Platinum Prey
Date: 2014-12-25 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Contemporary; Mystery Thriller; Young Adult
Description: If a stranger was begging for your help, would you answer? When Raven stumbles upon a missing heiress’s diary and the riddled pleas within its pages, she’s stunned to discover a mysterious connection between them.
Publisher: Dabber & Baehr

Platinum Prey (Blind Barriers Trilogy #2)

Sophie Davis

Copyright © 2015 by Sophie Davis Books

Smashwords Editions

For the Nice Lady for being so darn nice. For Charlie, may your adventures above—because all dogs really do go to heaven—be just as great as your adventures down here. For Aiden and Carson, thank you for being such excellent little waiters and delivering all of our food to the office so that we could finish this book; even if you guys always forget the napkins.

Talented (Talented Saga #1)

Caged (Talented Saga #2)

Hunted (Talented Saga #3)

Captivated (Talented Saga #3.5)

Created (Talented Saga #4)

Exiled: Kenly’s Story, A Talented Saga Novel (Kenly Chronicles #1)

Inescapable (Talented Saga #5)

Pawn

Sacrifice

Checkmate

Fragile Façade (Blind Barriers Trilogy #1)

Platinum Prey (Blind Barriers Trilogy #2)

Vacant Voices (Blind Barriers Trilogy #3)

Table of Contents

Other Books by Sophie

Lark-Journal Entry One

I-Lark

II-Raven

III-Lark

IV-Raven

V-Lark

VI-Raven

VII-Lark

VIII-Raven

IX-Lark

Lark-Journal Entry Two

X-Lark

XI-Raven

XII-Lark

XIII-Raven

XIV-Lark

XV-Raven

XVI-Lark

XVII-Raven

Lark

XVIII-Raven

Lark-Journal Entry Three

XIX-Raven

Lark-Journal Entry Four

XX-Raven

XXI-Lark

XXII-Raven

XXIII-Lark

XXIV-Raven

Lark-Journal Entry Five

Epilogue

Social Media Links

Acknowledgements

Dear Reader

SOMETIMES WHEN THE morning dawns, I wake a moment before reality hits me and revel in the peacefulness. Living in the now is impossible. It’s a faux life, a cheap knockoff of my prior existence. I can imagine the men on Canal Street hocking it right along with the fake Chanel bags—authentic charmed life, see the perfect detailing? Only 100 bucks! Their small details aren’t enough for me to accept this as real.

My past isn’t something I want to dwell on either. The stares, the glares, the frightened looks. My parents and their not-so-hushed arguments behind closed doors. Always about me. The pressure would have been more than enough to break me, if I’d ever had the luxury of buckling. But I understood what was expected of me way before I knew not to call the nanny “Mommy”.

I knew to mind my manners. To not wrinkle my frilly dresses or scuff my shiny shoes. I knew not to run. Or chase. Or revel. I knew to neither speak nor fidget when other adults were in the room, to stay completely silent and completely still. Making a game of it with my invisible friend, we’d take turns seeing who could remain motionless and quiet the longest. I always won. She was much better at being a child. I was much better at being a miniature adult.

That was, in fact, the goal of every parent who sent their child to my prestigious pre-school. The admission process began when I was three. My earliest memory is of my nanny at the time getting me dressed for my interview. It wasn’t the soft crimson velvet of my dress that stood out in my mind, or the slick satin of the bow tied at my waist. It wasn’t the shiny Mary Jane shoes that were brand new and too rigid, cutting in to my small feet, nor the itchy wool tights, though I remembered all of those things.

No, it was my nanny crouched in front of me and holding both of my hands tightly in hers as she furtively whispered instructions to me. Fiona, that was her name, told me not to fidget, and to answer only with big girl words. She reminded me of my manner terms—Please, Thank You, Ma’am, Sir—and told me to use them as much as possible. We went over key phrases like ‘Pleased to Meet You’ and ‘Thank You for Having Me.’ Fiona told me to be my most polite self, and to sit tall and speak clearly.

But all of that would’ve been shuffled to the back of my mind along with other subconscious memories of my childhood if it weren’t for her most demanding request. Nanny Fiona implored me to tell Abigail that she could not come with me that day. My invisible friend was to stay behind, and not follow me. Should she ignore Nanny Fiona and tag along anyway, I was to firmly ignore her, pushing her to the background. I remember beginning to cry, my heart aching at the thought of being mean to Abigail, telling her she couldn’t come out to play today.

Abigail went everywhere that I did. Even when she wasn’t supposed to. Most of the time she stayed quiet, simply offering me the comfort of having another child around, someone who understood me as none of the grownups did. She rarely spoke up or insisted I acknowledge her presence when grownups were around, and so I never tattled on her.

But Abigail had already caused my parents embarrassment several times. And even my four-year-old self understood the importance of that day.

My parents visited me most evenings, and that was my favorite time of day. When I was ready for bed, my parents were relaxed (now I understood the value of a glass of good scotch, though I used to simply think they were their most fun selves because that’s who they became as the evening cocktail hour wound to a close), and I was able to be a child for several minutes with them.

Except, for weeks now, our bedtime visits had been about the school and how important it was to be a good little girl when I went to meet the admissions board. Sometimes my parents would take me over to the small sitting area in my bedroom, and quiz me endlessly from a stack of cards. When I asked one night where the question cards came from, they told me they came from the preschool entrance specialists. As though that meant anything to me at the time.

Other times we would sit and have grave talks about how important this time was for me, and how I must apply myself to Nanny Fiona’s lessons, and show the nice people at the interview how smart and well-behaved I was. The importance of the interview had been drilled into me for what felt like forever. How it would shape the person I would become, according to my mother. And didn’t I want to be the best person I could be? And how it would determine my future and ability to be successful, according to my father. And didn’t I want to be somebody one day? Someone smart and successful just like him?

Since I did indeed want to be like my father, and to please my mother, I pleaded with Abigail to stay behind that day. Nanny Fiona had told me that it wasn’t enough for her to ask Abigail to stay behind—I had to force her to stay, to tell her I didn’t want her to come. And so I left Abigail quietly crying in the dark as I took Fiona’s hand and walked carefully down the steps that day. While my mother fidgeted with the bow in my hair, I’d tried with all of my might to block out the sounds of her sadness as I left to be the little adult I was expected to be.

That day was a turning point in my friendship with Abigail, the beginning of the end.

As the years progressed, my socially imperative play dates began to replace my time spent with Abigail. Sometimes I could still hear her soft sobs in the back of my head, but all I wanted in life was to please my parents. One day when I was eight, I insisted that Abigail leave me, to run away and never come home. That was the day I ceased being a child playing at adult, and genuinely became my own miniature person. The day I discovered that my parents were fallible, and that I just might need to stray from their carefully laid out course and find my own way. The day that thoughts began to appear of their own volition, whispering that my charmed life was not all it was cracked up to be.

“HEY, DADDY!”

Crossing from the door to his office, over to the desk where he was sitting, I stooped to kiss my father on the cheek. He curled one arm around my waist and pulled me in for a hug.

“Hi, sweetheart, how was your day?”

“Eh, nothing exciting,” I replied truthfully. “Monsieur DuBois was out today and the sub played some ridiculous short films her friend made. They were terrible, someone needs to tell that guy to get a clue.”

As I’d hoped, my silly prattling was rewarded with a tired chuckle from my father.

“Oh the drama,” he said with a wink, an affectionate smile on his face as he gave me another squeeze.

When he let go, I planted another kiss on top of his head and went over to the nearby treadmill.

Summer in Manhattan was stifling, the air barely breathable, which made running outside unbearable. Normally I spent June through August in the Hamptons with the rest of the Eight. This year, however, I’d elected to stay in the city and attend summer classes at Columbia. The decision had been met with avid approval from my father, and angry grumblings from my mother. She argued that my absence from the social scene was going to stunt my societal growth. But with daddy on my side, we’d won the fight easily. Of course, my motivations were not purely educational—Blake was also in the city, taking classes at NYU.

The exercise machine was in my father’s office so he could work out in between meetings and conference calls, but I don’t think he even knew how to turn it on. The fixture remained in place only because I used it frequently, often spending the time walking instead of running so I could chat with my father while he worked.

“And how was your day, Papa?” I asked once the appropriate settings had been entered and the conveyor belt beneath my feet was moving.

With a critical eye, I noted my father’s appearance. The jacket of his handmade Italian suit, normally pristinely pressed by our launderer, was rumpled and slung over the back of his desk chair. With his shirtsleeves rolled up and the striped Ferragamo tie at his neck loosened, my father looked as if he was winding down from a particularly tedious day.

“Oh, you know, nothing exciting,” he said, smiling as he repeated my words back to me. “Had a meeting with that fellow over at Harry Winston to discuss renewing the contracts with an exclusivity clause. I don’t know why they persist with some of their demands.”

“You look tired,” I told him, knowing he wouldn’t take it the way that my mother would—as the greatest betrayal ever spoken. “You’re working too hard.”

“Yeah, what’s new?” he answered. “There’s always so much to be done.”

“When are you going to bring in those new VP’s?” I asked, referring to two newly created positions that would take a lot of tasks and minutia off of my father’s plate.

