by Sophie Davis
With a heavy sigh, I put the phone down. I couldn’t do it. Not yet, anyhow. Guilt nagged at the corner of my brain, arguing against my choice. Her parents were looking for her. Hell, the country was looking for her. The media treated the case like she was the lost heir to a nonexistent throne. My eyes skimmed the letter again as I hesitated.
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.
Lark Kingsley was begging for someone—me—to open her trove of secrets. Hopefully it wouldn’t be Pandora’s Box.
Somewhere between reading Lark’s journal, discovering her apartment, and finding her letter, I felt a kinship that I couldn’t explain. She’d specifically said the police wouldn’t help, so that really only left me. Of course, her letter was so cryptic that I didn’t know what she wanted me to do. Hopefully that would change.
My mind whirring with strange and disturbing thoughts, I left the apartment. The more I pondered Lark’s words, the more convinced I became that her secret was huge. A hush-hush boyfriend wasn’t the sort of thing that might lead to your demise. And Lark clearly knew something was going to happen to her. More than that, she’d made a contingency plan: a cryptic message left in an apartment Lark rented under an assumed name.
Even though my thoughts kept returning to Lark’s problems, I needed to focus on one of my own—a job. My own time in D.C. would be short-lived if I didn’t secure steady income. At the U Street metro station, I purchased a Smartrip card and loaded it with twenty dollars. I knew little about D.C., but I’d heard that Dupont Circle, Adam’s Morgan, and Georgetown were three neighborhoods known for nightlife and restaurants. Since those were the most likely places I’d find a job, I searched the metro map hanging behind scratched, yellowed plastic. The first two areas were on the red line, so I followed the signs to those trains.
Once on the platform, I was pleasantly surprised to see an electronic sign indicating that the next red line train was arriving in one minute. Pretending this wasn’t my first time on a subway, I glanced nonchalantly at the other people on the platform. An olive-skinned boy in his late-teens stood near the edge, wearing enormous headphones that made him look like he belonged in a recording studio. He seemed to think he was in the booth, too, wagging his hand back and forth while mouthing words. A well-dressed man in an impeccably cut suit and red power-tie was standing awkwardly under the arrival sign. He looked out of place and kept loosening his Windsor knot as though the fetid air was making it difficult to breathe. When he caught sight of me staring at him, the man stopped fidgeting and eyed me curiously. I gave him a half-smile, embarrassed he’d noticed me watching. He didn’t smile back.
A shiver ran down my spine as the lights on the platform flashed, signaling the train’s arrival. I edged forward, feeling the weight of the man’s gaze. Air whooshed through the station, humid and stale, from the darkened tunnel. Strands of dark hair flew into my eyes as the train pulled to a stop. The doors slid apart, and I boarded the car directly in front of me. I’d just slid into a window seat in the mostly empty car when a mechanical voice said, “Doors closing.” Before they did, the suit-wearing man thrust his arm between the doors and stepped aboard.
We weren’t the only two on the car, yet he made me nervous. The way he kept looking at me was unsettling, and I itched to leave the metro. Keeping my head turned to the window, I focused on the dark concrete walls rushing past.
You’re being paranoid, I told myself.
“Next stop, Chinatown,” the mechanical voice said. I stood and hurried to the doors. From the corner of my eye, I saw the man watching me. He was still seated.
The train slid to a stop. When the doors opened, I slipped through them and onto the platform. The man didn’t follow, but he watched me through the window until the train was gone again. For several long seconds, I stood on the platform and tried to shake off the creepy feeling that I was being followed.
You’re losing it, I thought. Lark’s fear must be contagious.
Once outside, the fresh air washed away my suspicious thoughts. The first restaurant I came across had darkened windows and an orange sign declaring it to be Zanga. The menu outside referred to the cuisine as “Asian fusion with a dash of fire.”
A pretty brunette wearing all black stood behind a hostess podium near the entrance. “Table for one?” she asked, greeting me with a smile.
