Free Stranger on Raven's Ridge by Jenna Ryan Page A

Italian,” Aidan revealed while she treated his scraped knuckles. “His gangland values—yeah, I know that’s a contradiction in terms—come from the old school. No gratuitous killing. He targets specific victims for specific purposes. By eliminating the purpose, I eliminated his motive for targeting you.”
    Raven didn’t know what to say to that, not then or fifteen minutes later when they arrived at the Ravenspell campsite.
    An open fire burned high and wide beyond the rapidly expanding tent grounds as she struggled to absorb the truth behind Aidan’s “death.”
    “You can yell at me if it makes you feel better, Raven.” The object of her frustration draped an arm over her shoulders. “Or we could kickbox, and I’ll give you first strike.”
    In spite of everything, his teasing tone brought a smile. “Such a tempting offer. When the Novocain impeding my brain function wears off, I might even take you up on it. In the meantime, and setting the big stuff aside, what are we doing here?”
    “Hiding in a crowd for the moment.”
    “Hiding in, alone in—crowds appear to have multiple uses for you.”
    “I’m also hungry.” He steered her toward a collection of lowered tailgates and the mouthwatering scents of grilled chicken, buttered corn and steamed clams. “If you spot Fergus Smith anywhere, give me a heads-up, because your cousin lost sight of him an hour ago.”
    “Steven’s not a sleuth, and if you don’t trust Fergus Smith, why not run an ID on him? My guess is you have open access Captain Beckett’s computer.”
    “I had to earn some kind of income while I was here.”
    “And Steven facilitated that by—let me think—providing you with an internet connection at Blume House, maybe?”
    “You have the mind of a first-class sleuth, angel. I’ve been investigating online scams and other fraud-related crimes.”
    “Not bad for a techno-spaz. Was that Captain Beckett’s brainchild?”
    Aidan chuckled. “His and mine. The man’s not a monster, Raven. You let Gaitor poison your mind against him.”
    “In case you’re not aware, Gaitor’s been MIA since his retirement party, Aidan.”
    “Yeah, Beckett mentioned that.”
    “It’s as if he dropped off the planet. Then again, you came back from the dead, so I’ll hope for the best with Gaitor. Now, getting back to Fergus...”
    “Fergus Smith from Bangor, Maine, or anywhere else for that matter, doesn’t exist.”
    “There’s a shock. Our Mr. Smith is a fraud. That would put him right up your alley—and let’s not segue to a fanatical reverend of the same name. Any idea what Fergus’s story might be?”
    “No, but I’ll figure it out eventually.”
    “Why doesn’t that reassure me?”
    “Because you’re hungry, and lack of food makes you suspicious.”
    Raven settled for sending him a narrowed look.
    It felt otherworldly, she realized as they walked, to be with Aidan like this, to have him touching her in such a familiar way, as if they’d never been apart.
    She still loved him, desperately loved him. And wanted him. She should be tearing his clothes off and shoving him to the ground, or fantasizing about doing it. Instead, all she felt was numb. Is that what happened, she mused, when the human brain imploded?
    At least her appetite was alive and well. And as Aidan had suggested, the mere prospect of food had improved her mood.
    They blended in, loaded up two plates and ate on a fallen log, surrounded by tipsy legend hunters. Maybe it was a blessing, Raven thought, that they didn’t see Fake Fergus, the blonde from the bar or the spooky Reverend Alley.
    As the fire dimmed, a group of musicians began playing a Goth-folk musical mix on acoustic guitars. Mindless of the mosquitoes and the cooling night, a barefoot man with a long gray braid and beard produced a gallon jar filled with fruit and clear liquid, which he pushed into Raven’s hands.
    “Make you sleep like a baby,” he promised. “Pass it on when you’re