by Sophie Davis
“What do you think?” Asher pressed.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said quickly. “Thank you for the offer, but I don’t think I’m suited for politics. I’ll figure something out.”
The offer was sweet, but working for a senator seemed a little serious for me. Asher shrugged and stole a rainbow roll from my plate.
“What’s the deal with this senator? Why does he owe your dad favors?” I asked.
Asher hesitated. It was the second time the mention of his father caused Asher’s constant verbal stream to run dry. I feared I’d overstepped my bounds, even though he’d raised the topic.
“You know what they say,” Asher shrugged and averted his eyes, “politics make strange bedfellows.”
Okay….
I’d never heard the saying, nor did I know what it meant. It drew bizarre thoughts of an older version of Asher cuddled up in bed with our current president. Though I almost laughed out loud, one look at Asher’s uncharacteristically serious expression stifled the urge.
Asher was one of those people who had to fill a silence. It was like the quiet unnerved him or something. Conversely, I had no problem with lapses in conversation. It gave me time to think. Given his tendency to babble, it wasn’t surprising when Asher began explaining about his father, even though the subject clearly bothered him.
“Dad’s an environmental lawyer. I think I told you that?”
I nodded in confirmation.
“Well, he specializes in U.S. import and export laws. He’s really sought-after for that.” Asher’s tone indicated he didn’t think it was a good thing. His gaze fixed on the floor as he continued, “Dad prides himself on being the go-to guy for circumventing the Environmental Protection Agency’s requirements.”
“He’s like a smuggler?” I asked, curiosity piqued.
“No, he moves the products through legal channels,” Asher said quickly. “It’s just…Dad stretches the rules a bit. A lot of his practices are….”
“Shady?” I supplied.
Asher offered me a small smile. “Yeah, that’s one word for it.”
“I take it you don’t agree with his methods?” I guessed. The frown of disgust told me Asher didn’t, but he shrugged it off.
“I just want to do something worthwhile,” he said earnestly. “You know, help people. That’s super cheesy, right?”
I shook my head. “Not cheesy at all. It’s very altruistic of you.”
He chuckled. “That’s me, St. Asher.”
Smiling, I reached for a piece of unagi from his plate. Though I’d never eaten eel before, I was all about trying new things lately. The sauce was sweet, delicious, and completely masked the fishy taste I expected.
“Good, huh?” Asher prodded.
My mouth was full, so I nodded and tried to smile without letting sticky rice escape. Asher studied me for an awkward moment, his eyes piercing mine.
“You’re pretty altruistic yourself,” he said finally.
I managed to swallow before a bark of laughter escaped.
“That’s ridiculous,” I replied. “I mean, I want to be a good person, of course. But I haven’t volunteered, ever. I also don’t have two dimes to give to charity.” I met his big brown eyes levelly. “Honestly, I’m pretty self-absorbed.”
Asher shook his head. “No, you’re not. A lot of people wouldn’t have bothered returning the stuff you found.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks. “About that….”
His eyebrow twitched. Asher didn’t comment, leaving me to fill the silence this time. I contemplated telling him about Lark, the journal, and my unpaid job as a freelance detective.
You barely know this guy, I thought.
Still, I felt like I could trust Asher. The admissions were on the tip of my tongue but remained there. I needed to say something, so I went with a half-truth.
“I did go to The Pines,” I admitted. “I tried to return the keycard, but no one was home.” I shrugged. “I’ll try again in a day or two.”
“Just let me know if you want company,” Asher said. Thankfully, he shifted to a more benign topic. “Oh, there’s this brunch place I’ve wanting to check out. Want to be my brunch buddy this weekend?”
A date? I wondered.
My body stiffened, but I covered it with a shrug. “Sure, why not?”
I left Asher’s apartment after dinner, the day’s Washington Post in hand. He’d circled several classified ads for me, which was both extremely nice and slightly pushy. I’d thanked him all the same.
