Page 22 of Carver’s Crusade

By the time everything’s done, I plate it up and pour myself a glass of Chardonnay. My hands are steady now, the earlier tension fading into something quieter but no less present.

I carry everything to my bed, settling against the headboard with my laptop open. I put my phone on the charger, but keep it close by, just in case.

If Tony wants to play games, I’m not going to stay in the dark. I know Tony attacked me. He wasn’t hanging with a friend. What kind of friend gives someone an alibi? Did he know why Tony needed the alibi? I need to learn more about his friends, because I’m not just up against him. I’m up against his friends, too.

I take a bite, chew, swallow, then pull up his gym's website. He has links to his Facebook page and other social media. I start with Facebook. The gym’s account has what one would expect. Several before-and-after photos of his clients are intermixed with even more photos of Tony. Images of Tony teaching a class, Tony giving one-on-one motivation, and Tony preening in competitions. There are also several of Tony simply preening. The man loves images of himself.

I searched the photos but didn’t find many of him hanging out with other men, aside from clients. I altered my search to find Tony’s personal Facebook account. Tony Martin is too common a name, but I’m able to locate his account after a few minutes of searching.

Lucky for me, his account isn’t private.

Scrolling through, I see several photos of him attending sporting events and participating in outside activities. There are photos of him camping with a group of men. He’s holding up a string of fish, sporting a wide smile. I'm starting to see some of the same faces popping up in different photos. Getting out my notebook, I jot down the names of those tagged in the photos. It doesn’t take me long to have a list of five names that appear most often. Names that show up in photo after photo, dating back years.

The first name was easy to identify. He’s the same man who covered for Tony and protected him from the accusation of the woman Tony abused. Paul Storr. He’s a member of Tony’s gym. He works as a manager for a bank. I pull up his Facebook account and find several of the same names and faces. The biggest thing I notice as I go through their accounts and the others' is the lack of women in the photos. It’s always the men. Always the same six men hanging out together. Like they’re their own little gang.

Paul Storr.

Scott Tyler.

Jay Banks.

Cliff Mellor.

Andrew Rollings.

Time to start digging into these men.

By the time I finish searching through these men’s lives, I feel confident that they’re doing more than giving Tony an alibi. These are not good men. These are men women should never feel comfortable around. I put my computer away and wash my dishes before crawling into bed. I’m resigned to having a nightmare. My subconscious doesn’t disappoint.

I’m running.

My feet slap against cold pavement, each step sending sharp jolts of pain up my legs. I’m barefoot. I know I’m barefoot, but I don’t remember losing my shoes. I don’t remember how I got here.

The streets are empty.

San Diego should never feel like this—silent, hollow, wrong. The streetlights flicker overhead, casting weak pools of yellow light that barely touch the ground. Shadows stretch too long, too dark, swallowing everything just beyond my reach.

I’m only wearing sleep shorts and a tank top. My skin prickles with cold, with exposure, with fear.

“Raven…”

The sound of my name slithers through the air.

I freeze for half a second, my breath catching, before I force myself to move again.

No. No, no, no.

“Raaaven…”

Tony’s voice is closer now. Amused. Mocking.

“Where you goin’, sweetheart?”

My heart slams against my ribs as I sprint harder, lungs burning, throat tight. I turn the corner sharply, nearly slipping—

—and stop dead.

A man steps out of the shadows.