“We’re in the last round of interviews, but to be honest, none of the candidates are great,” my father replied, walking over to the hutch that held crystal decanters of scotch, whiskey and bourbon. Several ice cubes from the silver ice bucket clinked inside the crystal tumbler, followed by a healthy pour of the scotch.

“What about using a headhunter?” I suggested.

“You’re learning so much,” he replied, beaming at me. “I think that’s exactly what we’ll end up doing, though it’ll be a fight with McAvoy. He’s worried about the fallout from poaching employees, but it’s just something that we all understand and appreciate. It’s part of capitalism, after all—he who presents the best offer should win.”

With that pronouncement, my father raised his glass in a toast to the American way. I giggled at his sardonic statement. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was becoming jaded.

“Here, here!” I called with a laugh.

A knock on the open door to the office drew both of our attention.

“Am I interrupting something?” the tall, thin man asked, a dubious look on his face.

“Speak of the devil!” my father called mockingly, raising his glass again, this time to William McAvoy himself.

“Here, here!” I replied again, playing along with my father’s silliness.

McAvoy remained in the doorway, glancing back and forth between the two of us—me walking at a brisk pace on the treadmill, my father looking rumpled and tired with his glass of scotch, and both of us laughing at what was evidently an inside joke.

“Well then, it’s nice to see you both, too.”

“Get over here and loosen up a bit,” my father said, setting his own glass down and filling another with ice. “What’ll it be?”

“Actually, Phillip, I need to speak with you,” McAvoy replied, glancing pointedly in my direction.

“And I imagine I’d find that conversation more entertaining if you had a drink,” my father said, adding a splash of bourbon to the glass.

William McAvoy was Kingsley Diamond’s Chief Operating Officer. He’d held the position since before I was born. Always wearing black suits and ties that looked like they belonged in an eighties movie, his attire perfectly reflected his personality: somber, boring, and practical.

Though his personality wasn’t exactly winning, with his salt-and-pepper hair, pale blue eyes and tall build, he wasn’t unattractive for an old guy. Considering that fact, plus the loads of money he made as COO, it was surprising to me that he’d never married. Whatever the reason, he’d been a confirmed bachelor for his entire life, and definitely not in the fun sense. For as long as I could remember, William—he’d admonished me when I was little for calling him Will, insisting that wasn’t his name and he wouldn’t answer to it—had attended holidays in my home, always bringing me an extravagant but puzzling gift. What eight-year-old needed, or even wanted, a diamond broach? That was William though—he didn’t quite ‘get’ people.

“It’s important, Phil,” McAvoy was insisting. “We need to talk. Alone.”

Again, he glanced in my direction, lips pursed and eyebrows raised. Unsure of whether that look was for my benefit or my father’s, I decided to bow out gracefully.

“I can go, Daddy,” I said, punching the buttons on the treadmill to slow my pace.

“Nonsense, dear,” my father said, waving it off. “William, I’ve told you before, you can talk shop in front of Lark. She’ll be taking the reins one day; I want her to learn about every facet of the company. Whatever you need to say to me, you can say to her as well.”

Heat crept into my cheeks, the telltale sign I was blushing. The pride in my father’s voice was unmistakable, and it made me feel like I was ten feet tall. My entire life he’d taken time from his tremendously busy schedule to explain things to me, never losing patience when my curious mind asked a million questions. It was no wonder I loved my father so much—he was the only parent who acted as if my thoughts and opinion mattered, not just my appearance.

“Seriously, Phillip, this isn’t the time for one of your little lessons,” McAvoy snapped, sounding uncharacteristically short-tempered. One of the reasons my father had held on to McAvoy for all of these years; not only was he loyal to a fault, he never lost his cool.

“Excuse me?” My father’s voice had lost every trace of amusement, his features hardening into an expression usually reserved for the toughest of negotiations.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…sorry, okay?” McAvoy paused for a moment to let his words sink in, staring my father squarely in the eye, before turning to me. “I apologize, Lark. I’m just having a rough day, and didn’t mean to take it out on you guys.”

“It’s okay,” I replied uncertainly. “It happens, not a big deal.”

This time, when my father extended the scotch glass in his direction, McAvoy accepted the offering with a gracious nod. The tension in the room dissipated as quickly as it had come, all of us once again friends. With the menacing look gone, my father was once more the approachable CEO that all of his employees adored.

McAvoy swirled the contents of his glass uneasily, an internal war waging behind his cool gaze. Whatever he wanted to discuss with my father was clearly a touchy subject.

“Phil, while I understand that she is going to be head of this company one day, I’m not sure if this is something Lark needs to hear just yet, okay?”

My father raised an eyebrow but remained silent, waiting for the COO to explain further.

“It’s about…Jyranji,” McAvoy said, dropping his voice so the last word was barely audible from where I stood across the room.

By this point I’d already stopped moving and was standing on the still belt of the machine, waiting for my father to give me some indication of what to do next.

Though I could only see my father in profile, the effect McAvoy’s words had on him was unmistakable. His posture straightened and he set his drink down on the hutch, then grabbed a bottle of water from the glass-doored refrigerator. Running his fingers through his slate-colored hair, my father returned to the chair behind his desk.

“Lark, dear, do you mind excusing us?” Daddy asked distractedly, not looking at me when he spoke.

“No, no, of course not,” I replied hurriedly, grabbing the towel and water bottle I’d brought with me.

The obvious change in my father’s attitude worried me. Being head of a major company was stressful, but this was more than run of the mill stress. He seemed truly bothered.

Pausing once I reached the doorframe, a quick internal debate swiftly decided, I asked, “Is everything okay, Daddy?” My concern for him overwhelming my sense of decorum. “Is something the matter?”

“No, of course not,” my father answered, plastering one of the fake smiles our whole family knew so well on his face.

It didn’t take a genius to know that something was up and my father was placating me. “Everything’s good, just normal, everyday stuff to tend to, way too boring to bother you with, honey.”

It honestly wouldn’t have been a big deal at all that they had business dealings to discuss that might not be appropriate for me just yet. But when I met his eyes, instead of the reassurance that I expected to see, or even the weariness of a man who worked too much, something there told me that this was anything but everyday stuff.

Fear.

For the first time in my entire life, my father looked scared.

“DO YOU THINK maybe you should slow down?” Asher suggested as I threw back a shot of Grey Goose.

It was my third in ten minutes.

The liquid burned going down. I loathed the unpleasantness; it served as a searing reminder that this was no dream. This, whatever this was, was really happening. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and reached for the bottle again. Asher was faster. He whisked the vodka away, holding it just beyond my reach.

I glowered, eyes focused on the liquor bottle.

“Raven. Look at me,” Asher said sternly, his voice taking on the tone of a big brother speaking patiently to his childish little sister.

It irked me.

My hands were numb and I rubbed them against the fabric of my shorts to build friction and create warmth. When I looked up, it appeared that two Ashers were now sitting next to me on the couch in Lark’s living room, not one. I narrowed my gaze, focusing intently until four concerned brown eyes melded into two.

“Getting drunk won’t change anything,” Asher said, placing the liquor bottle on the floor by his feet.

“No? Then why’d you get the vodka?” I slurred.

Ignoring him, I picked up the mug I’d been using as a shot glass. It appeared to be empty, but I held it to my lips anyway, allowed my head to fall backward, and let the several remaining drops of liquor dribble into my mouth and down my throat.

“I thought you wanted to help her,” Asher said quietly, pointedly ignoring my jab about him being the one to procure the alcohol. “That,” he gestured to the glass in my hand, “is not helping.”

With a shrug, I slumped back against the soft cushions. The glass tumbled from my numb fingers and landed with a dull thud on the carpet.

“It’s helping me,” I said sullenly.

My eyelids were heavy and becoming hard to hold open, so I let them fall shut. Images I never wanted to see again exploded in my mind like flashbulbs.

The safe in Lark’s bedroom.

The passport. My name. My picture. My birthday.

The debit card. To some bank account. In my name.

The credit card. My name on it. Platinum credit card. It screamed, Sky’s the limit!

It was all so surreal. Leaving the family nest in Pennsylvania and coming to D.C. was a monumental step—the largest I’d taken in my eighteen years—and I’d expected to encounter some difficulties. On the drive to our nation’s capital, I’d worried about a million things: renting an apartment, finding a job, making friends, acclimating to life in a major city after a lifetime in small town America.

But instead of merely changing zip codes, I felt as though I’d changed solar systems. After less than forty-eight hours in the District, I’d somehow managed to become entangled in one of the most highly publicized and baffling missing person cases of the decade. That night, I’d gone to bed boring old Raven Ferragamo. The next day, I awoke in the center of a nationwide manhunt for a missing diamond heiress. One fantastical news outlet had even likened Lark’s disappearance to the Lindberg baby kidnapping. Not because of any actual similarities between the two cases, but because of the massive amount of media attention and resources being devoted to finding the teenaged girl.

Admittedly, at first—back when finding Lark’s journal had seemed random and my involvement voluntary—investigating her disappearance had been fun in a way. The puzzles, the bizarre clues, the rare look into the life of a girl whose family was mentioned in the same breath as other American royalty, like the Kennedys—it was all so alluring. I’d quickly found myself wanting to know more.

