by Sophie Davis
Eleven
Lark
The first morning of winter break, I woke with a smile on my face. I had three weeks off—no classes, no homework, and few commitments. In thirty-six hours, my parents would be taking a redeye to Italy to spend the holidays at the Lake Cuomo home of William McAvoy, Kingsley Diamonds’ COO and Dad’s best friend. Though I was meeting them there, my flight wasn’t for ten days.
Eight and a half days of freedom, I thought, stretching in my big bed.
That was when I noticed something was…off. I didn’t feel soft sheets against my skin, and my pillow felt itchy. I shot up and glanced around.
I’m in my own bed. Good sign, I thought.
Throwing back the comforter, I looked down and froze. Dark jeans and a black sweater? That wasn’t right. Last night, I’d gone to the Heart Society’s Wonderland Gala with the rest of the Eight and our parents. I’d worn an ice-blue lace gown that had been created for me by an up-and-coming designer.
Where’s the dress? I wondered, scanning my room for the blue lace. My bedroom was spotless, except for a pair of black boots kicked off in the middle of the floor.
Did I go out afterward? I shook my head.
I clearly remembered leaving the Gala with Annie, Cam, and Taylor. The Vanderkam’s driver brought us back to my place, where we’d made a mess in the kitchen with hot chocolate and marshmallows.
After that? I asked myself.
It took a moment, but I remembered all four of us laying in my bed and recapping the event. We’d all giggled when Cam admitted to making out with a waiter wearing an elf costume behind a display of giant ornaments, then….
You were drunk. Very drunk. You probably just passed out, I told myself.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I headed for the bathroom. A shower would help the forming hangover headache. As I passed the shoes on my floor, I noticed the scuffed soles. I’d picked up the black, leather riding boots the previous weekend while shopping with Cam, yet the emblem stamped into the sole was nearly gone.
The shower did help some, but the throbbing in my temples and the back of my skull continued. You just need some caffeine, I lectured myself. This is the price for having too much fun.
After pulling on a Columbia University hoodie—a gift from my dad—I wound my hair into a bun and headed downstairs. I paused in the doorway to the dining room, taking in my mother and father sitting together, the Times split between them. She was wearing velvet skinny pants, a silk top, and a houndstooth jacket with leather detailing, while my father’s version of casual was khaki pants and a sweater.
Glancing down, I grimaced. The yoga pants and sweatshirt weren’t going to go over well with my mother. As I contemplated changing, my dad looked up from the business section and smiled.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” he called warmly.
“Good morning, guys,” I said, rounding the table to place a peck on each of their cheeks.
My mother appraised my outfit. I held my breath, waiting for her first snide comment of the day. Surprisingly, it never came. In fact, her bright blue eyes looked almost hopeful as she asked, “Hello, darling. Will you be joining us today?”
I grabbed a bagel from the bread basket on the side table, wrapped it in a napkin, and joined my parents.
“Sure,” I said, offering Mom a small smile.
“Brunch with your parents instead of your friends? To what do we owe the pleasure?” my father teased, setting the paper aside.
I shrugged. “Not in the mood.”
“Seraphine,” my mother called. Seraphine was her version of Sirius. Dad’s phone also had one, Samuel, and all three were programmed to work with the apartment’s smart systems.
“Yes, Mrs. Kingsley? How may I be of assistance?” Seraphine asked.
Pursing my lips, I suppressed an eye roll at the formality.
“Locate Jeanine and inform her that we need another place setting in the breakfast room,” my mother instructed, eyeing the napkin that still held my untouched bagel.
“Jeanine is currently in the kitchen, ma’am. I will relay your message. Is there anything else?”
I thought Jeanine had the day off….
“Dismissed,” my mother said absently, already bored with the conversation. She turned to me, and asked, “Did you have a nice time last night?”
“Yeah. It was fun,” I replied automatically.
