Page 62 of Raven

“And your God is okay with this unnecessary violence?” I ask.

His jaw locks. “Do you think he’s okay with me saving 225 children in a refugee camp in Yemen?”

That statement makes me want to read his file.

“I suppose so,” I say, knowing something else is coming.

“Do you suppose he will forgive me for killing twenty terrorists while doing so?”

“Maybe you can ask your God.”

“He’s everyone’s God.”

I chuckle. “Sure. Send my regards. And have a good night.”

I start walking off, thinking I need to know more about this Ali Baba, the defender of women’s honor. And more about his religion.

More importantly, I wonder if the people I saved in my life will say a word for me to God because there are sure to be many more who I hurt.

I reach my motorcycle parked at the beach when my phone dings with a notification. I pull it out and halt when I read the message from an unknown number.

Unknown: Nice family you have.

Attached is a picture.

My insides turn icy-cold. I know exactly where we were when it was taken, by the medical center. I swear, there were no people around us. Nevertheless, it’s a good-quality shot taken from no more than a hundred feet away.

It’s Maddy, Sonny, and I.

I knew that bringing Maddy into my life would have consequences. She is the butterfly effect, my personal chaos theory.

And here we are.

Someone is already watching us.

Someone knows we are together, whatever “together” means.

Someone thinks she is my liability.

Fuck.

24

RAVEN

Staying away from Maddy for two days is complicated. My thoughts are almost constantly interrupted by visions of her from our brief encounters.

Discipline, I tell myself. But I’m getting impatient.

I can’t sleep lately. Reading doesn’t help much. I find myself spending evenings flipping through her files, social media archives, and videos. I’m reliving Milena Tsariuk’s college years, and I know it’s bad, bad, bad. Worse than any addiction. I watched dozens of her videos—birthdays, club dancing, a party, another party, pictures with her father, though there’s only one picture with her late mother. I’m surprised so much of her life was on public display, considering who her father is. There’s her BFF—actual Maddy, taking a video of Milena studying, her lying on the bed, her legs raised, white-socked feet against the wall as she sings something.

I can’t look away. No one on this island knows this Milena Tsariuk.

Milena—Maddy—Milena—Maddy. My mind flips between the two versions of her, occasionally getting a glitch.

When I manage to peel my eyes off the phone screen, it’s usually late into the night. And I can’t sleep until I either take care of my hard-on or take my notebook and write down my thoughts.

And then I’m up at dawn, at my alcove by the ocean, smoking away my obsession and feeling like something extraordinary will soon happen.

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