Then, as I’d delved deeper into Lark’s life—her real life, not the crap that the world read about her in the paper or heard on the nightly news—I felt a connection to the missing girl. A part of me felt like I knew Lark. And I wanted to figure out what happened to her, wanted to help.

Now, though, it was a different story. Knowing that somehow, some way, Lark Kingsley had meant for me—me—to find her journal and follow the cryptic clues she’d left behind, to uncover her dark secrets and expose the skeletons hidden in her walk-in closet…I wished that I’d never heard the name Lark Kingsley. This was way too much responsibility.

Why me?

Those two words played on repeat in my mind like a broken record.

Why would Lark Kingsley—a girl I’d never seen in real life, a girl who came from a world so different from my own that it seemed impossible our paths would ever cross—choose me?

The other question that arose was equally vexing: How had she chosen me?

Suddenly my head began to spin and I started to worry that I was going to be sick. Churning in my gut, followed by hot bile creeping up my throat, changed that worry to certainty. In an instant, I was off the couch and sprinting down the hallway, Asher on my heels. He was the one to open the toilet lid as I fell to my knees beside the porcelain throne. I wanted to tell him to leave, but when I opened my mouth, liquefied pizza shot out like water from a fire hose.

Asher rubbed my back and made soothing sounds as I continued to heave until nothing more than choked sobs were left inside of me. Mortified, I rested my feverish forehead against the toilet seat and reached blindly for the lever on the tank. Again, Asher was faster. For a moment, I was able to forget about what I’d found in the safe and concentrate on the sound of water swirling and disappearing down the pipes, taking my shame with it.

You’re stronger than this, I admonished myself. You knew that investigating Lark’s disappearance might mean finding all sorts of crazy stuff. That was part of the draw.

Except I’d never, not for a single moment, imagined that any of that crazy stuff would be tied to me.

Before, Asher had suggested that it might all be a game—the convoluted clues, the journal entries, the scavenger hunts that led to nowhere. That maybe it was simply hoax perpetrated by a bored, rich, socialite with too much time on her hands. When he first brought up that idea I’d scoffed at the notion, dismissing it immediately.

But now, a part of me prayed that he was right. I didn’t want the documents in the safe to be real. I didn’t want to be involved. I didn’t want to be connected to Lark in some way that I had yet to understand. And never wanted to understand.

Should have gone to the police, I thought.

Now, it was no longer an option. Considering the fact that official documents with my name on them had been hidden in Lark’s secret safe, there was no way the cops would believe I wasn’t involved in her disappearance,

“Up you go.”

Asher’s strong hands were suddenly around my waist, gently lifting me to my feet as if I weighed nothing. Wrapping an arm around my shoulders, he tucked me snuggly against his side and supported much of my weight. I rested my cheek against his chest, noticing, even in my condition, that he smelled really good.

At some point during my mental wanderings, Asher must have left the bathroom without me noticing, because a glass of ice water and two aspirin were now sitting on the sink ledge. He grabbed them both as he led me from the bathroom. Instead of turning left towards the common area, he turned right towards the bedrooms.

“Not hers,” I urged, voice raspy but firm. “Guest room.”

Right now, I needed space, physical distance, from Lark and her life. Had I not just yacked up my dinner, I would have insisted we return to our building on Gibson Street. But it seemed like a million miles away, and I was so tired.

“Here. Take these.” Asher wrapped my fingers around the water glass, and then pressed the pills into my other palm.

Wobbling only a little, I watched as Asher turned down the covers on the daybed in the guestroom.

“Take those, Raven. You’ll thank me in the morning,” he called over his shoulder, struggling to figure out where to put all of the superfluous pillows.

Glad that someone else was calling the shots, I obeyed. Decisions seemed too difficult to make just then. The glass was slippery and I squeezed until my knuckles turned white to ensure it didn’t go sliding through my fingers. Even after the pills were swallowed, I continued to drink, letting the water soothe my raw throat.

“Good. Now, get in.” Asher nodded towards the bed.

Once again, I complied without a word. Laying on my side, I faced towards the wall, so I wouldn’t have to see the worry in Asher’s soft brown eyes. He sat down on the edge of the bed, settling the covers up over my shoulders and tucking them beneath my chin. My mom used to do the same thing when I was little.

“I’ll be on the couch,” he said gently when he’d finished fussing with the blankets. “Just yell if you need me.”

“You don’t need to stay here with me. You should go home,” I mumbled, my feeble protests falling on deaf ears.

The mattress lifted a fraction of an inch when Asher stood. Part of me wanted to ask him to stay right here with me, wrap me in a warm embrace and never let go. Another part of me desperately wanted to be alone.

“We’ll find the truth, Raven,” Asher said after a minute, his voice soft and distant. “You were right all along. You’re the one meant to help her, to find her. And you will. We will. I really believe that.”

I felt his presence as he lingered a heartbeat longer.

“Stay,” was on the tip of my tongue, but something or maybe someone—Kim?—held the plea back. And then it was too late. Soft footsteps marked Asher’s retreat to the living room. I breathed a sigh, relieved that he was gone but also that he wasn’t too far away.

Alone, my thoughts flew back to the reasons I’d been driven to alcohol in the first place. The things I’d found in the safe. The inexplicable things I’d found. Taking a deep breath, I tried to consider them rationally, to decipher what the hell was happening.

The credit card and debit card weren’t as unsettling as I’d initially thought. Curious and odd, yes. But not disturbing in and of themselves. Having grown up in the digital age, I’d seen enough of those special reports about identity fraud to know it happened all the time. That it wasn’t exactly difficult. With someone’s name alone, you could set up accounts online, essentially faking the other information. So that—how she’d done it—wasn’t the big mystery. Procuring cards in a fake name was doable. But, naturally, I was plagued by the word that seemed to be the most prevalent in my life these days: Why?

Why on earth would someone like Lark Kingsley, who had unlimited resources at her disposal, steal my identity?

And, having done so, why would she then essentially lead me down a trail of clues to find out about it?

What was the point? Was she giving it back to me? That had to be a first when it came to stealing someone’s identity.

And then, of course, there was the other item. It was more troubling than the cards, because it wasn’t as easy to get.

The passport.

How did Lark Kingsley have a passport with my picture and my name on it? Since I’d never traveled outside of the US, I’d never acquired one of my own. So it wasn’t like she’d stolen it from me or somehow ordered a duplicate. And all of the information on it—how did she get that? Where did she get it? I mean, I didn’t even know my own social security number. Yet, somehow she did?

Beyond the physical items and the bizarre behavior, the predominant question lurked. Disconcerting didn’t begin to describe the way it made me feel. Baffling wasn’t sufficient to describe the depths of the mystery.

Why me?

Where did Lark get my name and picture in the first place?

Was it random? Had she blindly thrown darts at a map of the country and hit my hometown of Nowhere, Pennsylvania? Scoured public high schools for a girl her same age? Even if that was what she did, what about me had attracted her attention? I was no one special, had no remarkable qualities that made me stand out from my classmates. My grades were average. As were my looks. I’d been a member of my school’s debate team, but hadn’t been a star or anything. Joining clubs was never my thing, nor had I played in the band or sang in the choir. Basically, my list of extracurricular activities sucked.

So…why me?

I ran through every possibility that I could imagine. Each theory was more outrageous than the one before it.

Why me?

There were pictures of me online, I reasoned in an attempt to introduce logic to the outlandish thoughts swirling in my head. But not many. For the most part, they would be within the online archives of my hometown’s newspaper. Given the lack of excitement and breaking news in our area, our debate team matches were often written up. Those articles were always accompanied by photos from the event as well as our team picture. There would also be a picture or two from the annual Pie Bake-Off at the county fair last year, when Mom won first place. They’d included pictures of our happy family to display alongside her recipe.

But surely, surely, the New Freedom Gazette wasn’t on a socialite’s radar. And if Lark had, for some incomprehensible reason, kept up with our tiny paper online, those mundane articles weren’t anything that she’d notice. And even if she’d somehow seen those articles—even while intoxicated, carrying the line of reasoning this far was laughable—there was absolutely nothing remarkable about the girl within the dark, grainy pictures.

As for social media, I’d never really gotten into the craze. Truthfully, I only had a handful of friends from school, and none of us had been particularly caught up in creating and cultivating online counterparts for ourselves. Which eliminated blogging as well. At our age, having grown up in our town, we didn’t really have anything to say to the world that people would care about. No hobbies to share, either. Our sole interest, what united us as a group, had been planning for and talking about leaving New Freedom. About getting out into the world and really living for the first time. Basically, when it came down to it, Googling Raven Ferragamo would result in abysmal findings.

So that was it. I had no idea. After wracking my brain, I couldn’t find a single reason that a total stranger—and not just any stranger, but Lark Kingsley, the real-life Blair Waldorf—would fixate on me. Would choose me. Not a single reason why she would believe that I could help her.

Why me?

With a body-shaking yawn, I accepted the fact that nothing would be solved tonight. The alcohol still coursed through my system, making me sleepy. Just before finally falling into a dreamless sleep, it occurred to me where the passport photo was from. There had been too many wild questions flying through my mind when I’d first seen the document for me to think about the picture itself, even though there was an obvious answer. Now that I’d digested the whole startling new development, I recognized the picture for what it was.