Quiet as a cat burglar, Jeanine entered the breakfast room with the place setting. Arranging the bone china plate, polished silverware, mug, and crystal juice glass, she worked around me with the expert skill of a woman who’d spent most of her life in domestic service.
“Thank you, Jeanine,” I said with a broad smile.
She patted my head and ran a hand over my hair, like she did when I was little.
“You’re welcome, my dear.” Jeanine gestured to the side table, where enough food to feed an entire football team was spread out. “If you’d like something else, just let me know.”
“Thank you, Jeanine. That will be all,” my mother said, her tone just shy of annoyed.
“I’m good with the bagel.” I grinned at Jeanine, trying to make up for my mother’s rudeness. “But thank you.”
“What did you order?” my mother asked as though there hadn’t been a break in conversation.
Slowly, I unfolded my napkin and set it in my lap, then made a great show of spreading schmear on the bagel. Reaching for the water pitcher, I filled my glass to the brim. Finally, when it became obvious I was stalling, I met my mother’s gaze.
“Order?” I asked.
“Yes, at dinner, dear.”
I suddenly felt too hot, and had to pull up the sleeves on my sweatshirt. What was she talking about? We’d eaten together at home before the Gala.
“He did take you to dinner, did he not?” my mother pressed, a slight frown creasing her brow. “Honestly, darling, have I taught you nothing? A proper date includes dinner.”
Date?
My dad set down his newspaper, suddenly very interested in the conversation.
“A date?” he asked, his lips pursed in disapproval. “Just because you received early admission to Columbia—“
“That is precisely why she should be dating,” my mother interjected. “College is settled.”
“It wasn’t a date,” I blurted. “It was just….”
Just what?
“We had a nice time, but it wasn’t a date,” I finished lamely.
“Who is the lucky boy?” my father asked with narrowed eyes.
I faltered.
Eleanor Kingsley smiled, her eyes sparkling. “Adam,” she answered.
Adam?
“Adam Ridell?” Dad asked.
Mom nodded. “Isn’t that lovely?”
Inwardly, I breathed a sigh of relief. Adam Ridell was the son of Senator Ridell, a longtime friend of Dad’s. We hadn’t seen each other in years, not since we left Connecticut. Not since….
“Enough about me,” I said brightly. “What about you guys? Did you have a nice time last night?”
“Oh, it was fine.” My mother waved a hand dismissively. “Not quite up to Bitsy’s standards, if I am being honest.”
My mother’s response left me speechless, confirming my nightmarish suspicions. It wasn’t Sunday morning. The Vanderkam’s annual holiday party was on Sunday evening, and it had already happened.
A whole day?
“I thought it was tasteful,” my father countered.
“You mean pedestrian?” My mother shot a withering glare over the rim of her mug.
“Those people waste more money than anyone else on this island,” he objected. “And that’s saying something.”
“Those people are our friends. Bitsy’s parties aren’t wasteful, they’re magnificent,” my mother replied, not bothering to hide her irritation.
When she launched into yet another story about yet another fabulous soirée, I knew it was safe to let my mind wander.
Where did I go instead o
f the Vanderkam’s party? Who did I meet?
“Those were the days, when life was still exciting,” my mother finished after several minutes of babbling to no one. “Last night was an absolute bore, hardly worth the effort of leaving the house.”
Right, like you’d miss a party the Times covered, I thought wryly, glancing at her section of the newspaper.
Sure enough, the Style section featured a photograph of my parents with Bitsy and Kincaid Vanderkam on the front page.
“May I see that?” I asked, pointing to the paper as an idea sparked in my mind.
My mother beamed, just as I knew she would. In the picture, she wore an elegant black sheath that highlighted her slim physique, while my father was in his traditional formal attire. Though she was on top of every trend that came down the runway, he always opted for classic, refusing to let my mother dress him.
“You look lovely,” I offered. “Though your necklace isn’t shining like it typically does.”
My mother snatched the newspaper from my hands. She held it so close to her face, her nose was in danger of poking a hole through the picture.
