Page 75 of Raven

I would really fucking love to answer his question, but I can’t even mention the possibility of Tsariuk’s involvement in this scenario.

“Hard to say,” I say. “It’s probably Butcher trying to intimidate us. Don’t know. Maybe you can get the IT team to figure out where the guys came from.”

Marlow scratches his head. “And what were you two doing together on the street?”

I stare Marlow straight in the eyes. “Walking.”

Archer chuckles through his nose and squints at me as he takes a drag of his cigarette. He knows something is going on with her and me, and that’s okay. Hopefully, that’s the only suspicion he has.

“I want her to have bodyguards,” I say, tensing at the possibility of questions that will arise.

“She should. So should you. And all of us,” Marlow says grimly.

In a minute, I walk the path toward Maddy’s house.

She is in the kitchen, making sandwiches on the kitchen island, and glances at me when I walk in and approach the kitchen island from the other side.

“You all right?” She seems okay, but you never know.

“I’m fine,” she replies without care. She probably won’t tell me if she isn’t anyway.

“Scared?”

“No.”

Huh.

“Maddy, look at me.”

She raises her beautiful eyes at me, trying to look indifferent, but there’s a glaze in her eyes, an indifference that’s too suspicious and not quite forced.

“I’m sorry this happened.”

She shrugs. “Not your fault.”

I scratch my brow with my thumb, feeling like shit about this situation and not knowing how to get through to her and make sure she is okay.

Her eyes dart to my hand. “Wash your hands, please.”

I notice there’s blood on mine. I don’t argue. I go to her bathroom and wash the blood from my hands and the droplets on my neck.

When I come back, she carries on with making sandwiches. Two plates.

“Hungry?” she asks.

I’m not, but before I can answer, she pushes a small plate with a sandwich toward me.

I don’t remember the last time someone cooked for me besides Mac.

Angelica did. She cooked lasagna and wanted to play house. I hate lasagna. If one were to create a food metaphor for a murder scene, it would be that dish.

This is just a sandwich. Untimely, considering my shirt is soaked with someone’s blood and we just survived an attack.

But I take a seat on the bar stool by the counter and eat the sandwich. Maddy does the same across from me, standing up. Our eyes meet as we chew as if on reflex.

A drop of blood is still on her cheek from where she probably touched herself after nicking the guy. Her hair is a bit messy, and she looks… Fuck, she looks beautiful.

“I’m assigning guards to you,” I tell her.

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