Mom had insisted I put in a little extra effort, because, years from now, that photograph would serve as a visual reminder of how I’d looked in high school. And, after all, didn’t I want my classmates to remember me at my best? So I’d painstakingly straightened my brown locks, until the choppy layers fell nicely around my shoulders. In addition to the normal swipe of mascara and layer of lip gloss that constituted my everyday makeup, I’d added shimmery shadow to my eyelids to bring out the flecks of gold in my dark irises. While I’d wanted my senior portrait to be as true to life as possible, going the extra mile had paid off—my mom liked the picture so much, she’d framed it and set it on the mantle the day after the prints arrived.

New Freedom High published their yearbooks digitally, for those of us who didn’t need a tangible reminder of the best years of our lives. That must’ve been where she’d stolen the picture from

Relief flooded through me, but it was short-lived. One piece of the mystery was solved. But where Lark found the picture was not nearly as troublesome as why she’d done it. Why she’d picked me.

Why me?

More than ever, I was determined to find Lark Kingsley. Alive. Even if only so I could ask her that very question.

I DIDN’T DARE to watch the pilfered videos when anyone else was in the house. Since I had no idea what I’d find, no idea what would cause fear in my father, I couldn’t risk someone catching me. Even though I had to know what was going on, I had a deep-seeded fear of uncovering and exposing something that would hurt my father. I loved him too much to cause him pain.

Two weeks after I found and copied the files, almost a month after I’d first heard the word Jyranji, an opportunity presented itself. It was a Saturday, and our penthouse was eerily still and quiet. My father was in Washington, DC, meeting with politicians, and my mother had an appointment with the tailor for a wardrobe fitting. If her past fittings were any indication, she wouldn’t be home until late in the evening. Jeanine had left after supervising my breakfast to run a list of errands a mile long. The rest of the staff had been asked not to disturb me, as I was supposed to be doing schoolwork for my summer classes.

Instead, I was sitting at my desk with a piping hot cappuccino, staring at the offensive jump drive and wishing that my fervent need for answers wasn’t so steadfast. If only I’d never heard McAvoy utter the word. If only I’d gone to the fundraiser that night, instead of staying home to play Nancy Drew. If only my father hadn’t looked so scared. Any of those things would’ve changed this moment for me.

Stop being such a wuss, I admonished myself.

With a trembling hand, I woke my computer from sleep mode and slid the drive into the USB port. When a window popped up to ask me what I wanted to do with the new drive, I clicked the icon to open the folder.

There it was. The list of files I’d copied. The secret that McAvoy and my father wanted to keep hidden, even from me, was somewhere here among the list of dates and numbers. Clicking to sort the list chronologically, I debated between starting with the oldest or newest file. Oddly, the words of Maria Von Trapp flitted through my mind.

Start at the very beginning, a very good place to start.

Nervous laughter bubbled up within me. Here I was, hunting through the darkest secrets of my father’s company, and a song from The Sound of Music was my guiding force? Clearly, I was losing it.

Before the bubble of hysteria burst and I sobered up once again, I quickly clicked the earliest file. It was so quiet in my room that I could hear the faint sound of the hard drive whirring. An audio reader program opened automatically, before keying up the clip I’d selected. Remembering that the files were named by their date of origin, I surmised that this clip was from the late eighties.

Before I could hesitate or drag it out any further, I reached out and tapped the space bar to begin playback. Knowing that there was no going back, I held my breath until voices began speaking through my laptop speakers.

The easily identifiable sounds of my father and McAvoy were joined by several other voices. Some of them sounded familiar, as if I’d heard them at some point, but I couldn’t pinpoint to whom they belonged. One sounded a little like John Anderson, the former CFO of Kingsley Diamond Corp.

From what I gathered, I was listening to a board meeting. The agenda items were nothing remotely interesting, let alone scandalous, and I found myself skipping large chunks of the two-hour-long recording.

Talk about anticlimactic.

After thirty minutes of listening to it in fits and spurts, ninety minutes in to the recording itself, the topic of acquisitions came up. By this point I was doodling on the notepad in front of me and beginning to feel silly that I’d apparently made a big deal out of nothing. Skimming through the rest of that file, I didn’t hear a single utterance of the mysterious word.

When my father’s voice dismissed the meeting, I went back to the list of files and clicked on the next one in the sequence. This recording was of another board meeting, equally as dull and equally void of any mention of Jyranji.

As I continued on, file after file passed without secretive whispers and nefarious dealings. Scanning down the list of file information, I quickly realized that I didn’t have time to skim through all seventy-three hours of recordings, let alone actually listen to them all. Since the agenda for each meeting was read at the very beginning, I only had to listen to the first two minutes of each recording to glean the topics about to be discussed.

Around noon, the audio files turned to videos, though they were almost all conference calls between my father and his top employees giving him status updates on various projects and the state of the diamond mines. In fact, it seemed that the mines were nearly all they discussed; the regions they were in, the political states of those regions, and the employees they hired.

Circa 2000 in the timeline of the files, mid-afternoon in my day, I was getting close to giving up on my mission, convinced that there was nothing to find. My head was resting on my arms, my eyes closed to the sight of yet another video call between my father and McAvoy. Their discussions had ceased to be anything close to interesting, only the occasional word fought through my daydreams of Blake and our upcoming date as anything more than gibberish.

As per usual, they were discussing several of the mines and the state of the localities. Just as I was about to stop the playback and click on the next file, a woman’s name that I hadn’t heard before broke through: Kimberly. Whoever she was, she was causing problems in one of the mines.

Interesting, I thought. Maybe they had to off her.

As morbid as the thought was, it at least woke me up enough to reengage in the search for answers. I still hadn’t heard the word Jyranji, but wondered if maybe it had something to do with this Kimberly person. Clicking play on the video program, the next recording began.

This time, eight men sat on either side of the long oak table in my father’s office, with him seated at the head. Another board meeting. By the harried look of the men, this wasn’t a routine gathering.

“We need to discuss Kimberly and what this means for our future,” my father said gravely.

“What about Washington?” an aging man with gray hair asked. He wasn’t a current board member, and I couldn’t recall having met him before. “Can’t we count on Washington to go to bat for us?”

“We can’t rely on suits. This is the future of the company we are talking about,” McAvoy interjected, his disdain for the older man evident with every word. “No matter how much support we throw their way, none of them will risk their careers over this.”

Now the conversation had my full attention. Someone who could jeopardize the future of Kingsley Diamonds? The thought was preposterous.

When their conversation turned to an in-depth discussion of the senators and congressmen they could count on, I skipped forward once again, passing up ten minutes of the conversation.

“—real issue here is Jyranji.”

I’d been waiting so long to hear that word that I choked on the mandarin orange Pellagrino I was drinking. With the fizzy liquid still burning my throat, I rewound the tape to be sure I hadn’t misheard.

“When it comes down to it, the only real issue here is Jyranji,” McAvoy said from the video. He tapped his pen with every word, emphasizing their importance.

“And the other mines?” My father asked, raising one eyebrow.

Before I’d taken the tapes, I’d tried googling Jyranji, but had been too far off with the spelling.

Why hadn’t I searched again once I knew the spelling of it?

Because you sort of suck at this whole sleuthing thing, I thought wryly.

Now I minimized the video player and the file list below it, and brought up the internet search app. Sure enough, when I searched for Jyranji with the correct spelling, the results came back immediately. Jyranji was a region in Africa. According to the internet encyclopedia, the territory’s number one export was diamonds. And it was a billion dollar enterprise. But the mine was no longer in use. It had closed over a decade before.

Odd.

Skimming the rest of the information, I received quite the history lesson. The area was in a political state of unrest, like so many other war-torn regions in Africa. Poverty was rampant, disease was widespread, and hunger afflicted most of the citizens. Apparently FEMA couldn’t even reach the region to provide aid because of the strong hold the insurgency had along the borders.

My heart felt heavy as I read the words. What monsters the rebels must be, to let their people die instead of allowing food and medicine to reach them. How could anyone choose money and power over basic human decency?

Was this why Kingsley Diamonds had closed the Jyranji mine? Because of the insurgents? Was the region so dangerous that we could no longer ensure the safety of our workers?

But why would the name of a place where we used to have mines scare my father?

IT WAS DARK when I woke. Mouth dry and head full of cotton, I rolled over onto my stomach and stretched languidly like a cat. The pillow was impossibly soft and smelled faintly of expensive perfume. Despite being unfamiliar, the scent was oddly comforting. In the distance, I heard a chirpy female voice saying that the temperature was going to break one hundred in D.C. today, a record for this time of year.

Great, I thought. Another day of sweating my ass off.

Snuggling deeper into the covers, I savored the feel of the cool sheets against my warm skin and silently thanked the inventor of central air. The fact that the television was on meant that Asher was already awake. Awesome.

As embarrassing as it was to admit, I’d never spent the night with a boy, even one who was just a friend, and had no idea about proper morning-after protocol. Should I make a dash for the bathroom? Wash the sleep crusties out of the corners of my eyes before going to say good morning? What about the inevitable creases etched into my face from the pillow? How did I get rid of those before seeing Asher?

