by Sophie Davis
“There is another option, Raven,” Asher said quietly, more serious now than he had been just a moment before. “We can always go to the—”
“Don’t say cops. Please, don’t say cops,” I practically begged, interrupting him before he could get the word out.
“Fine,” he replied cheekily, evidently unable to help himself despite the seriousness of our discussion. “The police. We can always go to the police.”
Asher’s impish compliance was rewarded with an eye roll from me.
We’d revisited the topic of involving the authorities on the walk over. Asher had pointed out that they might be able to find the forger who created the false documents, something that was beyond our sleuthing skills. But after briefly considering his argument, I’d quickly dismissed it.
The forger wasn’t likely to give us any new information, if he even talked at all. We already knew who commissioned the documents—Lark. And not only had she been squirreling away cash before her disappearance, but it was highly unlikely that a black-market contractor took debit cards. Which meant the FBI or whomever couldn’t track the payment back to some yet-undiscovered bank account. So, basically, the authorities couldn’t help us any more now than they could’ve twenty-four hours ago, when we’d decided not to go that route.
Or so I kept telling myself.
“Let’s just get this over with,” I muttered. “The sooner I finish this scavenger hunt, the sooner I can go back to living my own life.”
“Alright…if you’re sure?” Asher asked, giving me one last chance to back out.
“Absolutely. It’s go-time,” I responded, nodding emphatically.
Asher pushed the door open and gestured for me to go first.
“After you, Ms. Ferragamo,” he said with mock formality.
Again, I smiled up at Asher.
How would I get through this without you? I wondered, wishing I felt confident enough with him to say the words out loud. I pray I never have to find out.
As we crossed the threshold into the dimly-lit storefront, a high-pitched bell jangled to signal our arrival. The musty, dank aroma of baubles long forgotten enveloped us immediately. Shelves overflowing with outdated electronics—there was actually a TV with rabbit ears—mounted above glass cases filled with questionably gold jewelry lined the dark, narrow walkway that lead deep into the recesses of the pawn shop.
“Nice place,” I mumbled under my breath. “I bet I can find my mom a birthday present here.”
Asher snickered, my sarcasm not lost on him.
Cautiously, I moved down the aisle, in search of a sales counter or any sign of human life—either way worked.
“Need a Walkman?” Asher asked with a chuckle, angling his head to one side. The collection of devices he indicated looked more like the props department of a John Hughes movie than items for sale in the twenty-first century.
Unable to help it, I giggled, expelling a good deal of nervous energy.
“Those might actually be worth something,” I said. “They’re practically antiques. Come to think of it, my mom probably still has hers. I seem to recall her wearing those foam earpiece headphones around the house when she was baking. You know, when she wanted to tune out me and my father.”
“Mine did, too,” Asher said, his smile a little wistful, as if the memory pained him.
Abruptly, I realized that I knew very little about Asher’s family life. Following Lark’s clues was a fulltime job, and left little time or energy for discussion on other, more mundane, topics. All of sudden, I wanted to know everything about Asher’s life, particularly his before-law-school past.
“Can I help you kids?” a man’s voice called abruptly from somewhere in the shadows ahead.
Asher and I looked up in unison, to where a figure materialized just ahead of us. It was a middle-aged man, wearing a white t-shirt and baggy jeans, standing with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Are you Larry?” I asked.
“Depends who wants to know.”
“Um, well, I do,” I said, biting my lip to suppress a giggle. While part of the urge to laugh was due to my nerves, I honestly couldn’t believe that real people used that line.
Asher elbowed me discreetly in the ribs.
“And you are?” Larry asked, cocking his head to one side and eyeing me suspiciously.
“Um, my name is Raven.”
My voice lilted up at the end, as though I was asking, rather than telling, him my name. I cleared my throat, and tried again in a more confident tone.
“I’m Raven Ferragamo. I’m here to collect something.”
“Are you now?” the man I assumed was Larry asked gruffly. “And do you have your claim voucher, Raven Ferragamo?”