“You’re right,” she declared, looking crestfallen. “You can hardly see it in the picture.”
The necklace in question was the showpiece of my father’s jewelry empire: the Kingsley Diamond.
“Would you like me to take it to be cleaned?” I asked in a commiserating tone. “Camilla and I are going shopping, I can drop it off beforehand.”
I crossed my fingers beneath the table.
“Nonsense,” my father replied. Though it seemed his attention was engrossed in the latest stock new, he was still listening to my mother babble over nonsense. His gaze landed squarely on me. “You don’t need to be running errands, Jeanine can take it.”
“You want to trust the maid with the rarest gem in Manhattan?” My mother’s faux whisper was audible to anyone with ears. She waved one hand and turned back to me. “Are you sure sweetheart? It would be such a help, I have so much to do today.”
I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Even my father couldn’t hide his smile. Jeanine was the one with a busy day ahead of her, not my mother. All of the packing and arrangements would be handled, my mother simply had to get in the car to the airport.
“No problem,” I answered, stifling a grin. This time, it wasn’t because of Eleanor Kingsley’s self-importance; I was feeling the excitement of a plan coming together. “I’ll just change and grab my bag.”
“She is in the closet safe,” my mother said, like it was totally normal to use a pronoun when referring to a piece of jewelry. “The card for her servicer is on my desk,” she added.
“Got it,” I called, already halfway up the stairs.
Is it really this easy? I wondered, all concern for my missing twenty-four hours gone. My mother wasn’t hiring a bonded courier to transport the necklace? Let’s not wait and see. Though securing the necklace now forced me to alter my timeline, the opportunity was too perfect to pass up.
Bypassing my bedroom and the four guest rooms, I sped up as I entered the hallway to the master suite. I was on a mission. Nothing and no one would distract me.
Mom kept an office of sorts off the bedroom. Since she didn’t work, it was really just a formal sitting room to serve high tea and show off her collection of antiques. The roll-top desk was a prized piece from the Swedish palace.
She’s nothing if not organized, I thought, locating the card easily in a cubbyhole.
After tucking it inside the pocket of my hoodie, I headed to the walk-in closet. The doors open automatically when I neared. The recessed lighting turned on as well, growing steadily brighter. I ignored the wardrobe that could’ve been on racks backstage at fashion week and went straight for the center island.
At first glance, it looked like a typical accessories console found in any closet on the Upper East Side. Scarves and gloves were tucked inside shallow drawers that slid open with a single tap. My mother’s watch and sunglass collections were visible through a pane of thick glass with more touch sensors. Then there were the locked cabinets, where she stored pieces of jewelry worth more than an investment banker’s annual salary.
Fingers sliding along the smooth surface, I felt for a sensor pad beneath the top pane of glass. With my fingerprints confirmed, a concealed compartment on the side of the console flipped open to reveal a flat screen with a touch keyboard. As I entered the combination’s sixteenth character, a long case slid out several feet. Jewelry boxes lined the hidden drawer in a variety of shapes and sizes and colors. There didn’t appear to be any order to the contents, but looks were deceiving.
Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and let muscle memory take over. My fingers flew from one section to the next as a list of commands ran through my head: Five, right two, down one; eight, left one, down four; eighteen, left six, up three, right two….
Even before the soft click met my ears, I knew the puzzle pieces were in their correct positions. I turned and opened my eyes. A thick panel on the back wall of the closet pivoted, and eight rows of designer shoes disappeared. In their place was a safe.
“Hello, gorgeous,” I said into the charged silence. I moved to stand in front of it.
Reverently, I ran my fingertips over the work of art. Fireproof, waterproof, airtight, light-tight, with temperature and pressure regulation, it wasn’t merely a safe; it was a fortress.
You’d think they have the cure for cancer inside of here, I thought. Widening my gaze and staring straight ahead, I placed my palm flat on the front panel. The dual-authentication system verified my identity, but the biometric lock was just the first level of security. I entered yet another passcode, using recessed keys on the underside of the safe, then spoke a sentence to be analyzed for voiceprint and stress.
