by Sophie Davis
Much as I hated to admit it, his point was valid. I had totally freaked out. Truthfully, I still felt shaken over the whole thing. Finding the passport was probably the reason I was so nervous about opening the safety-deposit box. What if there were pictures of me inside? Or what if there was an entire dossier documenting the utterly mediocre life of Raven Ferragamo? What then?
In the end, we compromised. Asher would accompany me to First National, but I would retrieve the contents of the safety-deposit box while he waited in the lobby. Though I wasn’t overly thrilled with this arrangement, the hard set to Asher’s jaw and determined glint in his brown eyes said he’d sooner walk barefoot over rusty nails than let me go to the bank by myself.
As ridiculously overprotective as he had become, a part of me was comforted knowing that Asher worried about my well-being. Considering we barely knew each other, it was kind of him to want to be there for me through this strange journey.
Back at The Pines, Darrell’s usual spot behind the lobby desk was occupied by an older, gray-haired gentleman who gave us a kind smile as we passed. With a quick wave to him and a brief stop at the mailbox, we headed upstairs to play Nancy Drew—though I fancied myself more of a Veronica Mars-type than goodie-two-shoes-Nancy.
The bank statements I’d collected from Lark’s mailbox proved unhelpful in determining which branch of First National held the safety-deposit box. A quick Google search, however, produced four options inside the District. Two were immediately dismissed based on location alone, since everything Lark had done and left behind thus far was in the Northwest quadrant, a deviation from the norm seemed unlikely. That left two possible candidates: one downtown on K Street and one on 19th Street in the Dupont Circle area. Both branches were roughly a mile and a half from The Pines, leaving the decision of where to go first up to fate, via the flip of a coin. Heads, we start downtown; tails, we head to Dupont Circle first.
Just after noon, I entered First National Bank on K Street with Asher by my side.
“You can still change your mind, Raven. I’m happy to go back to the safety-deposit box with you,” Asher said for the tenth time.
Seriously, the guy was starting to sound like a broken record. I felt like I was stuck listening to the refrain from some sappy love song on repeat, written by a supportive, albeit clingy, boyfriend.
“I’m good. Really. I just…I don’t know. I truly think it’s best if I go back there alone.”
Finally giving up, Asher replied, “Okay, well, just call or text if you change your mind. I’ll be right out here.”
“Thanks. I won’t be long.”
Instead of joining the end of a long line of people, I headed straight for the desk off to the side of the tellers. The manager on duty was a woman named Maria Gonzalez-Harkman, according to the nameplate on her desk. When I approached, she had her dark eyes glued to the computer monitor in front of her. Without looking up, she kept clicking the mouse and using the arrow keys. I couldn’t help but smirk.
Solitaire or Minesweeper? I wondered. “Um, excuse me. Hi there. Are you the person I talk to if I want to access my safety-deposit box?” I asked.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Asher walk up to the island that held the transactional slips and pretend to fill one out. A giggle nearly escaped me, but I swallowed it down. What was he doing? There were several vacant benches where he could’ve waited for me to finish conducting my business. In truth, someone lingering in the lobby probably did seem kind of suspicious to any onlooker; like he was casing the place for some big, elaborate heist.
“I am,” Mrs. Gonzalez-Harkman finally said, drawing my focus from Asher back to the manager. She smiled warmly and gave me her full attention. “Please, have a seat. Do you have your key?”
“I do,” I replied brightly, taking an instant liking to the bank manger’s friendly demeanor.
Two chairs were positioned in front of the woman’s desk, and I sank into one of them. From inside my messenger bag, I produced the strange key from the decorative box we’d found at Larry’s Pawn. I placed it on the desk between us.
Mrs. Gonzalez-Harkman studied the key critically without picking it up, and my stomach lurched. Was I wrong? Maybe the key didn’t go to a safety-deposit box after all? Lark did have a thing for safes. Maybe there was another one in the apartment. Or maybe this key went to another train locker. Or maybe the safety-deposit box was at the Dupont location. Or maybe…maybe I had no idea what I was doing.
“Is there a problem?” I asked slowly. “Because I—”
“No, no, dear. No problem at all. That key belongs to one of our elite boxes: airtight, waterproof, fireproof—virtually indestructible.” Mrs. Gonzalez-Harkman laughed good-naturedly. “Look at me, telling you what you clearly know already. Just give me one moment, and I will take you back to your box.”
My box.
Adrenaline pumped through my veins, causing my heart to pound painfully in my chest. It wasn’t my safety-deposit box. It wasn’t even Lark’s, not exactly anyway. Since the bank statements were addressed to Lila Queensbridge logic dictated it was her name attached to the box. Then again, the First National debit card was in my name.
Shit, this is all so incredibly confusing.
Mrs. Gonzalez-Harkman picked up the key and inserted one end into a rectangular object next to her computer that reminded me of a pencil sharpener. She tapped several keys on her keyboard, pale-pink nails clicking against their targets and grating on my frayed nerves.
When I finally find you, Lark, I am going to write you a bill for services rendered. And the amount is going to be sufficient to send me on a Caribbean vacation where I do nothing but take advantage of the spa services the resort offers. I’d better find you alive.
