by Sophie Davis
“Oh, right, I remember now,” I lied breezily, hoping it sounded as though I had so many safety deposit boxes sprinkled throughout the world that remembering where they were located at each bank was too confusing.
The bank manger gave a tight-lipped smile and we boarded the elevator. Twenty seconds—that felt more like twenty hours—later, we exited into a second hallway that looked much like its counterpart above. Except there were no offices down there, only windowless doors.
Mrs. Gonzalez-Harkman stopped in front of plain white door with Room Five on a placard just above eye-level and a security badge scanner where the handle should have been. She swiped a keycard hanging from a clip on the front belt loop of her suit pants. A series of beeps, followed by a green light preceded a small whoosh of air. The door creaked open two inches. The bank manger pushed it the rest of the way and gestured for me to go inside.
The room was nothing special. Ten by ten feet with white walls, white flooring, and a white ceiling. A rectangular table sat in the middle with two chairs. On top of the table was a long, metal case, approximately eighteen inches wide and six inches deep.
Mrs. Gonzalez-Harkman pointed towards a second door, opposite the one we’d entered through. There was a small, square intercom next to the frame at eye-level.
“When you have finished, just press the button next to that door there. Someone will come to retrieve your box at once.” She paused, then indicated the door to the hallway that was still open. “Then you exit through the door we just came through. It will remain locked from the outside. You will, of course, be able to get out, but no one will be able to come in and bother you while you are in here.”
“Oh, okay. Great,” I said, unsure how else to respond. “Thanks.”
The bank manager handed me back my key.
“Let me know if there is anything else I can do for you. Just use the intercom.”
After I thanked her again, Mrs. Gonzalez-Harkman was gone. And I was alone with the safety deposit box.
I sat in one of the two chairs, surprised to find that the plastic was a lot more comfortable than it looked. As I did, I ran through the never-ending list of possibilities for what I might find inside Lark’s safety deposit box.
Cash? Not likely. Jewelry? It was possible. Maybe those diamond earrings that Larry had mentioned Lark wearing on her trip to the pawn shop. If so, perhaps Larry would give me a good price on them so I could afford to eat.
Laughing softly, I imagined myself haggling with the pawnbroker like people do in open air markets. Yeah, I’d totally get ripped off.
Truthfully, even if the box held something as valuable as Lark Kingsley’s diamond earrings, I wouldn’t pawn them. No matter how hungry I was. Because, crazy or not, Lark Kingsley was methodical. Everything she’d done up to this point had a purpose, even if I hadn’t yet figured out what it was. If she’d left jewelry in the safety deposit box, it was for a reason. It was a clue.
“Stop stalling already, Raven,” I mumbled to myself.
Dragging the metal box closer to the edge of the table, I turned it until I found the keyhole. Only, above the slot for the key was a small keypad and a tiny screen with five blinking dots. It required a code to open, as well.
“Of freaking course,” I groaned.
I’d made it all the way here, just to realize that I only had half of what I needed to actually access the damned box.
“Of freaking course,” I repeated.
Honestly, I should’ve known better. Lark was too careful to hide something somewhere that could be opened with anything as simple as a key. No, she was the kind who liked codes and ciphers and word games. She was a true mastermind, a chess wizard who played the long game. And I was simply a pawn, hoping to rescue the queen.
Feeling beyond frustrated, I was ready to rip my hair out. Seriously. Why was she making this so hard for me? It was almost like she didn’t want to be found.
No, I quickly chastised myself, Lark just wants to be sure she’s only found by the right person.
Was I the right person?
Yes, it had to be me. The items I’d found in the safe were a clear indication of that.
But, why?
Why me?
You’ll just have to come back, I thought. And bring Asher. He might be able to help figure out the code. Five digits.
Pushing the box away once again and standing up, I resigned myself to waiting at least one more day before finding out what piece of the puzzle Lark had hidden away at First National. As I approached the door with the call-button, ready to have the box taken away once more, a thought struck me—I’d uncovered clues, passwords that I had yet to match with anything.
