Platinum Prey

by Sophie Davis

  Alarmed by the sudden mood shift, Asher’s eyes went wide and his train of thought derailed. “What’s so funny? Just a second ago you were so bored you thought watching milk curdle was a preferable alternative to these videos.”

  “It’s nothing,” I said, reaching for his hand and then thinking better of it. “And you can save the lecture. I’m well aware that the endless hours of excessive droning in those files is important. Lark went through a lot of trouble to make sure that flash drive didn’t fall into the wrong hands. I’m a big girl and will suck it up and get through the rest of it—if we can go for a coffee run? I need some caffeine if I’m going to pull an all-nighter.”

  Asher rubbed a spot on the couch with his thumb, as if to erase a nonexistent stain. “It’s late, Raven. That’s actually what I was going to say. Let’s call it a night and start fresh tomorrow morning. Another couple of hours won’t change anything.”

  “I guess.” I shrugged.

  “What’s wrong?” Asher asked, his tone gentle but firm.

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “Well,” he nudged my knee playfully with his own, “first you want to stop watching the videos because they’re boring. Now that I’ve agreed with you to wait until tomorrow, you’re kind of…moping.”

  “I’m not moping,” I protested, glaring into Asher’s amused eyes.

  “But you are being ornery. Admit it.”

  “I don’t know what ‘honoree’ means. So, no, I won’t admit it.”

  “It’s ‘ornery,’ not ‘honoree.' It’s like cantankerous. And you’re getting off topic.”

  Unable to help myself, I laughed. “Cantankerous? Seriously? How old are you? Next thing you know, you’ll be shouting at the hooligans to get off your lawn,” I said, enjoying the mental picture. “Now that’s cantankerous.”

  “Raven—”Asher groaned.

  With a sigh of protest, I put on a serious face. “I’m sorry. I’m exhausted. But I also feel guilty about going to bed, instead of watching the rest of the videos.”

  “Why?” Asher asked, genuinely confused.

  “Because of something you said: ‘Another couple of hours won’t change anything.’ Maybe it won’t make a difference to us, but there’s a good chance it might for Lark. She might be hurt, or scared, or both. And instead of doing something that might help, I’m going to sleep because it’s too boring. That’s horrible. I’m horrible. She couldn’t have chosen someone more incompetent or more selfish if she’d tried.”

  The silence that followed was deafening and lingered for over a full minute. My outburst hung in the air, the words ringing in my head like an echo. Since he said nothing, it seemed safe to assume that Asher agreed with me.

  Finally, he spoke. “Is there anything that I can say at this point that will make you feel better? Or should I just keep quiet?”

  In spite of my sour mood, I laughed. “I don’t know,” I replied. “I just feel out of sorts.”

  “Let’s get some sleep. Tomorrow, we’ll get up with the roosters, okay?”

  Nodding, I offered him a weak smile. “Okay.”

  For the second time, Asher and I both slept over at The Pines. Once again, he crashed on the couch and I took the guestroom. I was surprised—maybe even shocked—that Asher agreed to stay at The Pines for the night. Apparently, the whole mystery-guy-with-a-key thing didn’t bother him all that much.

  Sleep came easy that night, easier than it had in a while.

  AFTER WHAT SEEMED like only minutes, golden light woke me the next day. Immediately, I reached for my cell to check the time. 9:08 a.m.

  I can’t believe I slept so long, I thought, stretching like a cat to wake my tired muscles.

  Right away, something felt off.

  I stilled and held my breath and listened. For what, I didn’t know exactly. Silence met my ears. And then, I realized that was it: the silence. Asher was supposed to be here, so muffled voices from the television, quiet footsteps, or even kitchen cabinets opening and closing—those sounds were what I should’ve heard.

  Is he still asleep? I wondered.

  “Asher?” I called as I exited the bedroom and started down the hallway toward the living room. “Rise and shine, lazy bones!”

  No answer.

  “Asher? Seriously, it was your idea to get up with the roosters. They finished crowing hours ago.”

