The sun starts to rise, the pinks and oranges glowing across the eastern horizon as Raven finally turns onto the freeway and points her car south on the 85.
Toward Atlanta…
Who the fuck would she be going to see there?
Now that we’re on the highway, I can put several vehicles between us while maintaining an eye on her. If she realizes I am following her, not only won’t I get answers for Willow, but I’ll also have to deal with a very pissed off Raven.
She doesn’t want me anywhere near her or her business, and if she’s hiding something from her best friend, she certainly won’t want me knowing about it.
So why are you still following her?
I ask myself that question over and over again as the hours tick away along with the miles until the skyline of Atlanta appears in the distance.
Raven hasn’t made any stops—not even for gas, snacks, or a bathroom break. Wherever she’s going, whoever she’s meeting with, she’s a woman on a mission.
That causes the hard pit of dread in my stomach to grow.
By the time she finally exits the freeway and pulls into a residential neighborhood on the outskirts of the city, my jaw hurts from clenching it so tightly for so long.
Whatever this is…it can’t be anything good.
Not with the lies.
Not with the secrecy.
She slows and parks her car at the curb in front of a row of single-story ranch-style houses, and I pull to the curb several houses down from her and wait.
A few moments later, she climbs out, grabs her bag, and scans the street up and down, as if she’s expecting trouble.
The only trouble I see is that woman.
My stomach roils as Raven hustles up the driveway of the house she parked in front of, then rings the doorbell, again searching around her as if she’s expecting someone to jump out of the bushes or come barreling down the street at her.
From my angle, I can’t see who answers the door, but my grip on the steering wheel tightens, my hackles rising as she disappears inside.
Who the fuck is she meeting with?
Raven spends most of her time writing her little community stories and occasionally having an article about something random she’s latched onto picked up by a large publication. But this doesn’t seem like another story about women’s pay rates, the proliferation of AI in journalism, or whether pineapple belongs on pizza…
None of her typical focuses would cause her to be this nervous or secretive.
I pull out my phone and Google the address she went into, but all that comes back with is an LLC name. No other owner listed.
If that isn’t suspicious as fuck…
Of course, people put land and properties into trusts and other corporate structures all the time for completely legitimate reasons, but combined with Raven’s behavior, it feels an awful lot like whoever she’s meeting with doesn’t want to be identified.
I grit my jaw, toss my phone in the cup holder, cross my arms over my chest, and wait.
There’s nothing else I can do now short of walking up to that house, ringing the bell, and hoping whoever is inside with her isn’t so spooked by my arrival that I end up on the business side of a firearm.
Honestly, I’m more worried about Raven’s response than anything else.
She’s unpredictable in the worst way—except in her reactions to my presence.
Intervening when I’m not sure she needs any help isn’t going to get me answers. Unless there is some sign that she’s in trouble, I have to hang back and bide my time until I can confront her.
She has to come out sooner or later.