Whistleblower.
Could that be used here, somehow?
Staring at the keypad, my brief moment of hope was dashed. It was just numerals, no letters. Sure, like with the journal entry I could match letters to numbers and come up with a numeric code. But that would be way longer than five numbers.
Think, Raven. What has five numbers?
A zipcode?
But which one? Lark’s in New York? The one for the Pines? First National’s?
There were too many possibilities, and I didn’t really want to tip the bank off to my ignorance by trying them all. With my luck, the box would implode if the wrong code was entered, and whatever clue lay inside would be gone.
“Five digits. Come on. What has five digits?” I thought maybe saying it out loud would help. It didn’t. Still, I continued aloud, hoping it would help to spark some idea. “Okay, take a step back. The key was at the pawn shop. Maybe the code is somewhere on the pillbox?”
With no better options, I withdrew the small oval from my messenger bag and immediately popped out the drawer where the key had been hiding. Nothing. Awesome.
Flipping the box over, I searched all of the sides for some sort of engraving or etching on the smooth surface. Again, nothing.
Irritated, I tossed the pillbox back into my bag. That’s when I noticed the crumpled claim ticket for Larry’s Pawn. And realized something.
The claim number just so happened to be five digits: 45923.
“No way,” I breathed.
Was it really that obvious?
Then again, using the claim ticket number was kind of ingenious. It was completely random. A number with only a very tangential association to Lark. A number that couldn’t be guessed by simply knowing things about her.
“And that’s why it’s perfect,” I said to the empty room.
Yeah, I totally should’ve brought Asher in here with me. Then, at least, I wouldn’t be talking to myself, I thought.
Wasting no further time, I thrust the key into the lock and entered the five digit claim ticket number.
Sure enough, the top popped open.
“Well, shit.”
Honestly, I was shocked that things had come together so nicely. And felt that I deserved a big pat on the back for my awesome powers of deduction. Again, I found myself wishing that Asher was here. If nothing else, to offer affirmation that I had a future as a PI.
After taking a brief moment to revel in my small victory, I opened the lid the rest of the way. And found myself staring down at yet another manila envelope.
Just seeing the envelope, I deflated.
Seriously? All of the runaround for a freaking manila envelope?
“You’re killing me, smalls,” I muttered, referencing one of my favorite childhood movies, even if it had been released a little before my time.
The writing, in large black sharpie, caught my attention. My breath caught. I blinked several times to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me. No, no they weren’t. Unlike the other clues, which I was now convinced somehow, some way, had been intended for me, this one was not. This envelope bore a name I recognized well, though. And the address was local.
Blake Greyfield
c/o Georgetown University Student Services
3536 Ridge Road, Suite 105
Washingt
on, D.C. 20007
Blake was here? In D.C.? This whole damned time. The only person who actually knew Lark, the real Lark, was here?
It made sense, really. From Lark’s journal I knew he’d visited Georgetown, but I’d never considered it beyond that. Honestly, I figured that, in the end, he would’ve ended up following her to Columbia or wherever.
Apparently not.
My fingers itched to rip open the envelope and see the weighty contents—whatever was inside was heavy. But I didn’t.
If Lark had wanted me to read the contents of the envelope, then she would have put another of her Read Me notes on it. Or, you know, addressed it to me.
No, I thought, she wants me to get this to Blake.
“Okay, Lark. I can do that,” I said.
But first, I had to be sure he was actually a student at Georgetown.
It was impossible to know how long ago Lark had left this here, and what Blake had been doing in the interim. It wouldn’t do to send a package to the school if he didn’t go there—a clue that was important enough to warrant a safety deposit box couldn’t end up in a mail graveyard.
Plus, I…I needed to confirm that he actually did exist.