  No answer.

  The lights were off in the main area of the apartment, but the sun was a sufficient substitute. My gaze landed on an empty couch.

  “Asher?”

  Turning in place, my gaze swept the living room, then the dining area, and finally the kitchen. No Asher.

  A green throw blanket was folded neatly atop a single pillow in one corner of the couch. My closed laptop was on the coffee table, the clues and my notes scattered around it.

  “Weird,” I muttered.

  My cell phone was still in the guestroom, but there hadn’t been any texts or missed calls when I woke. Surely, if Asher left, he would’ve left a note, at the very least, right? Concern grew like a weed inside my chest.

  You’re overreacting, I told myself. Check your phone again.

  Rushing into the bedroom, I snatched my cell off the nightstand. One missed call.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Paranoid much?

  Only, the call wasn’t from Asher. His number was programmed into my contacts, and the one on my display screen was not. This was especially odd, since very few people had my phone number, and even fewer actually called, as opposed to texting. There was a new voicemail. Switching on my speakerphone, I listened to the message.

  “Hello, Ms. Ferragamo. This is Darrell Mantz, from The Pines. I am covering the end of a coworker’s shift, and therefore am on duty earlier than usual today. It is quiet at this time of morning, if you would like to drop by sooner rather than later. There is no hurry on my end, of course. I simply wanted to inform you of this, since I gathered you are quite eager to view the surveillance footage.”

  Pressing “END,” I tossed the phone on the bed without listening to the rest of Darrell’s message. “Eager” was putting it mildly—I was desperate to view that footage as soon as humanly possible.

  I didn’t bother with a shower. With superhuman speed, I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and pulled on a pair of Lark’s shorts and one of her polos from the closet. Asher forgotten, I was out the door, down the elevator, and entering the main lobby ten minutes after hearing the message.

  “Ms. Ferragamo, that was fast,” Darrell greeted me.

  “Sorry I missed your call,” I replied.

  “Not to worry. You did receive my message, I gather?” Darrell replied, making it sound like both a question and a statement.

  “So, is now still a good time to see those tapes?” I asked hopefully.

  “It is. I have taken the liberty of viewing them myself—”

  “And?” I interjected, rudely cutting Darrell off mid-sentence. “Sorry, I’m so sorry. Go ahead.”

  Darrell’s lips thinned into a tight smile at my apology. “No visitors came or went through the main lobby between five and eight on the evening in question. However, a number of individuals did enter via the garage and back door. I have identified all but five as residents. Two of those five were female. That leaves three possible candidates for your visitor.”

  “Wow,” I said, impressed by Darrell’s detective skills. “Thank you so much for taking the time to do all of that, really.”

  I was sincerely grateful—he’d done a lot of the legwork for me. If Lark cut me a check for my services at the end of all this, I was definitely going to throw a tip Darrell’s way.

  “I have the footage cued up for you to view in the office,” he continued. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready now, if that’s okay?” I asked, forcibly exercising restraint.

  Darrell gestured for me to come around the desk. Giddy with anticipation, I followed him through the door and into the office.

  Of t
he three potential suspects Darrell had identified, only one was wearing a baseball cap, just as Deidre had claimed. Although he’d also had the hood of a sweatshirt pulled up over it on the video. Not that either one, or even the combination of both, could obscure someone so familiar to me.

  She’d been correct about the time, too. At 6:24 p.m., when he was supposed to be sitting in class, Asher had buzzed himself into The Pines through the back door.

  What the f—

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  LARK

  DEAR DADDY,

  This is by far the hardest letter I’ve ever had to write. I’ve gone over it all a million times in my head, and I still don’t know what to say. Except…I know.

  I know about Kingstown. I know about Lincoln Baxter. I know about Jonas. I know about the horror and atrocities committed on behalf of our company.