The pencil-sharpener-machine-thingy beeped. Lost in a vision of fruity drinks with colorful umbrellas and water so clear the sand below was visible, I jumped in my seat. The bank manager looked up abruptly from her computer screen. Not wanting to appear nervous, I gave her what I hoped was a winsome smile. Judging by the way her thin brows drew together and her nose wrinkled, I failed.
“Sorry,” I said sheepishly. “Got startled for a second.”
Mrs. Gonzalez-Harkman smiled, but her dark eyes narrowed farther and the look she gave suggested she doubted my mental stability. “Okay…,” she replied doubtfully. “Well, I’m all set here. If you’ll follow me, dear?”
The bank manager hit several more keys on her wireless keyboard before standing and walking around to my side of the desk. I stood as well, slipping my messenger bag over my head and securing it on one shoulder, so that the strap was across my chest. She gestured for me to follow as she started across the bank lobby and rounded the line of patrons waiting to see a teller. Several people smiled and waved, and she called out greetings in both English and Spanish, addressing each by name. Her stellar memory for faces ratcheted up the anxiety building inside of me, and the fears from earlier returned.
Was she the same person who’d helped Lark set up the bank account and safety deposit box? Did Mrs. Gonzalez-Harkman know that I wasn’t Lark? Since I had the key, did it matter if she did?
As we passed Asher, I tried to catch his eye, hoping for a reassuring look. But my extremely friendly neighbor seemed to have struck up a conversation with a man in a business suit. Leave it to Asher to make friends wherever he goes, I thought wryly.
“Would you care for something to drink while you look over the contents of your safety-deposit box?”
“No, thank you,” I said, quickly returning my attention to the bank manager. “I don’t plan to stay long.” Ugh, why did you say that, Raven? Don’t volunteer useless information.
“Of course, Miss. But there is no hurry as far as we’re concerned. You will have use of our private room for as long as you like.”
“Thank you,” I said.
We started down a long and fairly wide hallway with numerous offices, a pair of restrooms, and a water cooler, before arriving at an elevator. The si
ght of it caused a distinct feeling of dread deep within my gut.
“Are we going down?” I asked, trying to keep the anxiety out of my voice. Reaching into my shorts’ pocket, I felt for my cell, suddenly reconsidering the decision to leave Asher in the lobby. What if I needed him and my phone didn’t have reception in the bank’s basement?
“Why, yes. Our viewing rooms are on the lower level,” Mrs. Gonzalez-Harkman said as she pressed the down arrow.
“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 a plain, white door with Room Five engraved on a placard just above eye level and a badge scanner where the handle should have been. She swiped a keycard hanging from a clip on her front belt loop. A series of beeps, followed by a green light, preceded a small whoosh of air. The door creaked open two inches. She 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 toward 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. Someone will come to retrieve your box.” She paused and 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 while you are in here.”
“Okay. Great,” I said, unsure how else to respond. “Thanks.”
“Use the intercom to let me know if there is anything else I can do for you.” Mrs. Gonzalez-Harkman handed me back my key and exited through the door we came in.
I sat at the table and 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 pawnshop. If so, perhaps Larry would give me a good price on them. Laughing softly, I imagined myself haggling with the pawnbroker like people do in open-air markets. 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. 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 were 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 access the damned box.
Honestly, I should’ve known better. Lark was too careful to hide something anywhere that could be opened with only 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. 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, again—why me?
You’ll just have to come back, I thought. And bring Asher. He might be able to help figure out the code.
Pushing the box away 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, a thought struck me—I’d uncovered clues that I had yet to match with anything, like “Kingstown”; 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 zip code…. But which one? New York? The Pines? First National?
There were too many possibilities, and I didn’t 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, whatever clue lay inside destroyed.
“Come on, what has five digits?” I said aloud, hoping it would help spark some ideas. “Okay, take a step back. The key was at the pawnshop. Maybe the code is somewhere on the pillbox?”
With no better options, I withdrew the small object from my messenger bag and popped out the drawer where the key had been hiding—nothing. Flipping the box over, I searched all the sides for an 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. My breath caught in my throat; 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.
Wasting no further time, I thrust the key into the lock and entered the five-digit code. 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. I found myself wishing that Asher was down here; if for nothing else than to offer affirmation that I had a future as a PI.
After taking a moment to revel in my small victory, I opened the lid further and found myself staring down at yet another manila envelope. I felt deflated. All this runaround for a freaking manila envelope?
“You’re killing me, Lark,” I muttered.
The large, black-sharpie writing caught my attention. My breath caught, and I blinked several times to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me. No, no they weren’t. Unlike the other clues, which 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
Washington, 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; 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…. 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, she’d have addressed it to me.
No, I thought, she wants me to get this t
o 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 help 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 needed to know for sure that Blake Greyfield was real; to know 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, and therefore 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 and find her alive.
It might be the only way to answer the question that kept popping up…. Why me?
CHAPTER NINE
LARK
DEEP BREATH IN. Slow exhale out. You’ve got this.
Though it appeared I was smiling into the crowd below, the expression was simply pasted on to my face. It was taking every ounce of my concentration to walk gracefully, as the smooth underside of my brand-new Jimmy Choo’s slid dangerously on the marble floor. 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 eyes 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 entirely different reasons: for my father, it meant that I was truly an adult now. I knew that, deep down, he’d tried his best to play daddy to his little girl, 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 and grooming me for the family business brought my father a great deal of joy. Now that I was eighteen, poised to become involved in our company on more than a superficial level, my father was elated.