Oh no…what about morning breath? A concern on an ordinary day, it was even more of an issue since I’d gone to bed without brushing my teeth. To make matters worse, the vodka seemed to have left a fuzzy coat of grossness on my tongue. Maybe Lark had a spare toothbrush in her medicine cabinet or something. She probably had a stash of makeup here somewhere, too. If I was quiet, I could tiptoe to Lark’s bedroom and make myself presentable with Asher none the wiser. Although, wouldn’t it be weird to pretend I’d just woken up with a face full of makeup? What if he thought I cared too much? Or read too much in to it?

Whoa there, girl. Slow down, I chastised myself. You and Asher are friends. Nothing more. Don’t get carried away.

Still, I was an eighteen year old girl and he was a super-hot college grad with an awesome personality. No matter how many times I told myself that my appearance didn’t matter where Asher was concerned, I was destined to be self-conscious around him. And paranoid about bedhead.

Just get it over with, I told myself.

Rolling over, I mentally prepared myself for what was sure to be an awkward encounter with Asher. And froze. A wave of panic that had nothing to do with my appearance seized me.

At five-foot-six and relatively slender, I am not a large girl. But by no means was I petite, either. And definitely not small enough to make cover-angels on a daybed with only a twin-sized mattress.

Shit.

Slowly, I sat up and scanned my surroundings. There was enough natural light filtering in through the curtains for me to make out a desk, a dresser, a nightstand, and the outline of the enormous bed I was sitting in. Fears confirmed, my heart began to pound painfully against my ribs.

No, no, no. Not again….

Footsteps in the hallway sent me scrambling out of the king-sized bed. Still disoriented and now slightly panicked, my hip knocked Lark’s nightstand and sent a manila envelope crashing to the floor. The manila envelope. The offending mailer from the safe that I never wanted to see again and wished I never had in the first place.

“Shit,” I swore, audibly that time.

Apparently I’d forgotten to fasten the little metal clasp on the envelope, because the contents scattered across the carpet at my feet.

“Raven? You awake?”

Asher’s voice was soft and distant. Probably near the guestroom door.

Kneeling, I hastily shoved the passport, credit card, and bank card back into the envelope, giving myself a smarting paper cut in the process. A small, crimson pool welled up on the tip of my index finger.

A door opened in the hallway. The door to the guest bedroom.

Crap. He’s going to know I slept in Lark’s room last night, I thought. How was I going to explain it? What should I say?

“Raven? Where are you?” Asher called, louder now. Apparently he was no longer concerned with waking me.

I bit down on my bottom lip, trying and failing to conjure a believable excuse for sleeping in Lark’s bed.

“Raven!”

When he called my name for the third time, Asher’s voice cracked like a prepubescent teenager, and I thought I detected a note of panic.

“Um, in the back!” I finally answered, not wanting to freak him out further.

Hurrying, I tossed the manila envelope back onto the nightstand and stood. As I did, a slip of paper caught my eye, laying in the exact spot the envelope had been a moment earlier.

Did the paper fall out of it? Surely, I would’ve noticed it before now if it had been in there the whole time. Right?

The doorknob began to twist.

Bending down and scooping up the scrap of paper, I had it hidden safely in my hand when Asher stepped into the bedroom.

“Hey. What are you doing in here?” Asher asked, looking both relieved and curious.

“Um, well….”

Come on, Raven. Think. Any excuse is better than admitting you sleepwalked in here last night.

“I woke up early and didn’t want to bother you. I decided to get another look at the stuff inside that envelope. Now that the shock has sort of worn off, I guess I thought it would be easier to process it all…or something.”

Eloquent, Raven—way to ramble.

“And how’d that go? Were you able to better process it? Or something?”

Asher grinned as though he found my babbling endearing.

Unsure of how to answer, I shrugged.

“Not really. I mean, how did she get the passport picture? I know where she got the picture, but I don’t get how she was able to use it for a passport. Don’t you have to actually have a special picture taken for one?

“And how did she get credit cards and debit cards in my name? Is it really that simple to steal someone’s identity? Wouldn’t she have needed my social security number for some of that stuff? It can’t be easy to find a stranger’s social security number, right? Or am I just being naïve?”

Asher crossed the room to where I stood. He sat on the edge of the bed, where the covers were still pushed back from my hasty exit. Thankfully, he didn’t ask about that. Asher patted the bed next to him, indicating that I should sit. Hesitating for long enough that it became awkward, I finally sat.

“I don’t bite, Raven. You know that,” he said with a frown.

Asher reached for my hand, the one holding the slip of paper I’d picked up off the floor, and covered it with his own.

“First of all, take a breath,” Asher gently ordered. “I know you’re freaking out. Hell, I’m freaking out and it isn’t my name on those things.” He nodded towards the manila envelope on the nightstand before continuing.

“Unfortunately, it is that easy to steal someone’s identity. Social security numbers are easier to find than you might think, if you know where to look. And a girl like Lark Kingsley can afford to pay someone who does. Wait…did you say that you know where Lark got the picture?” Asher’s brows drew together and confusion caused the corners of his mouth to turn slightly downward in a frown.

Nodding, I realized it felt really good to actually have an answer to share with Asher, instead of another question. Telling him about the passport picture being my senior portrait and how I’d managed to realize that once I’d calmed down, I was kind of embarrassed. It shouldn’t have taken me that long.

“I mean, I know this doesn’t actually help us locate Lark or anything,” I said, staring down at my hand, still covered by Asher’s. “But at least that’s one mystery solved.”

“One down, a million to go,” Asher said, a smile in his voice.

When I met his gaze, my own smile froze as Asher’s features grew serious. His long fingers slid up over my palm to lace with my own, sending a shiver up my spine. Asher’s eyes were soft and warm, like melting chocolate, as he looked back and forth between my own, almost as if searching for something. His expression was tinged with sadness, and I wondered what he was thinking about. Staring at his full lips, I became oddly transfixed by the way his two front teeth pressed gently against the bottom one as he debated his next words. Asher opened his mouth to speak, but quickly closed it again, seeming to change his mind at the last second.

“What’s this?” Asher asked, drawing his hand back.

“Huh?” I asked stupidly, still staring at Asher’s lips, which were now frowning.

“This piece of paper? It was in your hand…”

Asher smoothed the rumbled slip on the leg of his jeans.

“Oh, right. I think it was in the envelope,” I said, gesturing towards the nightstand.

“You think?” Asher quirked an eyebrow, more amused than questioning.

Rolling my eyes, I fessed up.

“Well, I knocked the envelope over and everything spilled out. When I picked it all up, I found that piece of paper. So, no, I am not positive that it was with the passport and cards. It’s more of an educated guess, using deductive reasoning.”

“Got it,” he replied, grinning.

When Asher looked down at it again, I followed his gaze.

The paper was thin, cheap, and reminded me of the kind used by the wait staff at diners. It was small, only about an inch long and three inches wide. One side was slightly jagged. Running my fingertip along the rough edge, I realized that it was perforated, as if the bottom half of…something. A receipt, maybe?

Printed in bold, black letters in the lower right hand corner was an address:

3685 14th Street, NW, Washington, D.C. 20009

After doing a quick mental calculation, I estimated the address to be approximately one mile west from the Gibson Street apartment, slightly farther from the Pines.

In the opposite corner, in red ink, were two typed words followed by a string of numbers.

Claim No. 45923

“It’s a claim ticket!” Asher and I exclaimed in unison. Our mutual excitement over stating the obvious caused us both to start cracking up.

Finally, the tension between us broke. Suddenly, I no longer felt self-conscious about possible morning breath or sleepwalking into Lark’s bedroom. We had another clue. And I wasn’t alone in this scavenger hunt any longer. Asher really was right there by my side.

“What do you think it’s for?” I asked, chewing my thumbnail as I pondered my own question.

“Drying cleaning?” Asher suggested, toying with one corner of the paper.

My closet consisted mostly of cotton and fabric-blends—both the one here and what was left back home in Pennsylvania—and I could count the number of items that were Dry Clean Only on one hand. But this was Lark we were talking about, not me. And she probably had a plethora of silk, cashmere, and other expensive fabrics too good for a washing machine tucked away in her closet in Manhattan.

Except, the clothes in the closet here, only ten feet away from me, were more the wash-and-wear type.

Shrugging, I considered the likelihood of his suggestion and didn’t feel confident.

“Yeah, maybe. But why would Lark put a drying cleaning ticket in with all those important documents? That seems random.”

“True,” Asher conceded. “But a lot of what you’ve found seems random, doesn’t it?”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I ignored the rhetorical question and continued to ponder the possibilities.

“What about….what about maybe we just Google the address and stop the guessing games?” I suggested.

With an endearing smile, Asher tapped me softly on the side of my head.

“So smart,” he quipped.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go grab my laptop, will you? Please,” I added, remembering my manners.

“On it.”

With that, Asher was out the bedroom door and down the hallway, eager to solve one riddle that would inevitably lead us to another.