Back in my bedroom, I set the newspaper on Kim’s desk and settled in. Though I fully intended to peruse the circled ads, I never got that far. It wasn’t a splashy headline and enormous picture, but Lark’s disappearance was still a front-page story. A short blurb there led to a longer article in the society section. A girl named Annie had given an in-depth interview, and the Post printed portions of the transcript.
“Annie,” I muttered aloud, rolling the name over in my mind.
Lark had mentioned Annie in the journal and she considered the girl her closest friend.
“Let’s see what you have to say,” I whispered, delving into the discussion.
Interviewer: You and the other girls weren’t worried when Lark didn’t meet you at the airport for your flight to St. Bart’s?
Annie: Not at first, no.
Interviewer: Why not?
Annie: Well, she called to say something came up. She said she’d be there a couple days later.
Interviewer: What came up?
Annie: Lark didn’t say.
Interviewer: Did you ask?
Annie: Not exactly.
Interviewer: “Not exactly”?
Annie: Lark had been flaking on plans constantly. It was just another one of those times. I…I didn’t ask what she was doing.
Interviewer: When you say that she “had been flaking on plans,” was this typical behavior for Ms. Kingsley? Was she always so unreliable?
Annie: Lark wasn’t unreliable. That’s not the right word. She always showed up when it counted. Ditching parties and silly functions doesn’t make someone unreliable. It was just weird…. She used to be a big part of the social scene.
Interviewer: When did that change? When did Lark start to withdraw?
Annie: I don’t know exactly. Maybe around the beginning of our senior year. It was little things at first: a party here, an afterschool kickback there. She was still around a lot. But then…. Toward the end of the year, by graduation, she was like a gho—she’d almost gone full-blown loner. I mean, she was still nominated for Prom Court, but she didn’t win.
Interviewer: Did you know why Lark was pulling away from you and the rest of her friends, Annie? Did you ever ask Lark what was going on in her life?
Annie: I tried to talk to her about it. She just sort of…blew it off, I guess.
Interviewer: Do you have any thoughts on how Lark was spending her time?
Annie: I thought maybe she had a boyfriend. You know, someone her parents wouldn’t approve of.
Interviewer: You do know the FBI has found nothing that indicated a secret relationship, correct?
Annie: Yes, I am aware of that.
Interviewer: Okay, let’s back up. When Lark called you to say she was missing your flight to the Virgin Islands, how did you respond?
Annie: Not well, I am ashamed to admit. We…. We had a big fight.
Interviewer: A fight? Did you and Lark fight often?
Annie: Of course not. We were best friends.
Interviewer: What about the other girls, Taylor Vanderkam and Camilla Stories? Did they also fight with Lark about her delayed arrival?
Annie: No. They both said they were expecting it, so they weren’t upset or surprised.
Interviewer: But you were? Upset and surprised, I mean?
Annie: Upset, yes. Surprised, no.
Interviewer: When did you last see Lark in person?
Annie: Three days before I left for St. Barts.
/> Interviewer: What happened when Lark failed to arrive in the Caribbean a few days later?
Annie: I tried to call her, but it went straight to voicemail.
Interviewer: Why didn’t you call Lark’s parents?
Annie: We talked about calling the Kingsleys. Several times. But…we thought if we called her parents, she’d end up in trouble with them. We didn’t ever think anything might have happened to her….
Interviewer: Do you regret that decision now?
Annie: Of course!
Interviewer: What happened when you returned to New York?
Annie: I tried calling Lark again—it had to be the twentieth time. Again, it went straight to voicemail, which was full. I told my mom and asked her what I should do. She said we needed to tell the Kingsleys immediately. She’s good friends with both of Lark’s parents, they run in the same social circles.
Interviewer: So, your mother, Arabella Stanley, told the Kingsleys about their daughter’s disappearance?