A spike of anxiety rippled through me.
“I do,” I answered brusquely, refusing to let the pawnbroker intimidate me further.
Extracting the ticket from my pocket, I waved it in front of the shop owner like a white flag.
Larry took the claim ticket and glanced down at the number. He sniffed once and hiked up his jeans.
“Wait here. I’ll see if I still got it.”
“Wait, what?” I asked. “Why wouldn’t you have it?”
“We don’t keep pawned items forever, lady. After the time has passed, we sell ‘em. Says so in the contract you signed. But I’ll check on this. Come to the back.”
Of course I’d known there was a chance that whatever Lark had left for me was gone. Still, having Larry reiterate the fact didn’t help the knot between my shoulder blades. What if the pawned item was vital to my search for her? What if it was the so-called skeleton key that would unlock all of the mysteries surrounding her disappearance?
Sensing my mounting panic, Asher placed a hand on my lower back. Unfortunately, the comforting gesture did nothing to ease my tension.
Larry turned and began shuffling farther down the aisle of secondhand electronics, one hand doing the job of his nonexistent belt and the other clutching the claim ticket. Wordlessly, Asher and I followed several feet behind.
Larry disappeared through a wooden door with a Staff Only sign, leaving us standing in front of a counter with a Plexiglas partition. With only a small opening that allowed for the exchange of money and merchandise, the divider protected Larry from the most degenerate of his clientele.
When I was positive Larry was out of earshot, I turned to face Asher. His brows were drawn together, expression pensive.
“Think it’s still here?” I asked nervously.
“Definitely,” Asher assured me.
While his tone was confident, I remained unconvinced.
“But what if it’s not?” I pressed. “What then?”
Asher smiled, his brown eyes warm and empathetic. In response, I relaxed slightly. He calmed me. Made me feel less neurotic. The hand he’d placed on my lower back earlier slid up my spine, coming to rest on my shoulder. Asher squeezed lightly.
“Let’s just wait and see. If it’s gone, we can decide where to go from there. Okay? But there’s no use in playing the what-if game.”
Trying to match Asher’s optimism and calm, I nodded jerkily.
“Okay,” I agreed.
Apparently Asher and I appeared nonthreatening enough that Larry felt safe conducting business out in the open instead of behind his plastic partition, because he emerged from the wooden door just moments later.
“You must be Lady Luck or something, sweetheart, because it just so happens I still have your box,” he announced.
“You do? Really?” I practically squeaked with excitement.
Amazingly, I was about to be another step close to uncovering the deep, dark secret that Lark Kingsley may have died for. But was I truly ready? Could I handle the truth?
Strangely, something within me whispered that I might never be truly ready for that.
“Sure do. It ain’t worth nothing. Told the girl that when she dropped it off. Only gave her a couple of dollars for it. That wasn’t you, right?” La
rry’s watery eyes narrowed in suspicion, then he shook his head. “No. I remember her now. Blonde. Real high-class broad. Expensive jewelry.
“Told her I’d give her a hundred for the earrings she was wearing. They were probably worth twenty times that. Hell, even the bag she was carrying was worth more than the rest of the shop combined. One of those high-end designer ones. I could tell it was real, too. Just by looking.”
Larry tapped his temple with one meaty finger before continuing with his rambling.
“I have an eye for that sorta thing. Have to in my business, you know? She wasn’t having it, though—wouldn’t even think about it. Just wanted to pawn this box, nothing else.”
Larry held up an oval shaped box that spanned the width of his open palm.
An image of a young woman with a feather sticking out of her beaded headband was on the top. She had bright red lips and was smoking a cigarette using one of those old-fashioned holders.
“What is it?” Asher asked, apparently as confused as I was.
Larry shrugged as he answered, seemingly bored with the whole exchange already.
“Just a pillbox. Nuttin’ special. You can get these at any trinky dink shop for twenty bucks. Heavy, though.” He moved his hand up and down, as if judging the weight of it. “At first I thought it might be solid gold.” Larry shook his head sadly. “But when I took a closer look, knew for sure it was plated. Like I said, got an eye for the real stuff.”
