Fragile Facade

by Sophie Davis

  “Come on, Cam,” Annie said softly. “Leave her alone.”

  Unfazed, Cam opened the second bottle of champagne and took a swig. “No, I defended Lark when everyone said she was keeping secrets from the group. And come to find out….” She trailed off, her cheeks flushed with annoyance.

  Annie averted her gaze, pretending to be fascinated by my perfume collection.

  “Find out what?” I demanded.

  “Lydia told Ilan that she saw you down by Canal Street. She said you were eating tacos with some hot guy sporting a man bun and hipster glasses,” Cam said flatly.

  Releasing my breath, I hid a smile. They don’t know about Blake, I thought, relief washing over me. Canal Street was not an area I frequented. In fact, I hadn’t been there in years.

  “Seriously? A guy with a man bun? Lydia always has the worst intel, you know that.” I met Cam’s gaze levelly. “Do you really believe I went on a food truck date with a hipster?”

  Cam narrowed her eyes and stared suspiciously. She assessed me as though we didn’t know each other, like we hadn’t been having sleepovers and gushing about boys and running up our parents’ credit cards together for years. Then Cam cracked a smile and tossed her glossy, black mane over one shoulder. Either the alcohol was chilling her out, or she’d realized the absurdity of her third-hand information.

  “I didn’t think it sounded like your style,” she said, nodding confidently. “I mean, I get slumming it. Remember that guy I dated for a minute this summer? He lives in Jersey.” A shudder ran through my friend, like the thought of the Garden State made her ill. Knowing Cam, it probably did. “At least he was in college—that made up for his zip code.”

  Thankfully, talking about her own love life distracted Cam from mine. She launched into a recap of her entire dating history, starting with a second-grade boyfriend. A few times, she tried to steer the conversation back to me and my disappearing act. Annie intervened whenever the conversation veered my way, probably feeling guilty that I knew the Eight were obviously gossiping about me.

  Jeanine returned several times while my friends and I danced around my bedroom, sang along to our favorite songs, and vied for space at my vanity. The first trip, she delivered Cam’s cheese platter, along with grapes and apple slices. The second, our very thoughtful housekeeper brought three pitchers of iced water and glasses. By that point, we’d polished off the third bottle of champagne and pilfered scotch from my father’s office.

  “You are my very favorite human person ever!” Cam exclaimed when Jeanine arrived for a third time with a plate of warm brownies.

  Concern flashed in Jeanine’s eyes, though it didn’t linger.

  “It’s okay,” I told her softly. “Cam’s just having fun. I swear she’s not as drunk as she seems.”

  As if to prove me wrong, Cam’s foot caught on the leg of my desk chair. Her drink went flying, as did Cam. She tucked and rolled, performing an impressive somersault. Leaping to her feet, she threw her arms in the air.

  “Perfect ten!” she announced.

  Wincing, I turned back to Jeanine. “I’ll get her some crackers,” I promised.

  Jeanine patted me on the arm. “You stay and have fun with your friends, dear. I’ll get more crackers.” She smiled fondly. “You’re such a good girl, Lark.”

  “I need a new drink,” Cam announced, pushing her bottom lip out in a pout.

  I offered my glass. “You can have mine.”

  A small headache was forming in my temples, and I needed to pace myself to make it through Taylor’s party.

  Beep. Beep.

  The music faded out, and Cam booed loudly.

  “Text message from Mother,” Sirius said.

  “Read message, please,” I replied.

  “Message from Mother: Lark, darling, your father and I are leaving for Melinda’s now. Have a nice time at the Vanderkam’s tonight. Be careful not to spill anything on your dress. Stains will show easily on the nude color, and we don’t want pictures ruined.”

  No, we wouldn’t want that, I thought.

  There was a long pause after Sirius finished reading my mother’s text. Neither of my friends said anything, but it was easy to tell what they were both thinking: Did Eleanor Kingsley really send her daughter a text to say she was leaving the house instead of walking twenty feet to the bedroom?

  “Sirius, time check,” I called.