“Actually, I was wondering if you were hiring?” I replied, matching her pleasant smile.
The girl, “Brooklyn” according to her nametag, did a once-over. Her friendly expression didn’t falter, but I was suddenly very conscious of the fact my outfit didn’t go with the high-end décor of the space.
“Not currently, but we’re always taking applications,” she told me.
“Thanks anyway,” I replied, knowing what that meant.
“Hey,” she called after me.
One hand already on the door, I turned back.
“There’s a place in Capitol Hill called Raine’s,” the hostess continued. “It’s a wine bar. Nothing too fancy, but they get a decent after-work crowd, lots of staffers. My roommate is a bartender there, and she mentioned they were looking for help. She’s working right now, if you want to swing by? Her name is Caitlyn, tell her Brooklyn sent you. She’ll at least give you an interview.”
“Wow, thanks,” I told her. “That’s really nice of you.”
“I moved here last year for school,” Brooklyn explained. “I totally understand where you’re coming from. No one gave me the time of day when I was looking for jobs. This place,” she made a spinning gesture with one finger, “only gave me a job after my financial aid advisor called in a favor.”
Grinning, I thanked her again.
Instead of returning to the metro, I braved a city bus that purportedly ran from Chinatown to Capitol Hill. The trip across town was quicker than expected. When the bus pulled to a stop, the same mechanical voice from the metro called out, “Union Station.”
Lark’s pleading words flashed in my mind: Follow my lead. Walk in my shoes. Spend a DAY in my life.
Grabbing my bag, I dashed through the open doors at the back of the bus. For a moment, I stood on the sidewalk and stared across the street at the massive stone structure. Union Station, where Lark arrived on January 23rd. Spend a DAY in my life.
“Okay, Lark,” I muttered, starting for the crosswalk.
It took a few minutes to navigate my way across Massachusetts Avenue, which was heavy with yellow cabs zipping and weaving between the other cars. Finally, I reached the entrance. With its archways and columns, it didn’t look like a train depot I’d ever seen. The train station in Harrisburg, PA was little more than a dirty cement building with a handful of grimy plastic chairs inside. Union Station had a marble fountain in the center of a spacious, indoor courtyard. The ceiling was rounded and so high that voices echoed beneath.
“I’m here,” I muttered. “What now?”
Standing in the beautiful atrium, I had no clue where to go next. Then I remembered the weird key, which was still in my pocket. Lark had included it with the letter and train ticket for a reason. It was somehow tied to Union Station.
I glanced around, hoping that the answer to the riddle would pop out. A wave of commuters poured through one of the archways at the back of the atrium. I moved aside, toward a cluster of tables around a coffee stand.
“Hey, I’m leaving if you want to sit here,” called a guy in khakis and a t-shirt. He waved in my direction, and I looked around to make sure he was talking to me.
“Um, thanks,” I said. He stood and gestured to the chair he’d just vacated.
Settling in, I pulled out Lark’s letter and the train ticket from my bag. I glanced around nervously to make sure no one was watching me. The occupants of the surrounding tables were all either immersed in conversation or glued to their phones.
You’re not doing anything wrong, I told myself. You
have no reason to worry.
I set the letter and ticket side-by-side on the table. The writing at the bottom of the ticket had to be a clue: C908. Initially, I’d thought it was a confirmation number. As I stared at the four characters again, I wasn’t so sure.
“Mind if I sit?” asked a female voice.
Immersed in my thoughts, I nearly fell off my chair.
“Sorry. It’s just so crowded, and I’ve been on my feet all day.” The girl shrugged sheepishly. “Promise I’ll be quiet.” Her smile was hopeful, her big brown eyes pleading.
Though I wanted to say no, I also didn’t want to be rude.
“Yeah, sure.” I gestured to the empty chair across from me with one hand and covered the letter and train ticket with my other.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” She sank into the chair and sighed. “Twelve-hour shifts should be outlawed.”
I mustered a small smile, and she held out a hand. “I’m Heather.”
