That’s not harmless.”
“We don’t know he posted them that night. The account timestamp is spoofed.”
She studies the Post-it, then turns to me. “Is the address legit?”
“Appears to be.”
“We should go.”
Alarm bells clang in my head. Too fast, too risky, too everything. “Recon first,” I suggest. “Digital footprint, bank statements—”
“I can’t sit behind screens anymore, Hoover. I need to look someone in the eye.” Her voice cracks on eye and it guts me.
I pivot to strategy mode. “Fine. One pass-by drive. We don’t engage unless it’s safe.”
“Deal.” Determination ignites in her gaze.
Five minutes later we’re outside flagging a rideshare. I text Gage a silent SOS—just our shared emoji code for tail us on GPS; call if I go dark. He thumbs back an emoji and a taco. Because well, Gage.