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)
HOOVER: Get somewhere public NOW. Message me when safe.
Heat prickles my scalp—equal parts fear and a ridiculous flutter that he’s protecting me. I clench the phone, scan the paths. Nobody else nearby.
On it.
I power-walk to the gate, heart rabbiting. The air smells of damp grass and stone dust, and every creak of branches sounds like footsteps.
Once I’m outside the wrought-iron fence, I suck in a deep breath. I duck into a florist across the street—windows fogged, lilies overpowering the room. The clerk barely looks up as I hover by a shelf of sympathy candles, texting Hoover.
Inside shop on Maple. Crowded. Still feel shaky.
HOOVER: Stay put. Send description of the man.
I type a quick rundown—height, hair, brand shirt, unsettling smile. His reply is immediate:
HOOVER: Possible tail. Do not return home alone. Meet me at the loft.
Okay. On my way.
HOOVER: Use back entrance. Code is 1948.
The year Herbert Hoover died. Nerd.
I’m at the loft, safe behind double locks, yet my adrenaline still spikes. I pace, replaying Curly Creep’s every word. Hoover’s right… killers might be sniffing around. So what do I do? Retail therapy, obviously.
I flop onto the worn couch in the corner, open Amazon, and type “Ghostface mask high-quality”. The Scream franchise is a comfort blanket. Plus, Hoover deserves an upgrade from Dead President Chic. I add a deluxe latex version to my cart—overnight shipping—and for good measure toss in a voice changer shaped like a vintage cassette.
A text flashes while I’m checking out:
HOOVER: Standing order: if odd strangers engage, disengage. Trust your read, Juno.
Warmth floods me despite the situation. This man—whoever he is—sees me. Really sees me. I thumb back:
Roger that, boss. PS: You allergic to horror classics? Asking for a friend.
Three dots. Then:
HOOVER: Horror is a lifestyle. Why?
I grin.
No reason.
Package confirmed, arrival tomorrow before 8 a.m. Perfect. If I’m going to chase corporate killers, I’m doing it with cinematic flair.
I set the phone down, sink into the couch, and press my face to the worn fabric. The day’s events catch up all at once—podcast hustle, graveside grief, halo-smiled stranger, protective masked vigilante. Tears seep hot and silent.
“I miss you,” I whisper into the empty space. “But I’m not alone. I’ve got help. Weird, rubber-faced help—but help.”
The emptiness doesn’t answer. Neither does the universe. But my phone lights again—Hoover:
HOOVER: ETA 20. Stay sharp.
I wipe my cheeks, shove determination back into place, and sit upright. Justice, like bills and jump-scares, doesn’t quit—and neither will I.
12
Arrow
I jog the last block to the Riverside loft, rubber Hoover mask stuffed in my backpack, pulse hammering hard enough to fog my sunglasses. Juno texted five minutes ago—Here. Upstairs. The projector’s humming like a beehive—did you install surround sound?—and the mix of pride and terror in my chest is a ridiculous cocktail.
Inside, the air smells faintly of printer ink and cold metal. Fluorescent strips buzz overhead. I tug the mask on before I reach the office door; gripping the warped latex nose like a talisman and sliding back into the deeper, darker version of myself she thinks she’s met.
She’s already seated at the central workstation—my old gaming tower repurposed as a surveillance juggernaut—lit by three curved monitors. Her ponytail swings as she scrolls; blue glow outlines the determination in her jaw. Seeing her in this space—my space—feels intimate in a way I’m not ready to unpack.
“Hoover, hey,” she says, spinning when I step inside. “I loaded cemetery coordinates into the city-wide CCTV network.” She gestures to the map overlay. “Think we can track Creepy McNo-Watch?”
“Let’s find out.” I lower into the chair next to her, the mask squeaking. “City traffic cams keep seven-day rolling backups. If he walked any main road, we’ll tag him.”
I launch a remote shell, hijack an unsecured CCTV node (thank you, lazy municipal IT dept), and start feeding YoloV5 an image of the HOLO-BURST shirt logo. My fingers dance faster than my thoughts, and behind the mask my breath grows hot and shallow.
Juno leans in, chin almost touching my shoulder. “Smells like mint gum in here,” she murmurs.
“That’s the tower’s thermal paste,” I deadpan through the modulator. She snickers, and the sound skitters down my spine.
A dozen thumbnails populate—blurry street angles of pedestrians. Creepy McNo-Watch—designated Target Alpha—appears twice but each time the bastard’s head tilts down, baseball cap brim hiding his face perfectly. He knows camera locations. Professional, or instructed.
“Ugh,” Juno groans. “He’s like a vampire avoiding mirrors.”
I scrub frames manually, no luck. “Whoever he is, he studied the grid.”
Juno crosses her arms. “Great. So he knows we’re looking.”
“Maybe,” I concede, minimizing the feed. “Let’s shift.” I slap the keyboard, drag up the dossier I spent the morning ripping from SEC filings: corporate hierarchy for HOLO-BURST LLC. CEO, shell directors, venture-cap partners. Eight smug headshots appear on the left-most monitor.
“Pick your poison,” I say.
She studies each face—wrinkled executive, slick marketing bro, investor with Botox eyes. Finally she shakes her head. “Not cemetery guy. None of them.”