  You’ve always been an incredible role model for me, Daddy. You’ve shown me how to pick myself up when I needed strength, and you’ve given me your hand to pull me up when I couldn’t do it on my own. You’ve always been the voice of reason in my life; the voice of encouragement; the voice of guidance; the voice of love.

  So how could the man who taught me so many valuable lessons have created Kingstown? How could the man I admired so much and for so long hire a mercenary like Lincoln Baxter to enforce justice in a town bearing our name?

  You have given the residents of Kingstown every creature comfort, but it’s a mirage. Their heated sidewalks and luxury spas come at price—their freedom. The men and women who work our Kingstown mine are cut off from the real world, unable to go beyond the fence that traps them like animals. Justice in Kingstown is primitive, and you allow a known mercenary to dole out punishment as though he is judge, jury, and executioner. Those workers are people, Daddy. And you owe them better than a town built on blood and lies.

  So now you’re giving them what you owe them: everything. You’re giving them back their freedom. You’re giving them not only compassion and kindness, but hope and promise for a better future. The people of Kingstown will flourish, all because of you and your altruism. And no one ever needs to know that it wasn’t your idea.

  There is no delicate way to say this, so here it goes: the Kingsley Diamond, the red-diamond centerpiece of the necklace in the safe in your closet, is a fake; a replica to be more precise. A big, shiny, cubic zirconia. Truth be told, I’ve always found it in poor taste for Mother to wear something so extravagant and valuable around her neck when so many people are hungry, sick, and homeless. Now that I know the true cost of that stone…it disgusts me.

  You, usually the shining beacon of love and security in my life…I don’t know how to feel about you. My disgust is for the situation, the general opulence, and the incredible greed—but not for you. I think a part of me pities you. I know that’s terrible to say, but the pressure Mother puts on you must feel like the weight of the world. Because that’s what Mother expects—the whole world, just hers for the plucking. And the weight of all your employees lives on your shoulders, too…. I can’t imagine what it means to run a company that employs so many. I’m sure it’s hard. So, yeah, I do feel bad for you in a way. But I cannot excuse your behavior.

  Then there’s my anger toward you. The fury born of the knowledge that grave injustices are being dealt by your hand every single day. The knowledge that every misery, every ounce of fear, every bit of pain and strife those people live through is a direct result of you and your actions. How can you live with yourself, Daddy? How can you look in the mirror? I’ve known for six months that a monster lurks within your loving exterior, and I’ve barely been able to face you. It has torn me apart.

  That is why I stole the Kingsley Diamond. Don’t worry, it’s safe. It will remain safe, because I have a plan for it. That stone is my leverage. You will tear down the fence, you will turn over Baxter to Interpol—I believe he has outstanding warrants in eight countries. You will stop funding the drug trade and arms dealing of Baxter and his associates. You will close the Kingstown mine and make reparations to all the families who have either lost a loved or been harmed by the militia you hired to mete out justice.

  All of this rambling and confessing has a point, and it’s this: I couldn’t live with myself unless I righted the wrongs you’re committing. For the first time in my life, I am ashamed to call myself a Kingsley.

  I have met with an attorney who specializes in creating and running charitable foundations. I signed over my trust fund. Everything that became available to me on my eighteenth birthday, and every dime of yours that I could get my hands on, is gone. Not because of my anger toward you, not because of the disappointment, but because of the life-altering guilt I inherited from you. This money will be used to build up more areas like Kingstown, with schools and hospitals and no strings attached.

  And now, the real reason I’m writing you this letter: In this envelope is a press release that Sotheby’s will be disseminating very soon. I encourage you to play along and have Kingsley Diamond Corp’s PR department send it out as well. Sotheby’s will be auctioning off, for an exorbitant price, the largest, rarest, red diamond ever mined. The proceeds of the sale will be going to the Kingsley Diamond Conflict Relief Fund. How magnanimous of you, right? Just imagine the wonderful press you’re going to get. It will be the largest charitable donation in history. You’re welcome.

