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I should move. Do something. Anything. I was just making things more awkward by watching, even if it was my instinct to observe.
My wet pants still clung to my legs, so I skirted toward the restroom. I passed Hunter at the door just as he caught Mitch’s attention.
“Look man, I spilled my coffee before. I know I have sticky hands—I’m assuming that was the reason for wiping them.”
“God, yes, it was.” Mitch rubbed the bridge of his nose with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry it came across differently . . . ”
“No worries.”
I made my way to the bathroom and dried my pants as well as I could under the air dryer. After a couple of minutes and a rather quizzical look from an elderly man, I gave up. The pants would have to go into the wash as soon as I got home anyway, and home was only a quarter-hour walk. I’d say my goodbyes and leave. Maybe this was a sign that I should be home working.
I left the restroom and paused this time as I passed Hunter and Mitch. Mitch’s gaze slowly travelled down Hunter’s tattooed arms. He gave him a cute, crooked smile. “Well, have a good day!”
Hunter flexed his arm muscles as if he were aware of their appeal. “Yeah, you too.” He rolled back in a swift move, and I jumped to avoid colliding. “Liam. Nice friend of yours. Sorry about the drama.”
“I was tempted to pull out my notebook and start recording it all.”
He laughed.
I actually wasn’t joking.
We approached our table. Quinn’s voice rumbled through the air, his words hitting me with a slam.
“There’s just something . . . off about that Liam guy. He’s too stiff and awkward. For all his brains, he doesn’t have an ounce of smarts around people. I mean, you saw him just now. He couldn’t even stick up for that guy. It’s no wonder he seems not to have any friends—” Quinn jerked in his seat. “Ouch, what’d you kick me for, Shannon? That’s going to leave a bruise.”
I stopped at the table, but didn’t bother to sit. Why stay where I wasn’t wanted? And besides, I had more important things to worry about. Like getting out of these pants and writing my column.
“Ah, crap.” Quinn saw his mistake. I stopped him before he gave me an insincere apology. If he was sorry at all, he was just sorry he got caught.
“No, it’s okay, Quinn,” I said. “For all your social ease, you don’t have the brains to know when to shut up. I get it.”
His mouth dropped open, and Hunter slapped the back of my leg. “Oh, we’re going to get along really well.”
I tilted my head at him. “I’ve got to get going. The party page won’t write itself.”
With that, I left. Back to my big, cold apartment to hang out with Old Faithful, my laptop.
Chapter 4
At nine o’clock on Tuesday evening, only Hannah, the chief, and I occupied the Scribe’s offices. The bright fluorescent lights flickered tiredly above us, as if complaining about the long day. My fingers ached from typing, but I still had tasks to accomplish. I could work from home, but I cringed at the idea of hearing my clacking fingertips echo in the emptiness; at least there was a coziness here that absorbed the silence.
After rewriting my third party page piece a fourth time, I submitted the print-ready version to the chief.
One thing down, now on to the next: telephoning Beckman Hall. I was going to find out everything I could about The Raven and make one heck of a column out of it.
Hannah startled, drawing my attention to her. “Liam!” She tucked a strand of mahogany hair behind her ear and bit her bottom lip as she glanced at a piece of paper in her hand. “Come take a look at this.”
I stretched out of my chair and moved around to her desk. Peering over her shoulder, I read the typed letter addressed to the editor of the opinions page.
The Raven’s gonna lose his wings
We’ll smile while he sings and sings
Then we’d love to watch him fly
Through a deep, dark, angry sky
“Who sent this?” I asked, grabbing the torn envelope. No return address or postage. Whoever wrote it had to carry it into Scribe’s offices.
“I cannot and will not publish this,” Hannah said as I lifted up her phone and dialed the chief’s extension.
He answered gruffly, and I briefly summarized the threatening letter.
“Bring it in,” he snapped, “and I’ll take a look.”
I hung up the phone. “Chief wants to take a look. Can I take it to him?”
“Yes, of course.” With trembling hands, she handed it over and I scanned it for clues. Surely the police would have some tricks to figure out who wrote this? They’d dust for prints and record the threat, should anything ever happen to . . .
