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I look at the menu, too, trying to figure out what I want today when, out of the corner of my eye, I catch Raven sticking her hand into her pocket and pulling out some cash. Three dollar bills to be exact. It clicks then why she’s being weird about ordering food.
She pockets the money quickly as her phone buzzes. She takes it out, checks the messages, and frowns.
“Bad news?” I wonder.
She startles, then looks up at me and shakes her head. “No … I don’t know.”
“Is it them again?” Harlow asks her.
“I …” Raven hesitantly glances at me then at Harlow.
“Oh, don’t worry about Hunter,” Harlow says. “He’s the person who I was gonna ask for help tracking them down.”
Wait … Did she tell Raven I’m one of the owners of The Raven Three, something that’s supposed to remain anonymous?
Goddammit, Harlow.
While Raven isn’t looking at me, I glare at Harlow, but she just rolls her eyes.
“Stop looking at me like that. Raven’s totally trustworthy.”
“How can you be so sure? You’ve known her for like, what? Thirty minutes?” I snap. Of course, when Raven tenses, I feel like a total douchebag. “Sorry,” I tell Raven. “I just … No one’s supposed to know who owns my business. It’s … Well, it’s important that I keep it a secret.”
“I promise I won’t say anything,” she tells me, offering me the saddest smile I’ve ever seen. “Trust me; I get wanting to keep shit a secret. And if you don’t want to help me, I totally get that, too.”
Jesus, those eyes … the sadness in them … it’s swallowing me whole right now.
Maybe that’s why I say what I say next. Or maybe I’m really just as stupid as my father says I am.
“No, I’ll help you,” I tell her, and relief washes over her pretty features.
“Awesome,” Harlow says then pushes open the door. “I have to use the bathroom. If the waitress comes while I’m gone, order me a chocolate shake with extra cherries, a burger without pickles, and a large order of fries.” She climbs out of the car, shuts the door, and then heads inside.
Silence briefly stretches between Raven and me as she stares down at her phone.
“So, I’m guessing from the way you’re staring at your phone that you received a text from someone anonymous and want me to track it down,” I say, breaking the silence.
Nodding, she glances up at me. “It’s from an unknown number.”
“Can I see it?” I start to reach for her phone, but she wraps her fingers around it.
“Before I show you, can you promise not to ask me questions about the contents of the message?”
“I never do that with my clients.” And usually, I don’t care. With her, though … I’m curious about her. Where she comes from. Who she is.
Why she looks so sad.
“Thanks.” Then she takes a deep breath and hands me the phone, showing the message.
Unknown: I know who you are, and I know what you did.
Okay, yeah, I want to ask her questions, yet I know I can’t.
So, instead, I say, “I can definitely look into this. How long it’ll take, though, all depends on what sort of phone the person sent this from. If they just used a blocking app from their own phone, it’ll be easy. If it’s a burner phone, it might take a bit.” I dig my own phone out of my pocket. “I can tell you right now which one it’ll be.”
I swipe my finger across the screen, open the scanning app, and then put it close enough to her phone so that I can scan it.
She watches in fascination. “Where did you learn how to do this sort of thing?”