  Beep. Beep.

  “The time is 9:24 p.m., Lark,” he responded.

  A new pop song started, filling the silence. Without hesitating, Cam and Annie took up positions in the center of the room. Smiling, I watched as my friends did the choreography from the music video. Normally, I would have joined them—it was a given that we’d break into scripted moves at least once while getting ready—but the pounding in my head was getting worse. I headed to the bathroom in search of some aspirin.

  “Hey, we should probably get dressed soon,” Annie called from the bedroom. “Taylor just texted me.” My best friend started giggling. “Oh, my gosh. You guys won’t believe what Harold Goines just did.”

  Do I want to know? Do I even care? I wondered, appraising my reflection in the bathroom mirror. A buzzing noise near the door drew my attention.

  “He peed off the roof,” Annie yelled to make sure I heard her over the music. “Taylor is losing it.”

  But I wasn’t paying attention to my friends. The buzzing sound was coming from the pocket of my bathrobe hanging on the door.

  Pulling out my phone, I looked down at the display and saw a text message from an unsaved number I knew by heart. The words on the screen were a little blurry, and I had to blink several times to bring them into focus.

  “Larky-loo, come out, come out!”

  Annie and Cam clamored into the bathroom, dressed in their flapper attire. Cam even had a cigarette holder perched between her bright red lips. Typing a quick reply and hitting send, I shoved my phone back into the pocket of my bathrobe.

  “You guys look awesome,” I said honestly.

  Annie was wearing fishnets, a bright pink dress, and a pearl-encrusted headband with a feather attached. She could barely walk in her Maryjane heels, but that had more to do with the height than champagne—Annie really was more of a wedge girl. Cam had pinned her long waves into a short, sleek bob that framed her heart-shaped face. The choker around her throat had a large sapphire in the center, the same shade of blue as her dress.

  Annie held out my tasseled frock. “Hate to rush you, but Taylor is blowing up my phone. Allister and Barrett asked if we’d pick them up on the way over, so we need to boogie.”

  As if on cue, Cam’s cell lit up.

  “No way,” she groaned, clearly annoyed. Holding up the phone so that both Annie and I could see the message, she added, “Taylor needs more of that stupid beer for Gris Michaelson. The only freaking place that sells it is in Midtown.”

  Gris wasn’t part of the Eight. In fact, he barely entered Gracen’s social scene at all. Besides, the handcrafted microbrew he wanted wasn’t very theme-appropriate.

  “Since when does Taylor care what Gris Michaelson wants?” I asked. “I vote ‘no’ to Midtown.”

  Annie and Cam exchanged looks.

  “Since she started using him to get over Landon,” Cam replied, her forehead wrinkling. “Seriously, Lark? Even when you are around, it’s like you’re not.”

  The bathroom fell silent. I didn’t even realize the music had stopped until that moment.

  “Cam…,” I began, unsure how to finish that sentence in a way that would satisfy her.

  Beep. Beep.

  “Text message from Ilan Avery,” Sirius announced, saving me.

  “Read message,” I told him to buy myself a few more seconds.

  “Message from Ilan Avery: Where are you? You’d better not ditch out on Taylor’s tonight.”

  Gesturing to the ceiling as though Ilan’s message had just proved her point—and it sort of did—Cam spun on her heel and stomped out of the bathroom.
>
  “Ignore her,” Annie said softly. “She’s just…well, she isn’t wrong. But I get it, you aren’t ready to talk about it yet. Whatever ‘it’ is.”

  “I’m sorry, Annie.”

  Should I tell her about Blake? With a deep breath, I started to spill but changed my mind at the last second.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated lamely.

  Annie forced a smile. “It’s fine. And Cam will chill.” She hesitated, sadness tinging her expression. “We miss you. We just wish you missed us, too.”

  My best friend wasn’t angry about my disappearances. She was hurt.

  Before I could reply, Annie’s phone made a pinging sound. She glanced down and read the message. “It’s Taylor again. We really need to go.”

  “Annie?” I called as she headed for the bedroom.