Once he was out of sight, I hurried to Lark’s bathroom and hastily searched her drawers until, sure enough, I found a toothbrush still in the package. Hurrying so it wouldn’t be too obvious, I did a quick once-over, just enough to at least get rid of the furry layer of grime that seemed to be coating the inside of my mouth. The small act of personal grooming went a long way towards making me feel more human. Cupping my palms underneath the faucet, I collected handfuls of water and bathed my face in the cool liquid. Over the sound of running water, I heard Asher call my name.

“Um, Raven? That address? I found it,” Asher called. “It belongs to a pawn shop.”

Slowly, I scooped one last handful of water into my mouth, swished, and then watched the toothpaste-infused liquid swirl down the drain. After turning off the faucet, I patted my skin dry with a fluffy white hand towel and exited the bathroom.

Asher was, once again, perched on the edge of Lark’s bed, my laptop opened and propped on his knees.

“A pawn shop?” I repeated skeptically.

Asher looked up from the computer screen.

“Yep. Larry’s Pawn to be precise. According to their less-than-impressive website, Larry likes to buy gold for cash.”

One shoulder resting against the doorframe, I crossed my arms over my chest and snorted in a very undignified manner. Asher appeared oblivious to the social gaffe and continued to swipe at the touchscreen with his index finger as he perused Larry’s website.

“Um, okay. So, do you think maybe Lark sold him some jewelry because she needed cash?” I asked doubtfully.

For a normal person, selling off her jewelry for way less than it was worth was a quick and easy way to make a little extra cash. Particularly when one was desperate and unable to use more conventional means.

Though Lark had been desperate, I felt sure she wasn’t that desperate. No, not a girl who had enough disposable dollars to prepay the rent on a swanky apartment for at least one year. To furnish that same apartment with items that were out of my parents’ price range. Who probably had a trust fund with more zeros than a standard barcode. No way was Lark Kingsley so hard up for money that she’d have hocked the glittering contents of her jewelry box for pocket change. It didn’t fit with what I knew of Lark.

“No, I don’t think she sold something to our pal, Larry,” Asher began, his words interrupting my mental musings. “If she’d sold him something outright, there wouldn’t be a claim ticket. Lark pawned something. And when you pawn things, you intend to go back for them. Or, in this case, she intended you to go back for.”

Considering what he said, I decided it made sense…sort of. As much sense as anything Lark had done to this point. Was this Larry guy really the best clue custodian, though? I mean, what if he decided to up and sell whatever it was that Lark had pawned? Wasn’t that the way it worked?

Having grown up in a small town where you were more likely to find an antique mall than a Cash-4-Gold type of establishment, all I knew about pawnshops was learned by watching that show on the History Channel about the guys in Vegas who owned one. Still, I was fairly certain that Larry was only obligated to hold Lark’s pawned item for so long.

The only way I was going to find out if whatever mysterious item Lark pawned was still gathering dust on Larry’s shelves was to go there. And I so didn’t want to go alone.

Tapping my chin with my index finger thoughtfully, I met Asher’s gaze across the bedroom. He was studying me, as if trying to follow my internal thought process just by watching me.

“I don’t suppose you’re up for a field trip?” I asked hopefully.

“Totally,” Asher agreed without hesitation.

“HEY THERE, DOLL. Will it be the usual? Or are you waiting on that lovebird of yours?”

Just the mention of Blake brought a smile to my face.

“Hey Shirley,” I said warmly, standing up from the blue velvet couch to give her a hug. “It’s just me for now, he’ll be here later. Hot chocolate would be great.”

Shirley always looked surprised when I hugged her, but pleasantly so. Maybe it was odd that I was so fond of her, but she was always so sweet to Blake and me. Besides, I loved injecting kindness into others’ lives, especially when it was unexpected. It was probably because I was always supposed to be so proper and distant with people in my world.

Downtown Downs had become a second home for me. It was our spot, mine and Blake’s. The scuff marks on the floor were like the freckles around Blake’s nose—I’d memorized every single one. We knew which couches and chairs were most comfortable, which barista never quite got the espresso right, and which did. No one here knew or cared who I was; they all had better things to do than pore over Page Six and my outfit.

Which was why I hated to bring any unpleasantness into this safe space. But my afternoon classes had been cancelled, and I wanted to take advantage of this rare opportunity to figure out what was going on with my father. Anything that caused him worry, much less fear, was something that I needed to know about. And since he wouldn’t tell me himself, I was determined to find out what he was hiding on my own.

Pulling out my laptop and setting it on the scratched surface of the low table in front of my seat, I dug around in my bag until I found my headphones. Once they were plugged into the speaker port of my computer, I slid the offending USB in and opened the screen. My world history paper that was due in two days flashed onto the screen, which I guiltily minimized. The research paper for my French Immersion class was open below that and I closed it as well. As important as my grades and my future were, I couldn’t concentrate on schoolwork with so many unanswered questions looming in my mind.

The biggest one of all: Who was Kimberly? And how could she possibly have shut down our mines in Jyranji? Most importantly, why was this all coming up again when it seemingly happened ten years ago?

Settling back in the deep cushion of the loveseat, I brought up the list of files and found where I’d left off last. Since I had no more than two hours before Blake was due to meet me, and at least thirty files still unheard, I decided to only listen to ten seconds at a time, praying I wouldn’t miss anything important by skipping so much.

My heart was pounding, knowing that what—or who—my father feared was right in front of me. Closing my eyes, I took several long, calming yoga breaths. Whatever it was, I could handle it. More importantly, I would help my father handle it. If McAvoy was threatening or blackmailing him, we would take him down together. Because I felt quite certain that Kingsley’s COO was the bad guy in all of this. At the very least, he was at the center of it. Aside from my father, McAvoy was the only constant in the equation, seeming to always be present when either Jyranji or Kimberly was mentioned, and usually being the one to mention it. Besides, he’d always kind of creeped me out.

I was so entrenched in bolstering my confidence that I actually jumped when Shirley set a mug down in front of me several minutes later. Whether because I had headphones in or because it was obvious that I was lost in another world, she simply mouthed an apology and didn’t linger to chat as she usually did. Mouthing, “Thank you,” and stealing a glance at the clock, I realized I had to stop wasting time. Before I lost myself in another train of thought, I clicked on the next file.

It began to play.

According to the date/file name, this board meeting had occurred only three days after the previous one—far sooner than the usual month that passed between gatherings.

Odd, I thought to myself.

With the voices of the Kingsley Diamond Corp board filling my head, I began fishing plump marshmallows from the sea of hot chocolate and depositing them into my mouth. I became momentarily distracted, attempting to balance my laptop on my knees without dropping any of the sugary goo on the keyboard.

“—Kimberly—”

Alarm bells blared inside the part of my brain still actively listening to the audio track.

They were talking about her again, the mysterious woman that had so many powerful men spinning their wheels.

Hot liquid sloshed over the sides of the mug as I all but dropped the drink back onto the table. I wiped my fingers on a paper napkin, and then rewound the video back to the beginning. This time, when I hit play, I gave the video file my undivided attention.

“This emergency meeting of the Kingsley Diamond Corporation board is hereby called to order,” my father said from his seat at the head of the table on my screen. Despite how small he appeared and the lack of detail in the video—HD didn’t exist then—his slumped posture and raccoon eyes were obvious indications of stress and sleepless nights.

“Lester, the minutes?” my father continued, gesturing to an older man I recognized from the earlier video.

Before Lester could begin, a much younger McAvoy interrupted.

“Given the limited nature of today’s discussion, I move to bypass the reading of the minutes.”

Calling up my limited knowledge of parliamentary procedure, I gleaned that Lester must’ve been the Secretary of the board at the time. Considering the fact he appeared to be an octogenarian at the time the video was made, it was highly unlikely Lester still retained the position.

“All in favor?” my father called without enthusiasm.

Every man at the table raised one of his hands in the affirmative.

“So moved,” Daddy declared. “For tonight’s proceedings, William McAvoy will take the lead. William?”

My father gestured to McAvoy, who stood to address his fellow board members.

“Gentlemen, I apologize for requesting your presences at such a late hour, but after apprising Phillip of the situation, we are in agreement that this meeting is an absolute necessity. Tonight we have but one order of business. And as many of you may have already guessed, the matter we are here to discuss is Kimberly.”

“Is this really necessary, Phillip?” a dark-haired man with an imposing stature interjected. “My granddaughter is celebrating her bat mitzvah this evening. Surely this situation is not as dire as William claims?”

“Just hear him out, Randall,” my father replied tiredly. “It looks as though we’re in big trouble here.”

“Kimberly is proceeding,” McAvoy declared, pausing for dramatic effect. “There is nothing we can do to stop that from happening. Our only options are to deal with this as soon as possible, or to close the doors on Kingsley Diamonds. The bad press alone could topple the company, let alone the collateral fallout unbeknownst to the public.”

Topple the company? Seriously?

William McAvoy was not prone to theatrics, which meant this Kimberly person was far more than just a throne in the company’s side. Not to mention the fact that my father hadn’t corrected the COO; he, too, believed the woman a genuine threat. But who was she? I paused the video to give my mind time to wrap itself around the possibilities.

What kind of woman had the power to topple a well-established, time-tested, billion-dollar company? Mistress, floated through my mind. I quickly dismissed the notion. I might not have been a savvy businessman like my father and his board members, but I just didn’t believe that an affair was reason enough for an emergency meeting, let alone the worried looks being traded across the conference table on my computer screen. No, this was way more serious than an extramarital tryst.

