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 arch a brow, letting my gaze linger on him longer than necessary. “Wouldn’t miss it, Ghost.”
Behind him, four other masked figures—Polk, Hayes, Arthur, and Fillmore—wait quietly. My curiosity ignites. These men—Arrow’s friends—must be Ozzy, Knight, Render, and Gage, though I have no idea who’s who.
“Mr. Presidents,” I say, greeting them with a small salute. “Nice to see you again.”
Polk gives a sarcastic salute, Fillmore chuckles under his breath, Arthur huffs lightly, and Hayes tilts his head curiously. I study them closely, trying to guess identities by posture or height, but it’s impossible. They’re good at this.
Ghostface clears his throat. “We got a lead that flips the script. HOLO-BURST isn’t behind your sister’s murder.”
My pulse quickens. “You’re sure?”
Hayes steps forward, his voice a modulated bass. “We intercepted internal emails this afternoon. Payments we tracked were related to a PR disaster—a settlement with a different creator. They’re dirty, but not murder-dirty.”
Fillmore nods, arms crossed. “They were scrambling about Arby’s death because it messed up their optics, not because they ordered a hit.”
I feel my throat tighten. My knees soften, and I grip the edge of the desk to stay upright. Weeks of certainty crumble under me. “Then…who?”
Ghostface’s masked face tilts gently. “We need to look closer. Think, Juno—was Arby seeing anyone?”
The room feels too warm. A memory swims upward through my grief-fogged mind. Arby’s voice, casual over a Sunday brunch at The Spoonery. There’s this guy—Nico. Met him at some launch party. Nothing serious.
I close my eyes, gathering myself. “Nico. She mentioned him briefly. But I never met him, never saw a picture.”
Ghostface nods once. “We’ve come across Nico in her public records. But, he’s got no socials. He’s a ghost—maybe literally.”
A chill snakes down my spine. “You think Nico killed her?”
“Or at least knows who did,” Polk says grimly with a shrug of possibility. “The way her murder was staged, it’s personal. Not corporate.”
My heart sinks. Personal. The betrayal feels deeper, crueler. “How do we find a ghost?”
Fillmore leans forward, his tone eager. “We’ve been working her private Instagram. There are archived stories we’ve scraped—mentions of ‘Nico’ tagged to a private account. We’re still pulling details.”
Render—Fillmore, I realize suddenly—steps closer, his voice cool and confident through the mask. “We’re running a trace on Nico’s burner account, cross-referencing with location data from her final posts. We’ll know soon.”
I inhale shakily. “Good. Thank you—all of you.” I glance around at their unreadable presidential faces. “For helping me.”
They each nod, quietly respectful. The depth of their loyalty strikes me deeply. Arrow’s friends, loyal to him not me, yet they’re here, risking everything for justice. For Arby.
Ghostface gently touches my elbow. “We’re close. I promise. But we need more from you—anything she said about him. Anything at all.”
I frown, trying to force clarity through my grief. “She said he was older, charming. Said he traveled a lot. No details, just…she liked how mysterious he was.”
Ghostface squeezes my elbow once, lightly, reassuringly. The touch grounds me instantly, because it’s Arrow. It’s always been Arrow. The thought nearly brings me to tears, and I have no idea why.
“Older, travels often, mysterious,” he murmurs. “Narrows the field.”
He releases me gently, stepping away to type rapidly into a nearby laptop. My skin still tingles from his contact. A small, private smile sneaks onto my lips.
The others disperse around the loft, quietly diving back into data-mining, letting me breathe. I watch Ghostface—Arrow—as he types furiously. His focus is absolute. He’s here, masked and mysterious, because he’s always protected me. Always.
I take a slow, deliberate breath. Arrow Finn is the ghost behind the mask. He’s lied, sure. But he’s also risked his life for mine, his heart for my justice. He’s both the safest and most dangerous man I know. And I’m falling in love with him faster than I can handle.
Slowly, I cross the room, standing behind him. He pauses, sensing me close. “Final Girl?”
I touch his shoulder lightly. He tenses, fingers freezing mid-keystroke.
“You okay?” he asks quietly, concern cutting through the distortion of the modulator.
“Better,” I whisper. “Because you’re here.”
His shoulders soften slightly. “Always.”
Such an Arrow answer.
I let my fingertips linger, then draw back slowly. He returns to his typing, but I can feel the electric tension between us. It crackles with anticipation, with promises still unspoken.
Soon, very soon, I’m going to rip off that mask. But for tonight, I let it stay. I let Arrow keep his secrets, because I trust he has reasons.
I retreat, taking a seat nearby, quietly watching Arrow—my Ghost—as he chases leads. My eyes flicker to the others, wondering who’s Ozzy, who’s Gage, who’s Knight. Friends who’ve stepped into danger for me, no questions asked. Friends who hide behind masks because the world is full of shadows.
Tomorrow, I’ll get answers. Tomorrow, I’ll unmask them all.
But tonight, I sit back, pick up a stray pencil from the desk, and let the quiet murmurs of masked friends working around me become my new mandala.