by Sophie Davis
Let it go, I told myself, fighting the urge to snatch it back.
“So, dear, this is all in impeccable condition,” Cynthia declared. “How does this sound?” She pushed a small scrap of paper with a number written on it across the counter, watching my face to gauge my reaction.
Cynthia’s smile dimmed, and it was clear she was worried that I might protest.
“Of course, we’ll offer 20% more if you take the value in store credit,” she quickly added, holding her breath to see if I’d take the bait.
She’s as desperate as I am, I thought as Cynthia ran her hand over an Alexander McQueen dress coat, her eyes hungry with desire. Maybe more so.
The amount was decent—lower than the clothes were worth, but markedly higher than other stores would offer. Cynthia wanted my repeat business.
After drawing out my reply, I finally nodded my acceptance. “That’s perfectly fine, Cynthia. I’d prefer the cash. Thank you.”
A slight wrinkle appeared between her brows, but she quickly smoothed her expression. “Of course, dear. Give me just a minute and I will have your invoice.” Her tone was neutral, but her disappointment was evident. She wanted me to turn around and spend the money in her store, but I didn’t need secondhand Louboutins or last year’s Chanel bag.
I needed cash.
Cynthia disappeared behind the curtain, and I wandered to a collection of vintage gowns to avoid talking to the salesgirl. She was admiring the soft cotton of my Lilly sundress with pink tigers lying on the countertop.
Antigua, I thought, recalling the one and only time I’d worn the dress.
“This is beautiful,” the brunette called.
I gave her a smile over my shoulder. “It is,” I agreed.
“If it’s not too intrusive, may I ask why you are selling so much of your wardrobe?”
The question was intrusive. My haughtiest expression appeared, the one I’d learned from my mother. “It’s just extra stuff,” I told her.
The brunette opened her mouth to say something, but Cynthia thankfully emerged before she had a chance.
“Here you are, dear,” Cynthia said, handing me a thick, white envelope. She stared curiously, as though contemplating all the reasons a girl like me might need so much money.
“Thank you, Cynthia,” I said coolly, meeting her gaze.
“Would you like to count it?”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” I said, waving off her offer.
“It’s nice doing business with you, dear.” Cynthia hesitated. “Will we be seeing you again?”
“We’ll see,” I answered vaguely, turning to leave.
Tucking the envelope securely into my tan sling bag, I walked out of the store and back into the bright sunlight. My phone vibrated. I looked down at the screen.
Sender Unknown: Fraud Lane. Tacos r my fave.
Slipping my phone in my back pocket, I pulled a pair of oversized sunglasses from my bag and hailed a passing taxi.
Seven
Raven
The Pines was a glass oasis amidst a sea of brick buildings. From the outside, it was apparent that every apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows with matching silver blinds that reflected the sunlight. The effect was blinding. I flipped my plastic sunglasses down to cover my eyes. Surprisingly, no doorman stood out front to greet me. This presented a problem.
While I was able to pass through the revolving door easily enough, the glass-walled vestibule that it dumped me into was as far as I could go. The door to the actual lobby was locked, and it seemed that no one was there to buzz me in. I was trapped in the small, glass box. A moment of unease threatened to turn into panic, until I noticed a black pad to the right of the interior doors, like ones on hotel doors. In the middle of the pad, below two lights, was a thin opening—just the right size for a key card.
Beautiful black, white, and red throw rugs were scattered across the sleek marble flooring of the main lobby. A sitting area was arranged to the right of the front doors; a black wraparound couch with twin armchairs surrounded a frosted-glass coffee table littered with the latest editions of The Washingtonian, The Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal, Time, and Newsweek. It reminded me of the reception room of the oral surgeon’s office where I had my wisdom teeth removed.
“Can I help you, miss?” a nasally sounding voice asked.
A tall, thin man with a beak of a nose was watching me from behind a rounded desk. Rows of small cubbyholes lined the wall behind him.