“Um, what now? Do I pay you for it? Or…?” I had no idea how to finish that sentence. This was my first experience with a pawnbroker—I was so out of my league.
“That’s typically how this works,” Larry replied, looking at me as if I was a moron. “You pay me what I paid your friend, plus interest.”
“How much is that?” I asked.
“Thirty.”
“Thirty!” I exclaimed. “You said you only gave L—my friend a couple of bucks.”
Larry shrugged.
“I did. The rest is interest. What can I say? It’s been here for a while. I ain’t running a long-term storage facility, sweetheart. Thirty dollars. Take it or leave it. All the same to me.”
As I reached into my messenger bag for my wallet, I silently cursed Larry and his charlatan business practices.
“Here.”
Asher was faster on the draw. He had two twenties in his hand and was holding them out to Larry.
Larry retrieved a crumbled ten dollar bill from his pocket and handed both the money and the box to Asher.
“Nice doing business with you folks. Maybe I’ll see you again.”
“Hopefully not,” I mumbled, heading for the door.
If Larry heard my less-than-congenial parting words, I didn’t know. Or care. My thoughts were already past him, already consumed by the pillbox. My fingers itched to touch it. My mind whirled with the possible contents. It took all my willpower to wait until we exited the pawnshop before turning to Asher.
The bell over the front door was still chiming when I held out my hand, palm up. Asher relinquished the trinket without hesitation. My fingers curled around the cool, smooth exterior. Considering the thick layer of dust that coated Larry’s display shelves, I hadn’t held out much hope for the back room being any cleaner. But the pillbox was in pristine condition—clean and untarnished, as if it had been kept inside a dust bag. Maybe someone else who worked at the pawnshop believed the decorative box was worth more than the measly couple dollars Lark had received for it. Or even the thirty dollars Asher had just coughed up to reclaim it.
“It’s pretty,” Asher said evenly.
“Yeah,” I agreed, even though his comment barely registered.
Turning it over in my palm, I examined the box from every angle, watching the midday sunlight bounce off the gold trim. Whether it was actually an antique or just a cheap reproduction, it didn’t matter. The pillbox was beautiful.
“Raven?”
“Huh?”
“Let’s, um, maybe get off the street. Okay?”
Asher’s concerned tone surprised me. What was he worried about? That someone would think the box was expensive and try to mug me in broad daylight?
When I looked up, though, Asher’s eyes were fixed over my shoulder, on the door to the pawnshop. Larry stared at us from behind the glass. Taking in the expression on his face, I shivered.
“Yeah, sure. Didn’t we pass a tearoom or something on the way here? Tea-something?” I asked, still watching Larry watch us. “I’m too amped up to wait until we get home to look at it.”
“Yeah, just down the block. Come on.”
With one last glance at the increasingly creepy pawnbroker, I turned and followed Asher.
TeaMing was hipster heaven. Young professionals were jammed together at tiny tables that were barely wide enough for their laptops and oversized mugs. Even though it was the middle of a weekday, the teashop seemed to be at max capacity.
Don’t these people have jobs? I wondered
While Asher got in line to order our beverages, I scanned for two available spots among the sea of beanbags and funky chairs surrounding community tables. There was an empty stool at the corner of a table shaped like a piano—or maybe it actually was a piano, I couldn’t be sure—and it looked like another was about to be vacated. The girl sitting next to the vacant stool had just closed her computer and was placing it in a backpack. Before someone else could claim the seats, I scurried over. Unfortunately, the previous occupant wasn’t in any hurry. Even though the backpack was hanging from her thin shoulders, she was taking her sweet time answering a text message or something on her cell phone.
Hopping up onto the free stool, I placed my messenger bag on my lap, ready to claim the girl’s seat with it as soon as she rose. Edgy and impatient, I started tapping my foot and mentally urging her to hurry it along.
