Zay and Hunter look at him then back at each other.
“He’s right,” Hunter tells Zay. “If we want her to help us, we’re gonna have to be upfront.”
Zay drags his hand across his mouth, glancing at me and then at Hunter. “You want to tell her everything?”
“Well, not everything, since it’ll take all damn night,” Hunter says, “but we can tell her a little bit about what we do and let her sleep on that. Then, tomorrow, she can let us know if she wants to help us, and we can give her our whole background.”
Their whole background?
I can’t help thinking about how Katy made it seem like they were a mystery, and now they’re saying they’re going to tell me everything about them?
I wonder if it’s true?
Zay deliberates for a moment before nodding. “Fine, tell her. But only after we make a pact that what we say between the four of us, stays between the four of us. And if anyone breaks the pact, then they’re out. Kicked out of the group. Finished—”
“Okay, we get the picture,” Hunter cuts him off. “Jesus, Zay.”
“I’m just trying to protect us,” he stresses. “That’s all.”
Protect them from what, though?
“I know,” Hunter says, his voice softening. “And making a pact is fine. You just don’t need to be so intense about it.” He looks at me. “Are you okay with making that pact?”
I nod without a drop of hesitation, since I have no one to tell and nothing to lose really. “Of course.”
The edges of his lips tip up into a relieved smile then he looks at Jax. “Are good with that?”
Jax shrugs. “I have no problem with it.”
Hunter bobs his head up and down then looks at me. “Honestly, you already know some of it already.”
“You mean, like how you can track people’s numbers and stuff?” I ask, scooting forward in the seat.
His lips quirk. “That’s only a little bit of what we do. We can do a lot more things.”
“What sorts of things?” I ask while folding my arms on the back of the seat.
“Oh, we can do a lot of things,” Hunter says with a drop of playfulness in his tone.
Zay elbows him in the side. “Stick to the topic.”
Hunter blasts him with a dirty look, but his expression softens when he returns his focus to me. “While we can track people’s numbers—which FYI, we still need to work on yours more—our specialty is more PI type of stuff.”
“PI … As in a private investigator?” I ask with intrigue.
He nods, strands of his hair falling into his eyes. “Pretty much.”
“Wow … That’s awesome, but weird,” I say. “I mean, you guys are eighteen. How did you even get into this sort of stuff?”
“That’s a question to ask tomorrow,” Hunter explains. “For right now, all we need you to do is go back to your house and think about if you want to help us figure out why in the hell your family is off the grid.”
“Unless you already know,” Zay says, his gaze boring into me.
I carry his gaze. “I really don’t. I didn’t even know that until you guys told me.” What I do want to know, though, is how much they were able to find out about me. They said they found a few articles about my parents, but do they know about my possible involvement in their deaths, or how I can’t remember much about my past? While I’m not going to bring up the first, I can tell them the latter.
“I should probably tell you guys that I have some memory loss,” I admit. “I can’t really remember much about my past leading up to when I had to move in with my aunt and uncle.”
“Really?” Zay asks, and I nod. “Why?”
I swallow the lump wedged in my throat then shrug. “I’ve never been officially diagnosed, but I did see a therapist once, and he suggested it was from the trauma of my … my parents’ deaths.” I stare down at my lap, unable to look any of them in the eyes.
“Hey.” Fingers brush across my chin, startling me.
When I glance up, I find that Hunter is the one who just touched me. He also has a soft smile on his face.
“You don’t need to be ashamed of that,” he says. “Trust me; all of us understand the whole having a traumatic past thing.”
I swallow thickly. “Really?”
He nods, that kind smile remaining. “Yeah, really.”
I’m unsure why, but for some reason that makes me feel better, as if I’m not as much of a freak as I thought. It’s kind of a nice moment for me.
Well, until Zay mutters, “Shit.”
He’s looking at his phone.
Hunter flicks a glance at him. “What is it?”
He holds up the phone, showing video footage of what I think is the road that runs in front of our house. And on the road are headlights.
“You guys put a video camera up here?” I ask in surprise.
Zay lifts a shoulder like it’s no big deal. “It’s part of our protocol.”
My lips form an O as I struggle to process everything.
“I know it’s a lot to take,” Jax says to me. “It’ll get easier.”
“If she agrees to help us,” Zay intervenes. “If she doesn’t, it might get complicated if she doesn’t keep quiet about what she knows about us.”
“I’m not gonna tell anyone, if that’s what you’re implying,” I tell him, raising my chin in confidence. “I’m not a narc.”
“Good to know you think so,” he says with a smirk, “but I’ll have to see for myself.”
I narrow my eyes at him, about to smart off, when Hunter speaks first.
“I think that’s your aunt’s car,” he announces. “We should probably get you back to the house.”
“Good idea,” I agree, because the last thing I need right now is to get busted for sneaking out. Though I’m not positive anyone would really care.
Still, they seem eager to leave, Hunter jumping out of the car and scooting the seat forward.
I duck my head to climb out, and then Hunter starts to shut the door.