I’d wondered before. Now, I needed to know for sure that Blake Greyfield was real. That he wasn’t the figment of a very disturbed girl’s imagination. Admittedly, I was more than a little scared to learn the truth. I wanted him to be real because that meant Lark wasn’t crazy. That I wasn’t on a wild goose chase or the victim of some ridiculous game played by bored rich people. I wanted it all to be real.
And at the end of the rainbow, I wanted to find Lark. Alive.
It might be the only way to answer that question….
Why me?
DEEP BREATH IN. Slow exhale out.
You’ve got this.
Though it appeared I was smiling off into the crowd below, the expression was simply pasted on to my face. It was taking every ounce of my concentration to place each foot down to the next unseen step in turn. The smooth underside of my brand new Choo’s slid dangerously on the marble, and I clutched tighter to my father’s arm.
Whether he mistook this as apprehension, nerves, or merely excitement, my father looked down at me, his eye sparkling with equal parts love and pride. To him, my eighteenth birthday was as big of a deal as it was to my mother, though for an entirely different reason. Not because it was an occasion deserving of an over-the-top soiree. Not because it was a chance to show off how truly opulent my family could be. And certainly not because it was an opportunity for people to tell him over and over that, clearly, I’d gotten my good looks for him.
It mattered because it meant that I was truly an adult now. A peer. An equal. And that was something my father could relate to. I knew that, deep down, he’d tried his best to play daddy to the little girl I was, but it simply wasn’t him. It had become increasingly obvious over the past couple of years that my father shone as a mentor more than he ever did as a parent. Teaching me about the family business and grooming me to take his place one day brought my father a great deal of joy. Now that I was eighteen, poised to really become involved in our company on more than a superficial level, Daddy was elated.
Four months ago, I’d felt the same way. Then again, four months ago, I’d also still thought my father an honest, righteous man. Now, well, now I wasn’t sure who he was. I loved him. I would always love him. I just wasn’t so sure how much I liked him. Or how much I wanted to be involved in our company, now or ever.
My father and I reached the small landing at the bottom of the staircase, still three steps above ground-level, where party-goers stood in a large cluster. My father kissed my cheek. My mother stepped forward to give me the most awkward of hugs. And then she was on; my moment was over and hers was to begin.
A microphone appeared out of nowhere. My mother took to the spotlight to extoll the wonders of being my parent, soaking in the time when every eye in the room was trained on her. My mother’s eyes shone with unshed tears, the emotion as fake as cubic zirconia. The effort that must’ve taken her freshly Botoxed-face was more touching than her words. To be fair, the waterworks were really quite the feat.
When she thanked everyone for coming, I shifted my plastered-on smile from my parents to the crowd below, hoping I was projecting warmth and graciousness.
She ended her speech with a rousing, “I hope you all have a truly magical evening”, before slipping her masquerade mask into place and basking in the gazes of so many onlookers. The guests followed suit with polite golf claps from the adults, and loud cheers from my friends in the back. I slid my own mask down over my eyes and went in search of the Eight.
“Be still my heart!” Ilan was the first to notice me. “Who is this ravishing creature? Will she return my heart, or shall I be cast off forever in search of it?”
“I think I saw it over by the canapés,” I said sardonically, reaching for Ilan’s outstretched hand to twirl beneath it like a ballerina and show off my duds.
“Holy shit, that dress is amazing!” Camilla crowed in delight, purposely ignoring the disapproving looks she was getting from my mother’s friends. I loved Cam for it.
“Thank you, thank you,” I said, exchanging the obligatory air kisses.
“Seriously!” Taylor Vanderkam chimed in, “Wasn’t that just on the runway at Paris fashion week?”
“Marchesa’s show-ender,” I replied, unable to repress my glee.