“Raven,” I replied, accepting the handshake.
That was when I really looked at my tablemate. She wore a tailored blue suit with a collared shirt underneath. Heather sat with her long legs crossed, and when she reached down to rub her ankle, I saw the navy stilettoes on her feet.
“Do you work here?” I asked, careful to keep my tone even. Perhaps my polite deed would be rewarded.
Heather nodded and gave me a tired smile. “Yep, for Amtrak.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a phone. Holding it up, she added, “Sorry, I promised to be quiet.”
“It’s totally fine,” I said with a smile. I hesitated, uncertain how best to broach the subject of the key, and possibly even the train ticket. “I’m new in town and I don’t really know many people in D.C., so it’s nice to talk,” I admitted.
Heather leaned forward and rested one elbow on the table, then place her chin her upturned palm. “Where are you from?”
“Nowhere, Pennsylvania,” I replied.
“Cool, cool. What brought you down here?”
“Just needed a change,” I answered with a shrug.
She nodded like she understood the feeling. My arm was still covering Lark’s letter and the train ticket. You’ve got nothing to lose, I coached myself. Just ask.
I cleared my throat. “Can I ask you a question?”
Heather raised one eyebrow, which I took as an invitation.
Without a prepared story, I said the first thing that popped in my head. “I’m subletting an apartment, and the girl who lived there before left a lot of her stuff.” I reached in my pocket and pulled out the key. “I found this wrapped up in a train ticket. Any chance you know what it goes to?”
The lie rolled off my tongue smoothly, surprising me.
Heather held out her hand. “May I?”
Fingers clutching the key, I hesitated.
She’s a stranger…, I thought. But what’s the worst that could happen? She can’t make it far in those four inch heels.
Managing a small smile, I handed over the key. She turned it over in her palm, running a finger over the metal teeth, then Heather met my gaze. “It looks like one of the station’s locker keys.”
“Locker?” I repeated.
She held out the key, tensing when I quickly snatched it back.
“Inside the terminal, on the bottom level, there’s a big room with lockers you can rent.” Lips pursed, Heather tilted her head to the side. “But you’d need to know the locker number if you’re after what’s inside.”
Nervous laughter bubbled up before I could stop it. Heather’s tone wasn’t suspicious, though her comment made me realize I should be more careful with my lies.
Heather’s phone vibrated, making the table shake. She picked it up and smiled as she read the alert.
“My X-Ped is here,” she said, standing and collecting her bag. “Thanks again for the seat, Raven. Good luck with your mission.”
“Thanks.”
Watching Heather’s retreating form, I considered her words. When I glanced down at the train ticket, Lark’s perfect penmanship practically jumping off the page: C908.
“It’s a locker number,” I whispered triumphantly. Nervous, excited energy buzzed through my veins.
Another wave of commuters swept through the archway. Like a salmon swimming upstream, I entered the Union Station terminal. Darting and weaving through the crowd, I held tightly to my messenger bag with one hand and clutched the key in the other. I nearly knocked over a little boy clinging to his mother’s arm, and called out an apology over my shoulder.
The escalators were packed, so I opted for the stairs, taking them two at time. I reached the terminal’s shopping area, but barely noticed the high-end stores as I rushed past. Boarding the next escalator down, I was forced to slow my pace.
“Someone’s a little hasty,” a male voice said as I tapped my foot impatiently.
A snappy retort on the tip of my tongue, I turned to the speaker. The guy was smirking, his dark eyes twinkling when our gazes locked. He was tall, well over six feet, and wore a Washington Nationals shirt.
“Sorry, I’m trying to make my train,” I lied. “It leaves in five minutes.”
“I got you,” he replied, like I’d laid out a challenge. Wedging his way forward, the guy squeezed his muscular frame between me and the woman sharing my escalator step.
“’Scuse me, sorry,” he said. With one look at those dark, soulful eyes, the woman blushed and moved aside to let him through. Sliding past, he caught my gaze again. “You want to make that train or not?”