“Wait,” Jax says in a rush. “I thought we were going to trade numbers with her?”
Zay gives him a funny look. So does Hunter.
“I’ll give her your guys’ numbers while I walk her back to her house,” Hunter tells him. “And I can give you hers.”
“Okay.” Jax relaxes in the seat.
Hunter closes the door, snags ahold of my hand, and guides me back into the trees. He remains silent for a while as we hurry back toward my backyard.
“You won Jax over pretty quickly,” he abruptly remarks, moving a tree branch out of our way.
“I did?” I ask, nearly tripping on my face when I stumble on a rock. Luckily, Hunter has a hold of my hand and stops me from falling.
“He rarely talks to anyone, so yeah, I’d say you won him over pretty quickly.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I wonder as we reach the edge of my property.
He hunkers down low then moves forward, motioning for me to do the same. “It could be a good thing. Or a complicated thing.”
“How?” I whisper as we near the back of the house.
He just shrugs, creeping over to the edge of the house and peering around the corner. “Looks like your aunt hasn’t pulled up yet. You’re good to go.” He lets go of my hand and turns to me. “I’ll send you everyone’s number in a group text later tonight.”
I nod. “All right.”
He offers me a smile then moves to leave, but pauses and twists back around. “Raven, if you ever need a ride or anything at all, even if it’s just to talk, call us, okay? I know we haven’t been friends for very long, but when we decide to let someone into our group, we decide that we’re going to take care of them.”
I nod, his words nearly overwhelming me.
I have friends. More than one. And they want to take care of me.
It’s … a lot to process, and I’ll admit that I’m kind of wary about how long it’ll last once they get to know me.
Plus, what if I say I won’t help them? Are they just going to ditch me?
I could ask him this, but all I say is, “How many people have you brought into your group?”
The moonlight highlights his smile. “You’re the first.” With that, he turns and slinks away into the night.
15
Raven
I make it into the house before my aunt pulls up in the driveway. My uncle is still sitting in the kitchen when I enter and is staring at his phone while grumbling stuff underneath his breath. I quietly sneak up to my room and lock the door. About a minute later, I hear my aunt and Dixie May walk into the house, their loud voices carrying up the stairway. From what I can overhear, apparently, Dixie May was at cheerleading tryouts, and then the two of them went shopping.
Eventually, someone knocks on my door and I tense.
“Oh Raven, are you alive in there?” Dixie May asks from the other side. When I make no effort to respond, she says, “FYI, you can keep my makeup case. My mom bought me all new stuff today... You should try using some of my makeup. Maybe it’ll help fix that hideous face of yours.”
Again, I don’t utter a word, lying on my bed and staring up at the ceiling. Eventually, she grows tired of taunting me and stomps off to her room.
One she’s gone, I let out a breath and allow my mind to drift to Hunter and his friends.
What happened tonight seems so surreal, as if I dreamt it. Maybe I did. Perhaps this is all just a dream. If it is, though, I kind of want to stay in it since, for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel so alone.
Still, I’m eager to know just who Hunter Hathingford really is, his background, why they’re doing what they do? And Zay and Jax too. Are they spies? Detectives? Sure, Hunter tracked the number on my phone and said he learned how to from a PI, but he’s also eighteen, and a spy or detective seems sort of out there—
I jolt as my phone buzzes.
Jesus, I’m jumpy tonight.
Telling myself to chill out, I pick up my phone, and then frown.
The message is from Unknown.
Unknown: I know something that you don’t. It’s about a little girl named Raven who lost something significant to her.
Attached to the message is a photo—a photo of the pendant my uncle just took from me.
I’d think it was my uncle who sent this message, but the pendant is lying in the snow, and we don’t have snow here right now. However, there’s a ton of snow in Wyoming, which makes me wonder if this photo was taken a long time ago. But then that leaves a lot of questions, starting with...
“Who the heck is this?” I mutter.
Unsure what else to do, I decide to text back and ask, even though I doubt they’ll tell me.
Me: Who the heck is this?
Unknown: I’m your worst nightmare, little Raven. I’m the person who’s going to make you pay for what you’ve done.
My brows knit at the mention of little Raven.
Why does that name sound so familiar...
Memories tug at my mind...
“Come here, little Raven,” he whispers, the smell of blood touching my nostrils. “Let’s see if you can fly—”
I blink, the memory shattering. My head pounds as I sink onto the bed, tears stinging my eyes.
I’m unsure what I saw or what it means, but what I do know is that at one point in my life, someone used to call me little Raven.
After massaging my temples for several minutes, the headache subsides, and I’m left wondering where the sudden onset of memories came from. And what does pendant has to do with anything? And more importantly, who the heck is messaging me?
I had thought moving here was a chance for me to start over and figure out my life. And while things are different, my life has gotten confusingly strange, as if me moving here set off something.
But what?
16
Raven
“You got that right swing down, right?” my dad asks as we cruise down the road in his old Camaro, music blasting from his iPod shuffle, his “old man music,” as my mom calls it, playing from some speakers sitting on the back seat.
