I photocopied the article and searched through all the magazines of the past two years for more reports on The Raven. I found three more mentions of him, including one cartoon strip asking the same questions I was: Who was The Raven? And why did he care?
I skimmed over one of the letters from last year’s opinions page. One student wrote a short note to the vigilante, demanding that he “hang up his hood... [as] committing one crime to solve another, does not a hero make.”
Not everyone was a fan of The Raven.
I filed the photocopies—along with the meager bits of information I’d found Googling him—into the flap of my notebook, and put the stack of magazines the chief had given me—and the new stack I’d collected—into their proper place.
Click. Click. Click.
My finger worked the pen in my pocket.
Yes, that was an idea.
I could use my time at these parties not only to write my reports, but also to ask questions. Maybe others had stories about The Raven? Maybe I could discover his identity and get answers to my questions.
Then I could write a report about him, unveiling the man behind the hood at long last. What would Jill say to that? Likely it’d render him speechless, and I was all for it. I glanced toward myUniversity of Party, Lectures in Lifecolumn.
Students would eat up news of a campus vigilante. There’d sure be no laughing.
I dodgeda whack from a piñata baton and darted behind the trunk of a neighboring pine.
I should have been looking forward, not over my shoulder and jumping at any little shadow that moved. Freddy wasn’t there anymore. He wasn’t.
Straightening my shoulders, I jog-walked across the front lawn toward the crisp sounds of live salsa music.
Inside, I asked for the host, Alyson, and was steered into the kitchen to a Hispanic girl. The girl was applying ruby-red lipstick that matched her slippers and the tiny flowers threaded on one side of her dress.
I extended my hand. “Liam Davis, from theScribe. I write the party page—”
She cracked a large smile, and capped her lipstick. “Stephy! Our party’s been chosen for theparty page!”
An animated shriek sounded in response, and from around the corner walked Alyson’s sister, who looked exactly like her, from her eyes and mouth to the dress she wore. “Party page. So freaking awesome.”
Before I knew it, I was showered with questions, and Stephy handed me a cocktail, which I gripped like a lifeline. “Have fun, and if you need anything, we’d be totally happy to help out!”
I shifted the cocktail to my other hand. “Actually, I do have a question. Have either of you heard any rumors about The Raven? The campus vigilante?”
The girls exchanged a look, and their faces sobered as they faced me again. “We’ve never seen the guy, but,”—Stephy inched closer, her voice softening—“we were at a party a few weeks back, and Dylan, this guy we know, said he saw The Raven throwing some guy up against the wall.”
I pushed up my glasses. “Where was this? Is Dylan here tonight?”
She shook her head. “It happened down Walnut Street. He’s away on some field trip.”
Alyson looped an arm around her sister. “He got a photo with his phone. He printed it and stuck it in his dorm room. He’s all proud of it, but it’s really blurry.”
“What’s his last name and what dorm is he in?”
“MacDonald. Beckman Hall.”
“Thank you, ladies. You’ve been a big help.” It looked like I’d soon be visiting Beckman Hall. Who knew, I might even have the mystery wrapped up in under a week.
And now to find an angle for next week’s party page.
I slipped out of the kitchen and roamed the large downstairs dining room that opened into a sitting room via a large archway. This party was all about style. No beer here, only cocktails with—I lifted the little umbrella sitting on top of the drink—speared pineapple.
I ate the pineapple.
But what to do with the drink? It probably wasn’t professional to drink on the job, after all.