Finally, the front panel slid aside. A single glass case lit from within was revealed. Displayed inside was a pearl and diamond necklace. The center stone, an enormous red diamond, shone in the lights designed to maximize brilliance. It was the Kingsley Diamond: the largest red diamond to ever exist. Directly from the Kingsley mines, the discovery of the diamond had catapulted the family business to world renown.
It really is beautiful, I thought, staring down at the stone. Dread and fear filled my gut as my throat tightened.
“I hate you,” I whispered to it.
Twelve
Raven
“How’d it go at The Pines?” Asher asked around a mouthful of unagi.
Stalling for time, I stuffed a shrimp tempura roll in my mouth. We were having takeout sushi for dinner at his apartment on a makeshift coffee table—a stack of unused pizza boxes he’d bought from Jumbo Slice Pizza with a glass pane on top.
“You know,” I began after swallowing, “Ikea has super cheap furniture. I bet you could’ve bought a real coffee table for less than what you paid for the boxes.”
Asher laughed good-naturedly, and I knew the distraction had worked. He launched into an explanation about his mom’s love of modern art and how much she loved his homemade furniture, allowing my mind to wander.
While he talked, I considered confiding in him about the cryptic letter I’d found in Lark’s apartment and my subsequent trip to Union Station. But when I crafted the conversation in my head, it sounded ridiculous. He’d think I was certifiable if I told him I’d wasted the day traipsing around a train station, following clues—if they were even truly clues—that some girl I didn’t even know left behind. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that I was in over my head.
Who did I think I was? Veronica Mars?
“–and classes start next week,” Asher was saying when I tuned back into the conversation.
“So soon,” I mused, nodding my head and selecting another roll with my chopsticks.
“Maybe you could go suit shopping with me?” he suggested.
Suit shopping? Apparently, I’d missed more of the conversation than I realized.
“Sure,�
� I answered with a shrug. “I’d say I have to check my schedule, but I’m pretty sure it’s wide open.”
“No luck with the job search?”
Shaking my head, I looked down at the plate in front of me and pushed a roll through soy sauce. After finding Lark’s train locker, I’d been too worked up to follow up on my only job lead. Instead, I’d gone straight to my apartment with the two envelopes. For a long time, I’d sat on my bed and stared at the stack of hundred dollar bills. It looked like so much money.
When I’d finally removed the thick strip of paper binding the bills to count them, I found writing underneath. It was the same looping scrawl from the journal.
Two lips across mine
Ten fingers down my spine
No space between us
Poetry was not my forte, and I had no idea what it meant. The poem was yet another clue, I was certain of that. I just hoped it led me closer to Lark, closer to the secrets that caused her disappearance.
“No luck because you didn’t look for a job today?” Asher guessed, his question interrupting my thoughts.
I wrinkled my nose and met his gaze across the table. His brown eyes held no judgment.
“I went in a few restaurants, but no one was hiring,” I said defensively, flicking a loose grain of rice at him with my chopstick. The rice was sticky and only flew an inch before falling to the pizza box table top.
“Maybe the senator needs another aide,” Asher ventured. ‘I can always ask at the interview.”
“Interview?” Belatedly, I realized he’d probably already told me about it. Was that why he needed to go suit shopping?
Thankfully, Asher misinterpreted the question in my tone.
“I mean, like I said, it’s a done deal,” he started. “I guess you’re right; it’s not really an interview, just a formality. Everyone wants to do my dad a favor, you know?”
Actually, I didn’t know. My family was in an entirely different stratosphere than Asher’s. No one owed them favors, no one worked to remain in their good graces. The closest comparison was PTA women buttering up my mom before bake sales so she’d make her “World Famous” blueberry pie. I was pretty sure it wasn’t even “State Famous,” but whatever.
