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 watches me, eyes narrowing behind thick frames. "Gotta admit, part of me’s impressed. Part of me’s queasy."
"Story of my life," I murmur.
Gage stands and heads to the kitchen, returning with two canned iced coffees—our mutual vice. He tosses one, and I catch it mid-air.
"Look," he says, cracking his can, "I know I joke a lot, but I’m serious… if this goes sideways—like, really sideways—call me. Don’t pull some lone-wolf crap, okay?"
The sincerity in his voice punches a soft spot under my ribs. "You’d drop your controller for me? I’m honored."
He flips me off good-naturedly. "I mean it, Arrow. You need backup, I got you." He gestures toward the hallway. "You want me to read coded emails? Build spreadsheets? Hack a server? I know a guy who knows a guy."
I grin. "Your guy’s name is probably Reddit."
"Details," he says with a mock bow.
I pop the coffee tab and take a long swallow, the bitter sweetness jolting me awake. "Thanks, Gage. Really. Just having you on standby helps."
"Anytime." He drops back onto the couch, though the controller stays forgotten on the armrest. "So… you gonna tell me what the plan is?"
I exhale. "Tomorrow she’s bringing me everything—Arby’s schedules, screenshots of trolls, blocked followers. We’ll start sifting for patterns." I drum my fingers against the can. "I’ll have to set up a dropbox under the vigilante alias. Keep it separate from my real accounts."
Gage whistles low. "You’re going full spy."
"Yeah, well, step one: figure out how to be convincing as a hardened street avenger when I nearly hyperventilated using the voice modulator tonight."
He laughs, the sound easing my tension. "You’ll get there, Herbert."
A yawn ambushes me. The clock reads 1:47 a.m. My eyes feel like sandpaper. "I’m tapping out. Gonna do a quick system check, then crash."
"Night, lover boy," Gage calls as I shuffle down the hall.
My bedroom is half tech cave, half laundry graveyard. I kick aside a stray hoodie, plop into my swivel chair, and wake my desktop. Multiple monitors bloom to life—green code lines on black, email dashboards, a live city-camera feed of Saint Pierce intersections (public access, totally legal. Well, mostly). Juno’s machine pings my network, the spyware sending its hourly sync.
I open the encrypted folder marked JK Monitoring—heart pounding with the guilt that never fully silences. The latest keystroke log scrolls: random BuzzFeed quiz, Amazon search for “therapeutic weighted blankets,” then one line that twists my stomach:
Journal Entry: “Meeting went well. More hopeful than I’ve felt in months.”
Hopeful. Because of me. My chest tightens—not unpleasantly, exactly, but not comfortable either. I’m relieved she feels lighter, yet every spark of hope she places in Hoover is another brick in the wall of lies I’m building.
I sift her incoming email queue. Mostly condolences that arrived weeks too late, brand deals that dried up but still spam her with sales codes. One fresh alert from InfoBounty catches my eye—some tabloid site offering cash for “exclusive updates on the Kate murder mystery.” Scavengers. I move the message to junk automatically.
Satisfied her inbox is clear of immediate threats, I open my own mail—mostly server alerts, freelance web-design gig invoices, and spam. So much spam.
I minimize windows, but sleep remains reluctant. My mind spirals through worst-case scenarios: The Five spotting Juno, cops tracing Hoover’s IP, Juno discovering the spyware. The biggest fear, though, is simpler—her looking at me with betrayal instead of trust.
I push back from the desk and pace between bookcase and bed, stepping over piles of comics. I force-march my thoughts into a mantra: Protect her first. Confess later.
Eventually exhaustion wins. I set phone alarms—one for sunrise recon of Juno’s building, one for the fake account drop. I crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling fan, counting rotations. Somewhere around the three-hundredth spin, I drift into shallow sleep populated by rubber Hoover masks and Juno’s scream turning into laughter I can’t quite reach.
The buzz of incoming mail snaps me awake at 4:06 a.m. I’m upright before consciousness fully returns, fingers flying across the keyboard. It’s nothing—just a social-media digest. But the adrenaline is pure rocket fuel. No going back to sleep now.
I open a blank notepad and start mapping tomorrow’s tasks:
Create a secure dropbox for Juno’s files.
Run facial-recognition on Arby’s final followers list vs. local arrest records.
Cross-reference the timestamp of masked intruders’ entry with city-grid power fluctuation data (someone cut cameras—maybe they hit power junctions?).
Buy a second, breathable mask.
Flowers for Juno—no, scratch that. Hoover wouldn’t send flowers.
Halfway through item five my phone vibrates.
Gage: U awake?
It’s followed by a bleary selfie with coffee. I chuckle and text back:
Insomnia posse never sleeps.
He thumbs-up reacts, then:
Gage: Seriously, anything I can do?
I hesitate, then type:
Know how to set up a shell corporation?
I follow it with a winking emoji.
Gage: (gif of Kermit flailing) Maybe ask me after caffeine.
I grin. Even at 4 a.m. I’m not alone.