“Yes, thank you,” I said, offering what I hoped was a dazzling smile. “I’m looking for a resident of yours.”
“A friend?” the receptionist asked in a haughty tone.
He gave me the once-over. A slight wrinkle of his long nose was the only visible reaction to my appearance. Apparently, my white capris and baby-blue tank top were not in accordance with The Pines’ dress code.
I was so busy watching him watch me, I forgot he’d asked a question until his pencil-thin eyebrows arched in annoyance.
“Are you here to see a friend, miss?” he pressed.
A friend? Not in the traditional sense of the word. I’d only read the first few entries of her journal before exhaustion won out. It was clear the missing girl was troubled, yet I felt an unexpected kinship with her.
“Um, yeah. My friend–” Her name was on the tip of my tongue before I thought better of saying it. I cleared my throat and started over.
“Yes, sir. My friend lives in apartment 10A,” I told him. The apartment number was written in black sharpie on a piece of masking tape fastened around the key ring.
I’d spoken the magic words. The receptionist’s attitude took a 180-degree turn. His thin lips flipped from the disapproving frown to a brilliant, eager-to-please grin.
“Of course, miss. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, would you mind signing in?” He produced a log book from beneath the desk.
“Sure,” I said uneasily.
“I apologize for the inconvenience, miss. The Pines requires all unaccompanied guests to sign in,” he replied, sounding genuinely apologetic.
Under an indecipherable scrawl that could have been a doctor’s signature, I printed “Raven Ferragamo” in neat, block letters. There were also spaces for the date, time, and reason for my visit.
“What’s today’s date?” I asked without looking up.
“August 29th, miss. The time is…,” he paused for a beat, “10:22 a.m.”
“Thank you.”
I filled in the requisite answers, writing “personal” as the reason for my visit.
“The elevators are through the archway and to the left. You will need to use the key card, then select floor 10. Ms. Queensbridge’s apartment is at the end of the hallway on the right. Would you like me to show you the way?”
“No,” I said quickly, slightly confused. Was it someone else’s apartment? Or was that an alias for Lark? Was she hiding out here?
“Thank you, though. I’m sure I can manage on my own,” I added.
“Very well, miss. My name is Darrell if you need further assistance.”
I thanked him a third time and headed toward the archway he’d indicated.
Once in the elevator, I momentarily regretted refusing his guidance. Darrell had said I needed to use the key card before selecting the tenth floor, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out where to insert it. There was no slot anywhere near the buttons. I tried pushing the button for the tenth floor, but nothing happened.
Feeling like a complete moron, I pushed the button that opened the doors to swallow my pride and ask Darrell for help. When the elevator slid open, he was already standing on the other side, hands clasped behind his back.
“Shall I show you how it works, miss?” Darrell asked.
His presence there was nothing short of creepy. I nodded mutely, and he boarded the elevator car. As the doors slid shut, I inched away from the receptionist until my back was against the wall. Darrell withdrew a key card just like Lark’s and held it in fro
nt of a black box beneath the number pad. After several long, agonizing seconds a beep sounded and he pushed the ten, the button glowing green.
To my relief, Darrell pushed the “door open” button and exited the elevator car. He wasn’t going to ride up with me, thankfully.
“If you need anything else, miss, there are courtesy phones on every floor. Just pick up the receiver and dial zero to reach me.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind,” I replied.
Like the building, the elevator was brand-new. The ride to the penthouse was smooth and expedient. My emotions ping-ponged at a dizzying speed, and my headache from the night before was returning. To say I wasn’t extremely interested in what Lark Kingsley was doing hiding out under an assumed name in Washington, D.C. would be a blatant lie. Would she really be there? I’d researched her family background a little before leaving that morning, and I was pretty interested to meet the heiress.