He’s been working on fixing the car up but hasn’t gotten very far yet. The leather seats are torn, the outside is primed but not painted, and the stereo is missing.
The windows are down, letting the warm summer breeze gust into the cab, blowing strands of my hair into my face as I nod and raise a fist in front of me. “Like this?” I swing against the air, hoping I’ve got the right form.
My dad smiles as he lifts his hand for a high-five, and I smile proudly as I tap my palm against his.
“That’s the perfect form.” He removes his cigarette from between his lips then ashes it out the window. “Keep it up and you might just end up becoming a fighter when you grow up.”
“Like Momma?” I ask, crossing my fingers he’ll say yes.
My momma is the coolest person I know. She’s so tough. A lot of people think she’s my sister, but my momma tells me that they only think that because she had me when she was young. I’m not even sure why anyone thinks she’s related to me at all. She has blonde hair, where I have black; our eyes are different colors; and unlike hers, my cheeks are covered in freckles. I don’t like my freckles that much. A lot of kids tease me about them. They say I look like I have dirt on my face.
“Yep, just like your momma.” Dad puts his cigarette out in the ashtray then looks in the rearview mirror, messing with his scraggly brown hair.
My dad doesn’t like to dress up. He wears a lot of old T-shirts and jeans. But today, he put on nice pants and a button-down shirt. He also made me wear a dress, which yuck, I hate dresses. The one I’m wearing right now is black. I’m glad for that because I hate bright colors, like pink, even more than I hate dresses. But I still don’t get why he made me wear a dress or why my mom braided my hair. They usually let me do whatever I want. Today, though, they were all about me being on my best behavior while we go to wherever the heck we’re going. My dad has also checked to make sure I remember how to swing a punch, like, a ton of times.
I don’t know why he’s asking this so much. I’m the only seven-year-old I know who knows how to throw a wicked right hook. I even got suspended from school once for hitting another kid. He deserved it for pantsing me. My parents thought so, too, and argued with the principal about it, which is why I no longer go to that school. Well, that and we moved recently.
The move had to do with me getting into the fight. At least, that’s what I think I heard my parents whispering about late one night when they thought I was asleep. They were worried about me getting in too much trouble and drawing too much attention.
“All right, here we go,” my dad mumbles as he pulls up to a set of tall gates.
We’ve been driving for what feels like hours and, until this gate, I haven’t seen anything other than fields, trees, and old gas stations.
“Where are we?” I ask, kneeling up in the seat to try to see over the gates, but there are too many trees in my way.
Dad pushes the shifter into park and stares at the gates with a frown on his face. He’s not usually the kind of guy who frowns a lot, so it’s weird to see one on his face.
“Dad?” I say when he doesn’t seem like he’s going to answer me. “What is this place?”
He glances at me. “This, Ravenlee, is a stipulation.”
“Am I in trouble?” I ask, glancing at the gate again. He only calls me Ravenlee when he’s mad at me or stressed out.
He shakes his head. “No, you’re not in trouble. If anything, I am.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know … It’s …” He offers me a smile. “You don’t need to worry about it. This is grown up stuff. All you need to worry about today is making sure that, if anything bad happens, you swing your fist like your life depends on it, got it?”
I nod, wanting to make him proud of me. “Got it.”
He starts to smile, but it fades when the gates start to open.
>
Sighing, he drives forward through the entrance and turns onto a paved driveway that leads to the biggest house I’ve ever seen.
“Whoa, who lives here?” I ask with my nose pressed against the window.
The house is so huge that it has three floors.
“A business acquaintance,” my dad replies as he pulls up to the front doors.
Two guys are standing on the front porch, and just behind them is a kid around my age with hair so blonde it nearly looks while. Even with how far away he is, I can tell he looks sad.
I turn to my dad. “Is that boy your business acquaintance?”
Shaking his head, he puts the shifter into park, turns off the engine, and then hesitantly reaches for the door. “No.”
He’s being really weird. It makes me worry, even though he said I don’t need to. I want to ask him questions, but he opens the door and climbs out.
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to follow him or if I should stay in the car.
“Come on, Ravenlee,” he says then closes the door.
He called me Ravenlee again.
Something’s wrong.
But I get out anyway, trusting my dad, and hurry around to the front of the car where he’s waiting for me. He takes my hand when I reach him then pulls me with him as he starts up the pathway toward the guys.
“You made it,” the taller one says to my dad. Then his gaze flits to me. “And you brought the little raven.”
My dad’s hold on my hand tightens. “I didn’t really have a choice, did I?”
The man stares at me for a beat with eyes a strange color of grey, like storm clouds, then he looks at my dad. “No, you didn’t.” Again, the man with stormy eyes glances at me.
He’s starting to make me feel really squirmy, so I look at the boy instead.
He looks even sadder up close, so I smile at him. And for a moment, he smiles back at me. But then his smile shifts to worry as the man with stormy grey eyes looks at him.
“Go and get the others,” he tells him.
The Art of Being Friends Page 12