Murder victim? I hated even thinking the word in conjunction with my father. The man I knew, the one who taught me everything from how to play catch to the fundamentals of negotiation, was too principled to allow homicide on his watch. Besides, even if one of the board members had killed the poor woman, the entire company wouldn’t fail from the bad publicity—that guy would go to jail and everyone else would return to business as usual…right?

Ugh, who are you, Kimberly?

Sighing in frustration, I restarted the video where I’d last left off. From the brief discussion that followed, it was obvious that every one of the men present at the meeting was well-versed in all things Kimberly, and no one felt the need to spell out who she was or what had happened to her for those of us—me—not up to speed.

I did a quick time check and decided to forge ahead to the next video file.

It wasn’t another board meeting, but rather a recording of a video call between my father and McAvoy. The file was dated one day after the emergency board meeting, but judging by the haggard look on my father’s face and his attire, the call took place the same night, just early into the hours of the following day.

“What do you think?” McAvoy asked without preamble. His tie was loosened, the first three buttons of his white button-down unfastened, and he held a drink in one hand. The late-thirties version of the man I knew now appeared to be sitting in a home office of some sort, the décor eerily similar to that of my father’s.

“You’re going to have to be more specific, William. It’s 3 a.m. and my mind isn’t firing on all cylinders.”

“Do you think the board is going to insist on going the straight and narrow? Or do you think they’ll play ball?”

In contrast to my father’s drawn expression and tired voice, McAvoy appeared to be containing something akin to excitement.

“It’s close, I’m not sure,” my father answered uncertainly. “The old-timers definitely seem hesitant.”

“The old-timers” was a phrase I’d heard before—my father’s term for the men on the board who were holdovers from the days when my grandfather was at the helm of our family business.

“To be honest, I don’t know if we should even propose it at this point,” my father’s voice was still saying. “If this whole scenario never comes to pass, but we present it and they balk—”

“Phillip, I went down to Washington for a reason. I’ve met with representatives from all sides,” McAvoy broke in.

It was a rare occurrence for anyone to interrupt my father, so I focused closely on what his second-in-command was saying.

“This is a done deal. The UN is behind Kimberly one-hundred percent. And if the US doesn’t back them, our country will appear to value capitalism more than human life. So they’re going to back them. The only question now is whether we’re going to allow Kimberly to shut down what you’ve worked so hard for. Or if we’re going to be smart, and figure this all out ahead of time.”

Whoa. How was this a matter for politicians? And how was the UN involved? What the hell had my father done? And how secret could it be if McAvoy went to Washington to meet with representatives?

An idea popped into my head and I almost laughed at having not considered it before.

I’d been treating the Kimberly situation as though it, and she, were some big secret. But what did Benjamin Franklin say? Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead? Way more than three people knew about Kimberly, at least most of whom were still alive. And on numerous occasions, I’d heard my father say that politicians gossiped more than teenage girls. Odds were, in the years since the Kimberly incident had occurred, one of them had talked to a reporter or some aid had leaked information to a blogger or tabloid.

Equal parts nerves and excitement, I paused the video and selected the internet browser icon on my task bar. I stared at the blinking cursor, deflating slightly. The idea had been a good one, it was still a good one. I just didn’t know what exactly to search for.

Kingsley Diamond Corp and death?

Surely, by now, I’d know if one of my father’s past board members had murdered someone, right?

Having no better ideas for search terms, I typed the ideas anyway. What did I have to lose?

The resulting articles were of no help: “Kingsley Diamond Corp Goes Public. Is this the Death of the Family-Run business?” and “Kingsley Diamond’s New Motion brings about the Death of an Era.”

Too broad. Narrow the terms.

Searching for Kingsley Corp, UN, Washington, scandal, controversy, and even death, yielded no better results.

Kimberly. She’s the key to all of this, I reminded myself.

Bingo. Under a list of company profiles, I found Kim Kingsley. But even before clicking on the link, I knew it would lead me nowhere. Kimberly was my grandmother’s name. Odd coincidence, true, but she passed away well before my father took over the company; she was not the Kimberly the board had been discussing on the videos.

Think, Lark. How can you narrow it down even further?

The year. My father was an excellent record-keeper. Every video was documented with a date, including the year. The recordings I was interested in were from 2002.

Just as I was adding the date to the search box, and congratulating myself for having excellent perseverance, warm breath tickled my ear as the headphone was removed. His voice was low and throaty when he whispered, “You look insanely gorgeous when you’re concentrating that hard.”

I jumped, literally, jumped in my seat and my heart skipped a beat. Deep laughter filled my ears as I whipped around to face the newcomer. Amusement made his green eyes sparkle and the lips I loved so much curve into a sexy smile. My heart began to pound for an entirely different reason.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, beautiful.”

Blake bent over the back of the seat, bringing his soft lips to mine. The kiss was quick and gentle and left me wanting more.

Running the tip of his tongue over his lips, Blake sank down next to me on the loveseat. “Yum, chocolate and marshmallow,” he said, putting an arm around my waist and drawing me closer. “Can I get some more?”

Without waiting for an answer, Blake leaned in for another kiss and I no longer cared who Kimberly was. I lost myself in the feel of Blake’s mouth on mine, his hand pressed against my hip.

My arms were around his neck and he tried to close the minute distance between us. The computer in my lap proved an obstacle, one which I quickly removed, wanting to feel his heartbeat next to mine. This rare display of PDA elicited a satisfied groan from Blake, telling me just how happy he was to see me. Or so I thought until he gently pulled back from the embrace.

“That is an awfully nice way to be greeted,” he said with a smirk, his forehead resting against mine.

“You’re welcome,” I replied cheekily.

Planting a brief kiss on the tip of his nose, I settled back in my seat before all sense of propriety and decorum went out the window. Unless I wanted to be arrested for indecent happenings in public, I needed to put some space between myself and that sexy mouth.

Our physical relationship had been slow at the start, and was still progressing at a snail’s pace when compared to those of my friends—if the stories were true, anyhow. But just because we had yet to actually rip each other’s clothes off, didn’t mean the heat between us wasn’t there. Because it definitely was, and lately, the temperature had been reaching inferno levels.

Our connection was deeper than lust, though. I cared deeply for Blake Greyfield, no question. I just still wasn’t quite ready for that…yet. He’d asked me to go to DC with him when he went to check out Georgetown in a couple of weeks, and I had a good feeling about the trip. His smoldering emerald eyes told me that he did too.

A safe distance between us, Blake and I fell into an easy chatter. In the eight months we’d been together, I never tired of listening to his perspective on the world and his plans and hopes for the future.

“How were your morning classes?” Blake asked.

When he reached up to brush a loose hair back from my face, I took his hand and wove our fingers together.

“Okay,” I said.

“Just okay?” Blake cocked an eyebrow.

Concentrating on our joined hands, I shrugged.

“Was it because you were watching the clock, counting down the seconds until you could see me again?” he joked.

It was meant to be a joke, but he’d hit the nail on the head. I had missed Blake. I always missed him when we were apart.

With my friends and mother spending more time in the Hamptons than the city, the summer had been amazing. Blake and I spent every day together. We explored museums, discovered no-name bands, and I was free to live life as if my last name wasn’t Kingsley. New York was our oyster, and we took full advantage of the pearl inside.

But now that senior year had started, we were back to stolen moments and hidden dates. My mother was back to being my watchdog, and my time with Blake was extremely limited. I longed for a time machine so I could relive the best summer of my life.

I thought Blake felt the same way, but was too nervous to ask.

Me, Lark Kingsley, worried about what a guy thought of her. It was a first.

“What? Three months with me never leaving your side wasn’t enough?” Blake teased, playfully nudging my leg with his.

“Hmm,” I pretended to think. “Yeah, I’ve pretty much had enough. I suppose I might be able to stand another day, two tops—”

Blake’s mouth was on mine, his kiss cutting off the rest of my snarky comment. He pulled back after a brief but intense moment, just enough to speak. His lips brushed mine when he said, “Well, I for one, have not.” The next kiss was longer, deeper, and stole my breath. “No offense, sweetheart, but you’re a liar if you try to say otherwise.”

I laughed. “Three days?” I asked coyly. “Would you believe that?”

“Honestly, Lark. I don’t know if there is any length of time that would ever be enough,” Blake said, the light, joking tone from a moment ago gone.

When his gaze met mine, the intensity sent chills through me and I blushed. Actually blushed.

When did I become this girl? I wondered, and then decided I liked this girl, a lot.

“The feeling’s mutual,” I finally replied, matching his serious tone. I wanted him to hear the truth of my words.

Blake held my gaze a heartbeat longer, then his gorgeous face split into a wide grin. “No surprise there. I had you at hello,” he joked, earning him a swat in the arm.

“Well aren’t you just Mr. Sassy Pants today,” I said sardonically.

“Nope. I am Mr. Sassy Pants every day.”

“I know,” I said with a mock sigh. “That’s why I l—”

Shit. Did that really just happen? Had I almost just said those three words? Shit.

