Page 78 of Raven

Archer calls. I expect him to go into a detailed discussion of why, how, and what the attack meant, or at least to tell me Alex Ortiz’s take on this. But all he asks is, “Why her?”

I wait for a moment to think about the answer. If Marlow doesn’t know about my previous interactions with Maddy, Archer is definitely getting a whiff of something going on. I’m wondering if he’s suspecting some connection to Tsariuk.

He speaks before I answer. “Remember what you told me about women?”

I do.

“Women are the unnecessary evil. And that’s too much credit,” he quotes my words from only months ago.

I don’t know why I said what I said except that I never cared much for any woman.

“You said they make things complicated,” I retort. And I have to agree with that one.

“I think you were wrong, Raven, and you are starting to figure it out,” he says. And just like that, the conversation is over.

Ain’t that the truth? Maddy is the opposite of evil and is becoming a necessity that I’m trying to figure out how to fight off.

And as much as I need to get my grip on yet another complication, Maddy-slash-Milena, I don’t even hesitate when I pick up the phone and dial her number.

She picks up after only two rings. “Hello.” Her voice is soft.

“Feeling better?” I ask, wondering if she took a shower already, imagining water trickling over her naked body, wishing I was there with her.

“I feel just as I felt before—fine,” she says calmly, though I don’t believe her.

I don’t know what to say, how to make sure she knows I’m not calling fishing for another night together, but I am genuinely worried about her.

“Wanna talk?” I ask, hoping it’s a therapy for her.

“About what?” she asks, but there’s no hostility in her voice.

“Tell me something about yourself, Maddy,” I repeat my words from days ago.

This time, she laughs a little. “What would you like to know, Raven?”

And this time, I know she wants to talk.

30

RAVEN

Mayflower: Nine o’clock. My place.

The message from Maddy comes early afternoon, and from then on I have a hard time focusing on anything else.

She is taking charge, and I can’t fucking wait to see what she meant last night. If that were a date, I would’ve brought flowers or a bottle of wine. But I am not a fool. We are not dating. And I don’t want to look stupid by even attempting to play this game.

I’m wary and not quite sure what this evening is about when I change into a fresh black T-shirt and jeans and study myself in the mirror.

Five minutes to nine, I pull up at her house and park my bike, getting tense with every step up the stone path toward her door.

For a second, I’m startled by a shadow on her porch.

It’s Ali.

Fuck. It completely slipped my mind, despite the fact that Nilanski called me this morning when he took over the day shift.

“We installed the motion sensors here and around the house,” Ali reports in his monotonous voice. “They are connected both to Nilanski and my phones. I didn’t want to leave, as she didn’t let me know if she was going out tonight or not.”

---