Annie: Well, no, not exactly. Mom tried to call Mrs. Kingsley several times that night, but she never responded. The next morning, Mom still hadn’t reached Lark’s mother. She started to worry that maybe something bad happened to the entire family, so Mom called Mr. Prescott. He’s an FBI agent who used to work private security for our family. He started investigating right away.
Interviewer: As it turned out, Phillip and Eleanor Kingsley were out of the country, correct? And that is why your mother was unable to reach them? That is why they were unaware that their daughter hadn’t returned from the Virgin Islands?
Annie: Yes, that’s right. Mr. Prescott learned that the Kingsleys’ jet filed a flight plan earlier in the week to a remote part of Canada. They returned to New York that night. Mom and I went with Mr. Prescott to meet them at the airfield. That’s when we told Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley about Lark.
Interviewer: Annie, what do you think happened to Lark Kingsley?
Annie: I…I don’t know. I just know that Lark wouldn’t willingly leave without telling anyone, not for this long. I mean, she was supposed to start Columbia with me. We were going to be roommates, we’d picked out our classes together. We had plans. Lark had plans. I just…I don’t believe Lark vanished of her own free will.
Interviewer: You are aware that, to date, there has not been a ransom demand?
Annie: Yes.
Interviewer: Do you believe Lark is still alive?
Annie: Yes. I…yes, of course.
Interviewer: If she could hear you, what would you want to say to her?
Annie: I love you like a sister, Lark. I miss you. We all miss you. I’m so sorry about our fight. It was my fault. I never should’ve said the things I did. Stay strong, Lark, we will find you.
Tears stung my eyes as I read Annie’s parting words to her best friend. Even in print, I could feel how much Annie missed Lark, how guilty she felt about their fight. Though she didn’t say it directly, Annie obviously thought she’d played a small role in Lark’s disappearance. Like she could’ve prevented it.
Poor Annie. This must be so hard for her.
A phone number for an FBI tip line was at the bottom of the interview with a plea for information. I stared at it for a long time.
It’s the right thing to do.
I couldn’t. Not yet. If I gave the feds the journal and told them all I’d uncovered, would they follow the clues? Would they unearth the dangerous secrets that led to Lark’s disappearance? Or would they decide that she was simply another run away?
After all, Lark had set up a new life in D.C. Even though she clearly wasn’t living the new life—her dusty apartment evidenced that—just the fact alone might be enough to call off the search.
Settling in the queen-sized bed, I arranged Lark’s journal, the letter from her apartment, the poem, and the cashier’s checks in front of me. The cash was hidden under the mattress, its mere presence making me nervous.
“Come on, Lark,” I muttered. “What am I supposed to see?”
Of course, no one answered. I picked up the letter and read it again.
Spend a DAY in my life.
I’d done that, right? The train ticket had led me to Union Station, where I found the checks, poem, and cash.
My gaze stopped on the pile of cashiers’ checks. Much as I hated being anyone’s gopher, I did plan to return to The Pines and pay Lark’s rent for her. If she was still alive and just hadn’t reached D.C. yet, she’d need somewhere to live when she returned.
The poem is the real clue, I thought, picking up the slip of paper with the three lines of the text.
Two lips across mine
Ten fingers run down my spine
No space between us
Yeah, still don’t get it, Lark.
My head ached from too much thinking and too little water. The day had been humid, and I’d spent most of it sweating my ass off. I grabbed a glass from the cabinet by the sink, filled it with cold water from the Brita, and took it to bed along with The Great Gatsby. Maybe giving my brain a rest would help reset my thought process. After some sleep, I could attack the mystery with fresh eyes.
Only, when I settled in under the covers, I grabbed the journal instead. Instead of a bedtime tale about the lavish life of Daisy Buchanan and her not-so secret affair with Jay Gatsby, I fell asleep reading about Lark Kingsley and her very secret affair with Blake Greyfield.
Thirteen
Lark
“So much better than flying,” Blake murmured. Stretching his long legs out, he covered my hand with his.
