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)
“Tonight,” she says. “Same time.”
I nod. “Tonight.”
She turns to go, then glances back over her shoulder. “Tell Polk and Hayes they did good.”
“Will do.”
“And, Ghost?” Her eyes spark. “Don’t be late.”
She leaves in a drift of leather and resolve. I stand there a beat longer, the mask suddenly too warm, the air too thin. Something is up with Juno. I can feel it like the weather rolling in. Either she’s closer than ever to letting me in…or closer than ever to pulling my mask clean off.
I head for the car and tell myself I’ll be ready for either.
Because there’s one thing I know to my bones: whether she’s cutting me open or letting me in, I’ll take it. I’ll take the truth like a blade and make sure the men who say funeral choke on it.
And if she asks me to touch her again, to kiss her, to be the wall the world can’t break, I’ll be there—mask on, mask off, whatever keeps her breathing.
17
Juno
Mandala coloring books are my new therapy. I never thought repetitive patterns and cheap colored pencils could ease my anxiety better than prescription meds, but here I am, sprawled on my sofa, purple pencil in hand, lost in the hypnotic spirals of page thirty-two.
Outside my window, Saint Pierce is gray and damp, the streets slick from an earlier drizzle. My apartment hums with silence, the ticking of the old wall clock my only company. I shade carefully inside the lines, filling one petal after another, each stroke a little prayer of patience, waiting for my phone to buzz with a text notification.
It’s been two days since I’ve heard from Arrow. I’ve heard from Hoover, but not Arrow as Arrow.
The absence gnaws at me, worse than I imagined. The empty spot where our morning ritual used to be feels raw. I set my pencil down, hesitating only a second before grabbing my phone. I bite my lip, thumbs tapping out a message before I can overthink it:
Hey stranger, wanna chill tomorrow? Coffee’s on me.
I watch the screen, irrationally hoping for the tiny bubbles of his reply. Nothing. Not even a “read” confirmation.
Frustration knots my chest. I’m torn between wanting to march straight to his apartment to shake answers from him and wanting to curl up in a stubborn ball and ignore his existence until he breaks first.
Except he’s already broken me, hasn’t he? Broken me and reawakened me at the same time.
I sink deeper into the couch cushions, picking the purple pencil back up. The mandala’s symmetry is a lie—my world feels anything but balanced. I try to keep the lines steady, but my mind drifts to that latex mask, its blank, screaming face hiding Arrow’s familiar mouth beneath.
Arrow is Hoover.
The revelation churns in me, simultaneously shocking and comforting. Alarming, sure—because it means my best friend has spent weeks lying to me, sneaking around under my nose. But also comforting, because the way he touched me, that deliberate, careful way his thumb traced my jaw…that was Arrow. My Arrow. The only person I trust implicitly.
I blow out a shaky breath, setting the pencil down again. My fingertips brush my lips unconsciously, replaying the ghostly kiss we shared. The mere memory sends warmth flooding through me.
Arrow Finn. Nerdy, brilliant, quietly brave Arrow Finn. I think back over the years—late nights editing my podcast, Arrow showing up at midnight with snacks and that easy smile; me sobbing after a bad breakup, his patient voice on the other side of my locked door until I let him in; Arrow defending my horror obsession to my mom at Thanksgiving, insisting my podcast was actually “cultural commentary” while I kicked his shin under the table.
He’s always been there, stitching himself into my life so seamlessly I hardly noticed. Has he always felt this way?
My stomach twists. I’m falling—no, I’ve fallen. Hard. And it terrifies me almost as much as it thrills me.
I stare at my phone again, still silent, still stubbornly devoid of Arrow’s name. Fine. Let him play his game. I have my own move to make.
I glance at the clock. It’s time.
I slip off the couch, abandoning my mandala mid-shade, and grab my jacket and keys. Ten minutes later, I’m walking swiftly down Riverside, heart beating harder with every step closer to our war room.
Tonight’s meeting feels urgent—Ghost’s text had said nothing but “New intel, come quick,” and the tension crackling between us over the past few days heightens the stakes.
When I reach the loft, my nerves hum with anticipation. I pause outside the familiar door, steadying my breathing. With one last deep breath, I punch in 1948 and push inside.
The loft buzzes with quiet activity. Screens flicker with data, and familiar faces—hidden behind comical president masks—turn toward me as I enter. My lips twitch into a smirk despite myself.
Ghostface steps forward first, his tall, lean frame now unmistakably Arrow. He nods a greeting, the vocoder giving his voice an edgy rasp. “Final Girl, glad you made it.”