A beautiful gown can do that to a girl. This one was a midnight blue so deep that it could easily be mistaken for black, if not for the shimmering threads that caught the light. Cut in a mermaid silhouette, there were endless layers of tulle fanning out from my knees to the floor. While braving the December Manhattan weather, I’d worn a sumptuous snow white vegan fur on the way over—to my mother’s chagrin I’d been refusing to wear real fur since I was old enough to comprehend precisely why they were so soft—but I’d shed the wrap upstairs in one of the Met’s dressing areas. My shoulders were now exposed, save the one strap that began thin, the layers of soft sheer silk bunched together where they met the dress, and widened on the way up to my collarbone.
Alistair handed me a glass of champagne, ever the gentleman.
“May I propose a toast?” he said, his British accent making the line sound ever-so-proper. “To Lark, the stunning and charming birthday girl. You are a wonderful mate to all of us, and we are ever so lucky to have you. I hope you have a brilliant night, full of mischief, and maybe just a touch of mayhem.”
“To Lark!” The rest of my friends exclaimed, almost in unison, calling attention to our group.
Grinning for real, I raised my glass to clink the crystal gently against those of my friends. Looking around the circle, my heart ached with how much I loved these guys, how much we’d all been through together. I’d become so jaded in the past several months, and hadn’t truly appreciated just how much they all meant to me. I was going to miss them when I moved to D.C.
“Miss Kingsley?” a voice called from behind me.
Turning, I saw Jarett Brandley, the infamous Page Six photographer standing only feet from me and my circle of friends. His ever-present camera in one hand, he extended the other to shake mine.
“Happy birthday, Miss Kingsley,” Brandley said, oozing manufactured warmth. “Would you mind if I get a shot of you and your friends?”
As always in these situation, I had two choices. Though he wouldn’t dare name names if I were to refuse, there would undoubtedly be a blind item about the snobby birthday girl in the Post tomorrow, along with every single antic that went down at the party. Choosing the path of least resistance, I went for the second option—a couple of shots for tomorrow’s paper, and no fit being thrown by my mother.
“Come on guys!” I said, my smile a little less bright than it had been moments before. I hated random strangers seeing intimate pictures from my life. I hated the scrutiny and gossip. I hated being considered a ‘socialite’. Sadly, it was easier to
give in with a small smile than rail against the system. For now.
Everett and Barrett stood on either side of me, their identical arms wrapped around my waist. The rest of my crew gathered in and the flashbulb went off several times, leaving bright spots in my vision.
“Okay, thank you!” I said finally, unable to bear any more of the assaulting light. With my practiced gracious smile, I gave Brandley a wave. It was the standard signal that we were done, and he knew it.
“Thank you so much,” the photographer replied. “Have a wonderful night.”
As soon as he walked away, I tipped my champagne glass back and drained it dry. No sooner had I finished the glass than a waiter appeared with a tray, offering fresh glasses around the group. He was young, probably in his early twenties. His smooth tan skin and the sparkling blue eyes peering out from behind a simple black mask were indicative of a model or actor paying his bills as a cater-waiter while waiting for his big break.
“Keep ‘em coming, my good man,” Alistair said with a grin. “What’s your name?”
“Andrew,” the handsome waiter replied with an easy smile. “Is there something else I can get you?”
“Nice to meet you, Andrew. This here,” Alistair slid his arm around my waist and pulled me close, “is the lady of the evening, the reason we’re all here. And we want her to have the best night ever. Think you can help us out, maybe keep her from getting thirsty?” With that he slid a bill into the young waiter’s free hand.
Knowing Alistair and the correlation between his generosity and his intoxication, the young man would make more tonight than he had in all his months of waiting tables.
“No problem,” Andrew replied, his bright blue eyes now trained on me.
“How about a couple of Goose and tonics?” Barrett chimed in, before giving us girls a questioning glance. “You ladies want anything else right now?”
“I’m good with champagne,” Annie answered.
Cam and I nodded in agreement.
“A round of lemon drops?” Taylor said, giving me a wink before plastering on her trademark look of practiced innocence.
“There you have it,” Alistair said to Andrew, slipping him another folded bill. “Whatever these gorgeous ladies want, they get.”