“So much faster than flying, too,” I said, glancing pointedly at my watch. We’d only met up at Grand Central Station ninety minutes ago, and yet we were breezing through Baltimore City already. “Let’s hope the rest of the weekend goes as smoothly.”
Blake leaned over and brushed his lips across my forehead. “It will,” he promised.
I stared into his green eyes. “You think?”
“I know.” He kissed me softly before climbing to his feet. “I’m going to use the bathroom. Want anything from the food car?”
I shook my head. “No, thanks. We’ll be there soon.”
Blake strolled up the center aisle of the train car. I watched him go. When he passed through the doors, I reached into the bag at my feet and removed a folded piece of paper. The messages I left him were short, often silly, and meant to make him smile. I never signed the notes, but he always called or texted as soon as he found one. Lately, I’d been writing down quotes, and he responded with the name of the source. This one was sort of a trick, since it was attributed to anonymous. I knew Blake would love it all the same:
I look at you and see the rest of my life in front of my eyes.
After another quick glance over my shoulder, just in case, I slid the note into Blake’s orientation folder from Georgetown University. Imagining him finding it when checking his itinerary or consulting the campus map, I couldn’t help but smile.
It’s true, I thought, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the window—a lovesick girl with her heart in her eyes. That girl couldn’t bear the thought of Blake going off to Georgetown next year while she stayed in New York and attended Columbia. He was too important to her. She needed him. My gaze grew determined, and I grinned at my reflection.
Good thing that girl is about to make sure we never know the agony of separation.
“Deep thoughts for so early in the morning,” Blake teased, returning to his seat beside me. He held a china plate with the largest cupcake I’d ever seen, a single chocolate swizzle stick stuck in the center. “Sugar for your thoughts?”
I smiled up at him. “Is that mint frosting?”
Blake handed me one of the two forks he held. “Happy Anniversary, Lark.”
Instead of taking the fork, I dipped one finger in swirl of green on top of the cupcake. Before he could stop me, I smeared it across his cheek. He caught my wrist and brought the finger to his mouth. When he finally kissed me, Blake tasted like chocol
ate mint heaven.
I started to pull away, but we were the only two in an alcove meant for six. It wouldn’t be long before our vacation from real life came to an end, so I planned to make the most of my weekend of freedom.
Before things moved on from a PG–13 rating, chimes dinged overhead. An automated voice announced, “Now approaching Union Station, Washington, D.C.”
We broke apart, both a little breathless.
“Happy Anniversary, Blake,” I replied.
As the train pulled to a smooth stop, we gathered our belongings and disembarked. Union Station was crowded, but I barely noticed anything other than our joined hands. We were out in the world, no need to hide anymore.
Soon, I promised myself. Soon this will be normal. Soon you won’t have to hold your breath and hope that a little hand-holding won’t end in a war on the home front.
Blake led me through the station and outside into the sunshine. Though I started toward the taxi line, Blake tugged my hand to keep me moving.
“Are we walking to the hotel?” I asked uneasily. Between the two of us, we had a few bags.
He chuckled softly and shook his head, gesturing to the line of black town cars idling several yards ahead.
“I thought you told your father not to bother with the car,” I probed. “You wanted to learn to get around on public transportation?”
“I did,” he agreed.
“So…?”
Blake pulled me to the edge of the sidewalk and out of the pedestrian traffic crowds.
“This weekend is special,” he said, kissing my nose. “I want to have fun, not spend half our time trying to figure out metro maps.”
“You hired the car service?” I asked, surprised.
The Greyfields had enough money for Blake to use a car and driver regularly, but he preferred to walk or ride the subway. The gesture was solely for my benefit.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I know,” he assured me. “Like I said, I don’t want to waste a minute of our weekend together.” Gesturing gallantly toward a man holding a sign with “Greyfield” in neat block letters, Blake added, “Your chariot awaits.”
