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)
That thought settles something inside me. This operation may be built on lies, but the foundation—keeping Juno alive—is rock-solid truth. And as I queue up a script to scrape police blotters for fresh leads, I promise myself again: I’ll walk through hell in a Herbert Hoover mask if that’s what it takes.
For now, hell can wait until daylight.
5
Juno
Morning sunlight sneaks through the gap in my blackout curtains, doing its best impression of an interrogation lamp. I groan, burying my face in the pillow that still smells faintly of lavender detergent and broken sleep. Images from last night flicker—rubber Hoover mask, tinny voice modulator, pinky promise under a busted alley light.
Did I really meet a stranger from the dark web?
Yup. Sure did. And somehow, instead of feeling like I should hand my life over to a risk-assessment therapist, there’s an unexpected bubble of relief in my chest. I have an ally. A weird, historically themed ally—but an ally.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Friday, 8:14 a.m. Beneath the time sits a text thread labeled Arrow:
Arrow: Outside with caffeine. Do I get a hero’s welcome or nah?
I smile despite the knot of secrets squeezing my ribs. Arrow’s weekly-morning coffee delivery is sacred tradition—predating Arby’s death, predating even my influencer glow-up. Like clockwork, my best friend arrives with steaming lattes and whatever pastry the barista claims is “life-changing.”
I drag myself out of bed, shrug on a giant cardigan that doubles as a blanket, and shuffle to the front door. When I open it, Arrow stands there in jeans, a gray Henley, and a smile bright enough to power small appliances. He brandishes two biodegradable cups like trophy goblets.
“Behold,” he declares, “the elixir of functionality.”
“And sugar?” I ask, taking mine.
“Four pumps vanilla, two pumps hope,” he confirms.
I snort a laugh and step aside. Arrow slips in, and surveys my living room. The couch is still strewn with notebooks, the corkboard looms like a crime-drama prop. I cross my fingers he doesn’t notice the fresh manila folder labeled DARKLINK INTEL tucked beneath a throw pillow.
He lifts his cup in cheers. “To surviving another week.”
“Barely,” I mutter, sipping. Vanilla hits my tongue like a merciful sedative. “What about you? Crash before midnight?”
Arrow’s smile tilts. “Not really. I had… tech stuff.”
That tracks. He freelances computer security for Maddox Security—big hangar-style compound out near the train depot. Nerd paradise. “Patch any digital holes?” I ask.
“A few.” His gaze flicks to the corkboard, then quickly back to me. “So, uh, what did you get up to after I left?”
My heartbeat attempts parkour. Lie like your life depends on it, Juno. “Oh, nothing dramatic.” I fake a yawn. “Watched trashy reality TV until my brain melted. Fell asleep on the couch.”
Arrow’s brow arches. The expression screams human lie detector and I suddenly wonder if he’s installed software in my face. “Reality TV, huh? Which show?”
“Love… Island… Monsters,” I improvise, instantly regretting everything.
His lips twitch. “That the one where contestants date while wearing horror-movie prosthetics?”
“Exactly!” I latch onto the lifeline. “They did a whole Franken-couple episode.”
Arrow chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re a fascinating creature, Junebug.” He sets his coffee on the side table. “Any big plans today?”
You mean besides compiling evidence for a masked vigilante meetup? Totally chill. “Might KonMari my closet,” I say breezily. “All about sparking joy.”
He hums, unconvinced. “No investigative rabbit holes?”
“Arrow.” I widen my eyes in innocent-puppy mode. “I promised you I’d take a breather.”
Technically true—just not from covert operations. From telling him about covert operations.
He studies me a moment longer, then sighs. “Good. You need rest.” He retrieves a bakery bag from his backpack, producing two cinnamon cruffins. “Bribe for staying off conspiracy sites.”
I gasp. “Cruffins? The black-market pastry?” Saint Pierce’s artisanal bakery sells out by 5 a.m. daily.
“Pulled some strings,” he says, puffing with mock arrogance. “Guy owed me after I debugged his POS system.”
I tear into flaky layers, caramelized sugar dusting my cardigan. Arrow leans against the bookshelf, sipping his coffee, content to watch me inhale breakfast like a gremlin. Comfortable silence blooms which is a rare oasis amid weeks of tension.
Too soon, guilt creeps in. If he knew where I’ll be tonight, he’d blow a microchip.
“So…” Arrow wipes sugar from my chin with his thumb, the casual intimacy making my pulse stutter. “Maddox has me running a remote penetration test at noon. After that, I’m free. Want to hang? Maybe binge more… Love Island Monsters?”
My stomach sinks. “Aw, I’d love to but I, uh, scheduled a therapy session.” Half-lie. I should schedule therapy.
Arrow nods slowly. “That’s good. Proud of you.”
Guilt level: expert. I stuff the rest of the cruffin into my mouth so I don’t have to talk.
Arrow’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen—green code wallpaper telling—and grimaces. “Boss texting early. Duty calls.”
He moves toward the door, then pauses. “Seriously, Junebug, you need anything—text. Even if it’s just someone to ridicule trash TV with.”