  Though she didn’t turn around, Annie paused in the doorway.

  “Why don’t you guys leave now and pick up Allister and Barret? I’ll go get the beer,” I offered.

  Expecting her to protest, I was more than a little surprised when she nodded.

  “Okay, yeah.” Annie looked at me over her shoulder. “You’re going to come though, right?”

  “I’ll see you there,” I promised.

  At the time, I fully intended to keep my word. But even the best laid plans went awry. Some things were more important than parties and hurt feelings.

  Some people were too vital to ignore.

  Nine

  Lark

  There’s A thing about this place—no one wants to be here. No one. Even those who belong here, those who chose this end, are full of regret.

  It’s not uncomfortable here. This is not the place of fire and brimstone and screams of agony. No, ours is a realm of quiet misery. We despair because nothing ever changes. Nothing. And we can do nothing to change that. Many of the newcomers try, unable to accept that they’ve reached the end of the line. Those are the ones who suffer the greatest. Those are the ones like me.

  This existence is like a tangled necklace chain; the more you pull, the tighter the knot becomes, choking you with unyielding frustration. Or like being in a straitjacket; you can resist and struggle all you want, but you’ll only receive pain and exhaustion for your efforts. That may be the better metaphor here, since resistance is hopelessly futile. The more you try to change what happened, the more you fight it or refuse to accept it, the more depleted you’ll be when you finally slump over in defeat.

  On occasion, you hear whispers of encouragement: pull the right piece of chain, learn the magician’s secrets, you can free yourself. But only those who’ve just crossed the threshold still possess what is required to believe these promises. Hope. The rest of us, some who’ve been stuck here for a lifetime, know the truth; hope is despair. At least Dante was warned upon entering Satan’s realm. Those who pass that way are lucky, if only for being told about it up front. For the rest of us, abandoning hope is a lesson learned once we are broken and defeated from trying to change fate.

  After that comes the monotony. Every day here is a carbon copy of the previous one. Though we aren’t confined to a tiny, claustrophobic space, the freedom given is merely a mirage. We might as well be locked in rooms with no door at all. Or wandering a garden where the hedges conceal electric fences behind their landscaped perfection. Once here, you’re trapped. This is the end of the road, the last stop on a one-way train. Color, choice, life, hopes, dreams, beginnings…they all come here to die.

  Here is calm, tranquil, and never anything more. No problems, no surprises, nothing to keep life interesting. Here is simple. Existence is simple. Being is simple. There is nothing to do except think. It allows my brain to remember. Others are not so lucky. They chase the past, the before, like a dog does his tail. They never catch the end—that important event that brought them here. Painful as it is, I have caught my past. Or, maybe more accurately, it has caught me. I see it all so clearly. That is the one gift this place has given me.

  On better days, a glimmer of gold brightens the grey and white canvas that has muted the world. I dare to want. To want a glimpse into a life that is not mine. Like Ebenezer, I can watch, hear, but never interact. Breaking through…it's harder than I imagined.

  I feel that forbidden hope when I think of her. I don’t know why her, it wasn’t a cognizant decision on my part. I simply closed my eyes and saw her light, the single illuminated peg stuck in a black construction paper backdrop.

  Is it fair for me to ask this of her, to ask her to finish what I started? Of course not. But nothing in life is truly fair. There are only haves if have-nots exist. For someone to star in a show, there must first be an audience. Our roles have become reversed, she and I. She is the understudy I never knew existed, now destined to inherit my spotlight. I’ve written the script, handed it over, and will do my best to direct the show. All I ask is that she read the lines, improvise where necessary, and commit fully. I just hope she understands.

  She must understand.

  Ten

  Raven

  The still air of the empty apartment was thick with tension. I stared at the envelope on Lark’s counter and contemplated a million possible explanations for it. None of them seemed likely. Finally, I picked it up and removed the folded sheets of paper inside.