  Everything has already been set into motion. The real diamond—Mother should probably stop wearing that fake—will be delivered to Sotheby’s right before the auction. All you need to do is call Cynthia Bailey at Sotheby’s in Washington, D.C., and assure her that it’s all on the up and up. For some reason, she really wants to talk to you. I guess an eighteen-year-old girl with a priceless diamond seems a bit sketchy.

  Our only other matter of business doesn’t require the press or exposure—at least, not as long as you comply with my, let’s call them requests. In addition to those I’ve listed above, you will stop working with the dirty politicians that have made Kingstown possible. You will distance yourself and Kingsley Diamonds from the CIA agents who have helped you cover up your dealings in Canada. You will make our family company a legitimate business.

  Please don’t construe my generous offer as blackmail. It’s not. This is my attempt at finding a way to live with myself and the horrors I have witnessed with my own eyes. If you can’t do this for yourself—please, do it for me.

  Maybe it’s naïve or overly optimistic of me, but I genuinely believe that you’re still a good person. I believe that you lost your way. But you can find the right path again.

  So, just like McAvoy pressured you into this, I’m pressuring you out of it. So few people are given an opportunity to atone for their mistakes. This is your opportunity. Do not waste it.

  Even though what you’ve done has hurt my heart, I believe that we can repair some of the damage, both to the people of Kingstown and our relationship. You have spent years grooming me to take your place, to become the head of our company. And I will. I will gladly take the reins of this new, humane, legitimate version of Kingsley Diamonds. But first, I do have one last request: Give me my freedom. Let me live my life on my own terms. Let me find out who I am so that I can become the leader you want me to be.

  I’ll take the Kingsley Diamond Corp’s announcement of the auction and donation as your agreement.

  No matter what, for better or for worse, I love you, Daddy.

  L.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  RAVEN

  I DESERVED AN Oscar—or a Daytime Emmy, at the absolute least—for the performance I gave Darrell. The initial shock was impossible to hide when the hood covering Asher’s face fell back. It was just enough to expose those big, brown eyes that were always so worried about me. I was relatively certain that my jaw came unhinged and my heart stopped beating for a solid fifteen seconds.

  I didn’t try to hide my reaction from Darrell. Instead, I ran with it. Explaining that, yes, I knew the guy on the tape—he was ano
ther close friend of Lark’s. That he and I were acquainted through the same convoluted family ties as Lark and me. The verbal vomit just kept coming, and after a while I didn’t even know what I was saying.

  All the while, in the back of my mind, I replayed every encounter with Asher since day one in D.C. Anger, betrayal, pain—I felt them all. Was there a reasonable explanation for this? No, I thought, but wanted that to be a lie. Asher was supposed to be my friend, and yet he’d gone behind my back. Why? Why had he snuck into Lark’s apartment? What had he been looking for?

  Back on the tenth floor, I paced the kitchen while I planned my next move.

  Was Asher even a law student? Did he know Lark Kingsley? Nowhere in her journal, in the passages I’d read anyway, had Lark mentioned Asher. But that didn’t necessarily mean that he didn’t know her.

  Maybe it was one of those creepy stalker situations. Maybe Asher had always been in love with Lark from afar, but she never even knew he existed. And…what, exactly? He kidnapped her and was holding her hostage somewhere? And he got off on playing detective with me, like the serial killers on TV who insert themselves into police investigations?

  It was a theory. Not one I liked, though, and it didn’t really fit. Lark knew, or at least suspected, something was going to happen to her long before she vanished. That was evident by all the clues and elaborate preparations that began nearly a year before she vanished. To me, that level of calculation said that whatever happened to Lark was a lot more involved than a stalker kidnapping the object of his affection.

  The buzz of my cell phone against the marble countertop nearly caused me to jump out of my skin. Snatching up the phone, I looked at the display and froze: Asher. Warning bells began to toll inside my head.

  Let it go to voicemail. You aren’t ready to speak to him.

  My award-worthy performance for Darrell aside, I wasn’t a good enough actress to pretend as though nothing was wrong.