Her great-grandfather immigrated to the States at the turn of the twentieth century. Like so many other Italians, he’d come through Ellis Island with hopes of making a new life for the family. In Italy, he’d been a respected jewelry designer but fled in a hurry with only the possessions he could carry. Once in America, he’d resumed his craft, making a decent living. It was his daughter, Lark’s grandmother, and her husband, Artorio Kingsley, who’d taken the family business to new and impressive heights in New York. European and Hollywood royalty alike wore the Kingsleys’ elaborate, sparkling designs.
With revenue pouring in, Lark’s grandparents then invested in the diamond mines they sourced from. When Lark’s father inherited the business, he’d continued the tradition of creating exquisite and pricey pieces that the rich and famous clamored to get their hands on. He’d also expanded mine investments until the Kingsleys owned a vast majority of the world’s diamonds.
The elevator arrived on the tenth floor, the ding startling me out of my reverie. The doors opened, but I stood rooted to the polished floor. What if Lark wasn’t hiding out here anymore? What if she’d met foul play? What if, instead of finding the living embodiment of the girl I’d learned about over the past forty-eight hours, I found her corpse? Or what if this was just some random old lady’s apartment?
The doors started to close. I thrust my arm between them to keep from being trapped in the mirrored cage.
“Paranoid much?” I mumbled to myself.
There were only two doors in the tenth-floor hallway, one at either end. Following Darrell’s instructions, I turned right toward 10A. The hallway smelled like new carpet and a hint of wood polish. A long mirror was mounted above a small table across from 10A, and I stopped for a beat to check my reflection.
“Let’s find out what happened to you, Lark,” I muttered before turning to the door.
My initial knock was tentative and probably inaudible to someone on the other side. After counting to thirty, I repeated the act with more resolve. There was no sound of rushing feet or a voice calling from inside. With a quick glance at the empty hallway, I pressed my ear to the door. Silence.
Lark was clearly not there. Though I turned to leave, I didn’t go anywhere. I’d walked all the way over there, and I did have the keys. I could just go in and put the journal, key card, and keys on the counter or something. Or, I could go back downstairs and leave all three with Darrell. Except he was too creepy to trust with Lark’s journal.
Closing my eyes, I pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. My head pounded painfully. Was it really trespassing when I had the keys?
If the roles were reversed, I’d want my stuff returned.
Before I lost my nerve, I thrust the key in the lock and turned it. The sound of the deadbolt disengaging was impossibly loud. Glancing over my shoulder to ensure I was still alone, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
“Lark?” I called tentatively.
No response.
“Lark?” I called more loudly this time.
The door banged closed behind me, and I jumped. Heart racing a mile a minute, I laughed uneasily.
I totally should’ve brought Asher.
“Lark?”
My flip-flops smacked the small foyer’s wooden floor as I walked slowly forward. The apartment had the same new-carpet smell as the hallway. The pale-blue walls were pristine, without a scratch in sight.
I walked past a dining table with matching chairs and into the kitchen. Copper pots and pans hung from a rack over a gas stove. Though the space was an amateur chef’s dream, it obviously hadn’t been used in quite some time. The marble countertops, though beautiful, were covered in a thick layer of dust.
My gaze landed on a small, woven basket near the sink. An envelope was propped against it. My heart seemed to stop altogether, and my breath hitched in my throat. I stared at the words written in familiar, looping cursive across the front.
Like a death row inmate making her final walk, I slowly crossed the white-tiled floor and reached for the envelope with trembling fingers. Instead of picking it up right away, I traced the two words on the front with my index finger.
Read Me.
Eight
Lark
“The party has arrived!” Cam exclaimed, bursting into my bedroom without knocking.
A grin spread across my features as she and Annie sauntered in with garment bags. Jeanine trailed behind, carrying two duffle bags. I was working on a calculus take-home test but leapt to my feet to help the housekeeper with my friends’ belongings.
“Homework? Really, Lark?” Cam demanded. “It’s Saturday.”