  The envelope was still unusually heavy, so I upended it. A strange key fell on the countertop. It was orange plastic on one end with a flimsy metal loop. The other end was the length of my pinkie and silver, with tiny, sharp teeth. I picked it up and turned it over in my palm, examining it from every angle. It looked strangely familiar. Setting the key on the counter, I turned my attention back to the folded pages. My hands hesitated to unfold them, like my body was telling me to walk away.

  “A dead girl didn’t write a note from beyond the grave,” I mumbled under my breath. “And it’s not like you’re snooping.”

  The two words printed on the envelope were a clear invitation: Read Me.

  But were they meant for anybody? For the first person to find the envelope? Or for someone specific?

  “Only one way to find out,” I said to the empty apartment.

  When I unfolded the paper, there was a creamy sheet of stationary on top. The penmanship was exquisite. It was also identical to the handwriting in the journal.

  If you are reading this, something has happened to me. Secrets rule my world, the kind that chase you to the ends of the earth and beyond the gates of Hell. If you are reading this, one of those secrets caught up with me.

  I need you to finish what I started. I implore you, please don’t turn your back on me. It took a lot to get this here, to get you here. I promise, you’ll understand by the time we are done. You don’t know me, but you’re my only source of hope.

  They say the truth shall set you free. It’s probably too late for me, but I’m not the only one who seeks freedom. The world needs to know what lies beneath the surface. Blood hangs around their necks and drips from their ears. To you, this may seem a tad dramatic. I promise you, it is not.

  The police cannot help you. Or rather, they will not. They wouldn’t help me, either. They are paid too well.

  Follow my lead. Walk in my shoes. Spend a DAY in my life. You will understand.

  The last part was printed, the letters practically engraved from the writer pressing down with the pen.

  The words were indeed dramatic, and images of society women with slashed throats played through my mind. They danced around a ballroom in their beautiful gowns while fat drops of crimson trailed their every step like a bloody line of breadcrumbs, a juxtaposition of macabre and opulence.

  With a shake of my head, I cleared the morbid imagery Lark’s words provoked. Placing the letter on the kitchen counter, I smoothed the creases and reread the words with a critical eye.

  You don’t know me, but you are my only source of hope.

  “A stranger, then,” I muttered. “Anyone who found it.”

  I reread Lark’s letter a third time.

&n
bsp; Secrets rule my world.

  One secret was obvious from my skimming of the diary: Blake Greyfield, the boyfriend Lark kept from her parents and friends. But that wasn’t the type of secret that haunted a person. Lark was clearly haunted. What else was she hiding?

  Running a hand through my hair, I considered the journal entries I’d flipped through the night before. Instead of concentrating on the words, I thought about what she’d implied rather than spelled out. Lark wasn’t close with most of her Manhattan friends. She didn’t feel comfortable talking to them about anything of consequence, either good or bad. Lark had pulled away long before her disappearance. So far, the same was true of her relationship with her parents. Eleanor and Phillip Kingsley were more like conductors than parents, and Lark resented their demands. But none of those things were deep, dark secrets that would end in her demise.

  Maybe it was someone else’s covert activities that caught up with her. There was no way to know for certain…unless I kept reading the dairy. As intrusive as it seemed, Lark was asking for help. The passages I’d skimmed so far didn’t spell out what happened in neon letters, like I’d been hoping, but maybe I’d understand by the end of it. Like Lark said in her letter.

  After reading the note for a fourth time, I flipped to the second sheet of paper. Instead of more cryptic messages, it was a printed-out train receipt. The e-ticket was for one passenger, departing New York’s Grand Central Station on January 23. The destination was Union Station, Washington, D.C. At the bottom of the page, written in blue pen, was a series of alphanumeric characters.

  A confirmation number? I wondered.

  After a fifth read-through of the letter and another scan of the e-ticket, I debated calling the authorities. I had the diary of a girl whose disappearance was national news. The first clue of some cryptic scavenger hunt was in front of me. Wouldn’t those things help the authorities find Lark?

  My phone was in my hand, my fingers poised to dial 911, when a line from Lark’s letter flashed in my mind: They are paid too well.