He didn’t wait for an answer, and I didn’t think twice about following the stranger’s lead. My new friend cleared the path ahead, calling out apologies to the other passengers.
We reached the landing and turned left toward the train terminal. With his long strides, I was practically sprinting to keep up. As the crowds grew thicker and more obstacles appeared—luggage, strollers, and confused tourists—he offered me his hand. I hesitated for the space of a heartbeat, too caught up in the thrill to consider how reckless it was to put my trust in a person whose name I didn’t even know.
The guy grinned. “Almost there.”
His large hand swallowing my smaller one, we dashed across the Amtrak ticketing area where passengers formed messy lines that stretched to the back wall. At one point, my knight in sportswear leapt over an errant suitcase with the grace of a hurdler. My jump was less athletic, only dumb luck landing me on my feet.
Finally, we reached the entrance to the train terminal. Nats guy came to an abrupt halt, and I careened into his back. He laughed. I stumbled but didn’t fall.
“Did I deliver? Or did I deliver?” he asked, releasing my hand.
“Thank you,” I wheezed, embarrassed that I was sucking air when he hadn’t broken a sweat.
He gave me a mock salute. “Safe travels.”
Committing fully to the lie, I thanked him again and darted into the terminal. When I glanced over my shoulder and saw he was gone, I took a moment to catch my breath. Between the mad dash through Union Station and the fact I was on the verge of unlocking Lark Kingsley’s secrets, I didn’t remain stationary for long.
An older woman in a uniform like Heather’s strolled past, and I stepped in front of her. “Hi, sorry to bother you. Can you point me to the rental lockers?” I asked.
The worker smiled and gestured behind me. “Just keep going, all the way down the walkway. The lockers are across from Platform 24, you’ll see them.”
“Thank you, thank you,” I replied. My grip on the key in my hand was so tight, the teeth bit into my skin.
“Of course, dear. Have a nice day.”
My feet were already in motion. “You, too!” I called over my shoulder.
Like she’d said, the sign over the entranceway of a wide hall was impossible to miss, with “Rental Lockers” written in large block letters.
Are you really doing this? I wondered, my steps faltering as I passed beneath the sign. My emotions stewed. My excitement
was tinged with guilt. Lark was missing, and I was over the moon with my amateur sleuthing. The thrill was tangled around a pit of anxiety that felt leaden in my gut.
You’ve come this far, don’t chicken out now, I told myself sternly.
The key was still clutched in my closed fist. When I squeezed it tighter, the jolt of pain helped me focus. The train ticket was tucked in my messenger bag, but the alphanumeric digits were burned into my memory.
Taking a deep breath that filled my lungs to capacity, I moved down the hallway and searched for C908.
The locker Lark chose was situated near the back of the long hallway in an area with little foot traffic. Though I could hear other people, no one ventured down my row. Good, I thought. I had no clue what I would find inside the locker, so it was probably best to be alone when I opened it.
After several false starts, I found the courage to slide the key into the lock. My anxiety reached a fever-pitch. My head began to pound, deafening all other noises.
Just turn the damn key, I told myself. The locked clicked, and I counted to three before pulling the door open. My entire body was trembling, like my subconscious was worried that Lark’s head might roll out of the metal box.
Of course, that didn’t happen. In fact, nothing fell from the locker. Giggling nervously, I peered at the two white envelopes sitting inside, one considerably thicker than the other. Using my fingernail, I broke the seal of the thinner one first. Inside was a small stack of cashier’s checks, each made out to The Pines.
Great, she wants me to pay her rent, I thought. After the cryptic gibberish about spending a day in her life and understanding, the whole point was finding her rent checks.
Worst scavenger hunt ever, I thought, annoyed that I’d wasted my day on something so ridiculous.
The second envelope was heavy as hell. Expecting more cashier’s checks for Lark’s bills, I tore it open.
“Fudge me,” I gasped.
The envelope held an impossibly thick stack of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.
Eleven
Lark