“I know,” I groaned, rolling my eyes. “But something tells me I’m not going to feel up to doing this tomorrow, and it’s due on Monday.” As I hung my friends’ monogrammed garment bags from hooks on my closet doors, Jeanine arranged their other bags on a nearby chair.
“Thanks, Jeanine,” I said warmly.
“Of course, dear.” She smiled indulgently. “Would you girls like some snacks while you’re getting ready?”
“That’s not ne—“ I began, but Cam talked over me.
“Can we get a cheese plate?” she asked hopefully.
“Of course. Anything else?” Jeanine looked from Cam to Annie to me.
“We really don’t need anything,” I told her, shooting Cam a pointed look when she started to protest. The housekeeper should’ve already left for the day, but she’d stayed late at my mothers’ request. My parents were going out and I was headed to Taylor’s party, so Jeanine was there to help us all get ready.
“Let me know if you change your mind,” Jeanine replied on her way out.
Despite my assurances, I knew she’d be back with Cam’s request.
Even before Jeanine was out the door, Cam reached inside her enormous satchel and produced three oversized bottles of bubbly. Annie pulled three picnic-style champagne flutes from her purse with a wide grin.
And so it begins, I thought. Flipping through the playlists on my phone, I selected a pre-party mix.
This was our ritual—champagne and music at my house before any event.
“Have you talked to Tay?” Annie asked, handing me an empty glass. The only thing missing from our routine was Taylor. As the hostess for the evening, she was busy making sure everything was perfect for her 1920’s-themed bash.
Cam popped the first bottle of champagne, making a face at Annie’s question. I shook my head as Cam filled my glass, the pale liquid bubbling over the rim.
“Lucky you,” she said. “Taylor is on a whole new level. She’s totally freaked because the teacups aren’t the right pattern or something.”
Taylor took her party planning duties very seriously, and she strongly believed the small touches could make or break a night. We’d spent an entire lunch hour the week before debating whether the teacups should actually be chipped, as they were at the original speakeasies.
“Should we go early?” I asked. “See if she needs any help?”
Drinking from the bottle of champagn
e, Cam plopped on my bed and waved off the question. “Absolutely not. I need a nice buzz before I deal with her tonight.”
“She’s our friend,” I reminded Cam pointedly.
“I know,” she groaned, stretching out the words. “But ever since Landon dumped her, Tay has been extra.”
Though Cam wasn’t wrong, Taylor’s recent breakup was all the more reason for us to be there. I was about to say so, when Annie changed the subject.
“Can I see your dress, Lark? Cam says it’s rather scandalous.”
“It’s hanging on the back of the bathroom door,” I told her. “But if you’re expecting something outrageous, I think you’re going to be disappointed.”
The nude slip dress with tassels was perfect for the night’s theme, though a little short. Luckily, every other girl at the party would be baring just as much leg.
“I love it!” Annie exclaimed loudly from across the room.
“Me, too,” I answered, grinning.
“Who are you trying to impress?” Annie teased when she rejoined us. She perched on my vanity stool. My best friend’s short, dark hair was already styled, but her porcelain skin was makeup-free. She began rifling through my collection of primers and foundations, winking at me in the mirror.
My expression must’ve shown my unease, because Annie’s expression faltered.
“Yeah, spill, Lark,” Cam demanded, giggling as she refilled my glass. “We all know you’re hiding something. Or, rather… someone?”
Her tone implied that she wasn’t just guessing I’d been M.I.A. because of a guy. My chest tightened, wondering how Cam found out about Blake.
Maybe I’m being paranoid, I thought. There was no way she knew…right? She’s probably just hoping I’ll slip up and admit I’ve been seeing someone.
“Sorry,” Annie mouthed in the mirror.
“Can’t a girl wear a pretty dress for herself?” I asked, widening my eyes in faux innocence.
Cocking a hip, Cam stared at me with pursed lips. “What’s the big deal? Why won’t you tell us? Who is he?”