Apparently I was being quite conspicuous with my impatience, because she looked up and offered a sheepish grin.
“Sorry, sorry. I’m leaving now,” she said apologetically.
Instantly, I felt bad.
Calm down, Raven. A couple more minutes won’t kill you.
“Take your time, seriously. I just don’t want someone else to take the chair when I’m not looking,” I said, cringing at how lame I sounded.
That’s when I noticed the girl was wearing a George Washington University Law School t-shirt. Feeling the need to make up for my rude behavior, I put on a friendly smile and pointed at her shirt.
“So, you go to GW law? Is it your first year?”
The girl, a fresh-faced brunette with bright blue, square-framed glasses perched atop her freckled nose, colored slightly.
“Guilty. Is it a total One-L move to wear the school’s t-shirt out in public?”
“Oh, no,” I replied, smiling at her chagrin. “I only asked because that’s where my friend goes to school. He’s also a…One-L?”
With this, I pointed to Asher, who was slowly making his way towards us with a ceramic mug in each hand.
“Great! I just moved here from Ohio, so I don’t know many people,” she replied enthusiastically, before turning to look where I was pointing.
My new friend’s hazel eyes alighted when they landed on Asher. At her obvious interest, jealously sparked briefly within me, but I quashed the irrational emotion.
Asher is a friend, nothing more, I reminded myself.
Asher set both steaming mugs down in front of me.
“Hey, Asher, this is—sorry, I didn’t ask your name,” I said, gesturing to the law student sitting beside me.
“Jessie. Well, Jessica, actually. My mom says I should stop using a nickname and be more professional now that I’m in law school,” the girl explained, smiling as she rolled her eyes.
“I’m Raven and this is Asher,” I replied.
“Nice to meet you guys,” Jessica said, looking first at me and then smiling timidly up at Asher. “So, I hear you’re a fellow low-man-on-the-totem-pole at GW Law. Which section are you in?”
>
Asher hesitated before answering, evidently confused about where I found this new friend.
“Um, yeah. I am,” he answered Jessica, and then turned to me. “Should I have ordered these to go? Maybe it’s better if we take them back to the apartment. It’s really crowded in here.”
“Oh, I’m leaving,” Jessica said quickly and stood, gesturing to her spot. “This seat is all yours. I need to get home and start on that legal writing memo. How’s yours coming along? All the sections have one due next week, right? Or is that just mine?”
Jessica was bubbly and friendly, and I found myself taking an instant liking to her. But, to my complete surprise, Asher was apparently having the opposite reaction. My normally—very—sociable neighbor had been replaced by a frigid, closed-off carbon copy. His smile was thin as he answered her.
“I think we all do,” he answered. “I started mine, but haven’t gotten far.”
“Ugh, I hate legal writing. But not as much as Civ Pro. Seriously, if Professor Glenn brings up Pennoyer vs. Neff one more time, I’m going to scream. For real.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Asher said, without a trace of interest.
As anxious as I was to examine the pillbox, I was oddly transfixed by Jessica and Asher’s exchange. Honestly, I’d figured Asher would jump at the opportunity to chat with a fellow law student. He spent nearly every free minute with me, dealing with my Lark quest. Which left him little time to socialize with his classmates. But not only was he reluctant to engage in conversation with Jessica, Asher was acting as if she were an irritating fly that was buzzing around his head.
“Good, at least I’m not the only one,” Jessica said, oblivious to Asher’s standoffishness. “My friend, Marabella, she has Odom for Civ Pro, and she says that he hasn’t even mentioned the case. She’s really lucky. So, that must mean you’re with Welsh, right?”
Whether it was enthusiasm, or eagerness, or just her natural way of speaking, it was like Jessica was in a contest to fit as many words within a single breath as humanly possible. If such an event did exist, she would’ve been the clear winner.
“Excuse me?” Asher replied, eyebrows drawing together as he tried to decipher some meaning from Jessica’s hurried words.