Absolutely mortified, I busied myself with retrieving my laptop from the coffee table and starting it up again. My plan was to pretend it never happened, that I hadn’t almost blurted out my feelings. That I hadn’t almost just said, “I love you.”

“You what?” Blake asked softly, grabbing my arm and forcing me to face him.

“I like you,” I answered lamely, unable to admit the feelings I’d been blissfully unaware of until just moments before. “It’s why I like you.”

If I wasn’t mistaken, I detected an impish twinkle in his eye. Was he going to tease me about it? As the heat crept up my cheeks once more, I fought back a smile, torn between embarrassment and affection for the way he teased me endlessly, the playful banter between us.

“Really? You like me? That’s what you were going to say?”

I knew it, I thought. Here come the jokes.

“Yes,” I said simply, refusing to rise to the bait.

“Well, that sucks.”

I stared at him, waiting for the punchline.

“I love you, Lark Kingsley,” Blake declared, all traces of joking cast aside. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot, I mean, how to tell you. I’d hoped to do something romantic, to show you, but….” Blake shrugged his shoulders. “I do, I love you.”

I thought my jaw was on the floor, but I wasn’t sure. The only thing I was sure of was that the handsome, mischievous, sweet, playful, funny, and kind man in front of me was mine, all mine. As absurd and cliché, and just…ridiculous as it sounded, I felt like the luckiest girl on earth. My heart felt like it was ten seconds from bursting.

Apparently Blake felt the same way, but for opposite reasons. The light left his eyes, as if a curtain had been drawn. Before my brain could process why, it dawned on me that I’d been silent for the ninety seconds since he’d said those magical words.

“Wow, you really don’t feel the same—”

I closed the distance between us, pressing my lips firmly to his and hoping Blake didn’t see the moisture brimming in my eyes. I wanted him to know that I did feel the same way, just not that I was on the verge of having a totally sappy rom-com moment.

With the first exhaled breath as we parted, I answered him.

“I love you, too.”

Watching the expression grow on his face was like watching a flower bloom and become awash in good cheer. His eyes were soft and sensual, with love churning on the surface, on display for me and everyone to see.

“Well aren’t I a very, very lucky guy?” he asked, beaming.

A witty quip was on the tip of my tongue, I changed my mind at the last second and opted for sincerity.

“I’m the lucky one,” I said softly.

It was because I truly felt that way, not to mention the fact that I needed to be free from the pearl marionette strands tied to my limbs, that an idea had been brewing inside my head, growing stronger every day. Instead of the future that lay ahead of me, every stone in the path carefully arranged by my parents, I wanted to go to school in DC. I wanted to be near Blake, always.

After several more just-shy-of-too-steamy-for-public minutes, we agreed to put the love fest on hold in order to get some studying done.

As Blake busied himself getting set up, I returned my attention to my own laptop. Just as the internet search page was materializing on my screen, my handsome guy leaned over to plant a tender peck on my cheek. When I turned to smile at him, he wasn’t looking at me.

“There’s another ‘e’,” he said suddenly.

“Huh?” I asked, confused.

Behind the blinking cursor on my computer was the search I’d been about to start when Blake arrived: Kimberly + United Nations + 2002….

“Kimberly. There’s another ‘e’ in it.”

“Um, not always,” I replied, unsure why he was bringing up an alternate spelling of the name. Sure, there were plenty of derivations, but I was purposely using what I believed to be the most common spelling.

“Oh, sorry,” Blake said quickly. “I saw the year and UN, and just figured you were researching the Kimberley Process. What are you searching for?”

“Kimberley Process?” I asked, not bothering to come up with some lame excuse in response to his question. As I spoke the words, long-buried facts began to unearth themselves within my mind.

“Yeah, you know…conflict diamonds?”

Clips of conversation between my father, McAvoy, and the other board members began whizzing through my head. I must have looked confused, because Blake continued, “Blood diamonds? Like the movie? You know…Blood Diamond. Leonardo DiCaprio. Some other actors I don’t know the names of off the top of my head. Any of this sound familiar?”

“Never seen it,” I replied absently, mind elsewhere.

“Really? Ironic, given your family’s business.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled quickly, suddenly anxious to change the subject.

“So why are you researching the Kimberley Process? I mean, isn’t your father a better source? He’s got to be something of an authority on the subject. He didn’t teach you all about it while grooming you to be his Mini-Me?”

Though Blake was teasing, I answered his question seriously.

“No,” I replied, taking a minute to really think about it. “He’s taught me about the quarterly sales they hold for selling the diamonds, how they choose distributors, how to manage client relations, stuff about the retail end of it…things like that. But we’ve never really talked about the actual mining….”

Leaning forward absent-mindedly, I gave him a quick kiss before turning back to my laptop.

“Get to work, young man,” I said with a wink, forcing myself to keep the rising panic contained. Thankfully, I knew quite a bit about compartmentalization.

With a better understanding of what, not who, Kimberley was, I changed the spelling and search terms. Results ranging from the history of the Kimberley Process Certification Scheme to the practical implications of having it in place populated the computer screen. One of the top hits gave an early timeline of its inception. After several years of summits and proposals, the United Nations passed the final resolution on the Kimberley Scheme in 2003.

Given the wild thoughts and general chaos going on in my head, I was having a hard time wrapping my mind around the entire issue. What exactly were conflict diamonds?

Switching from the internet encyclopedia site to the official website for the KPC, I found a pared down summation of its purpose. Basically, the certification was put in place to ensure that any revenue from diamonds didn’t fund violence by rebel movements seeking to undermine legitimate governments.

What I still couldn’t comprehend was how this, the identity of the elusive Kimberley, was a threat to Kingsley Diamonds and my father? I mean…they said…if it…no, no, it wasn’t possible.

They’d have to close the doors.

Without warning, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Bursts of light waltzed across my vision, whirling and twirling like the aftermath of flashbulbs going off in my face. Tossing my laptop onto the table, I jumped to my feet and scanned the room for an escape. I needed air. Pronto.

“Lark? Everything okay?” Blake asked.

We might have just crossed the bridge into I-love-you territory, but I was far from ready to share dark family secrets with him. I swallowed over the lump in my throat and flashed Blake the fakest smile ever to adorn my lips—and that was saying something.

Fake, fake, fake, resonated through my mind, though not referring to my facial expression.

“Seriously, Lark, you okay?” His voice sounded distant, as if a giant chasm had suddenly formed between us.

No, not a chasm, a diamond mine, I thought wryly.

My head bobbed up and down jerkily in response to Blake’s concerned question. “I’m good,” I heard myself say, though “good” was far from an accurate summation of the not “good” feeling in the pit of my stomach.

It took every ounce of concentration I had to put one foot in front of the other as I staggered towards the bathroom. On autopilot, fragmented thoughts guided my actions: push open the door; straight to a stall; slide the lock; turn; find the toilet. Just in time for all of the questions, answers, thoughts, feelings—not to mention, my lunch—to be purged like sins on judgment day. As if the world was ending. Because mine was.

It was fake. It was all fake. Everyone I knew danced through life with a façade of pretty shiny things. Sparkling. Always sparkling. Sparkling with death and blood and—

Bile burned my throat and I got sick again, as though the lies were too great to physically contain inside my body any longer.

When there was nothing left inside of my stomach, my body still heaved painfully. I was a fake, too, I realized. Kingsley Diamonds was my past, present, and future. The company, my family’s company, had defined me—for better or worse—for so long. If it was fake, then so was I.

Sinking to the floor, I found my purse beside me, where I’d apparently dropped it. Though I didn’t remember grabbing the bag before I left the couch, I was now grateful I had.

Water. I needed water. My hand closed around the plastic bottle immediately, as if led by an unseen force. I gulped the lukewarm liquid. It did little to soothe the searing pain in my throat, but it was something.

I focused on one of the shades covering the bright lights in the ceiling, concentrating hard enough to burn a hole through the plastic. A moan escaped my pursed lips. Suddenly my head was too heavy, my neck too weak to support its weight, and I let it fall back. My skull came to rest on the wall behind me with a bang. It should have hurt, but I felt no pain. I was utterly, totally, and completely numb on the outside. Inside, that was a different story. Inside, nerve endings were alight. Disbelief. Shock. Disbelief. Shock. Doubt, suspicion, distrust. Shock.

Trying to string together entire thoughts was a struggle, but I fought to make some sense out of what I’d learned. Tears pricked my eyes, but I brushed them away before they fell. Crying would change nothing.

The ramifications of the statements on the videos were unthinkable. My father and that cretin McAvoy thought they’d have to shut down the company if the UN adopted the Kimberley Certification scheme, if it became illegal to sell diamonds that were funding insurgents. Did that mean that our mines funded rebel movements? That was insane. The father I knew, my daddy, would never support that.

Maybe I hadn’t seen that movie Blake had referenced, but I knew about rebel movements. The working conditions in mines run by insurgents were often deplorable. Soldiers forced men, women, and oftentimes children, to work at gunpoint, the threat of imminent death hanging over their heads just as surely the barrel of the assault rifles used to keep them in line.

No. Daddy would never allow that to happen in our mines, I tried to tell myself.

But why else would he have worried about Kimberley passing? If all of our mines were operating above-board, there wouldn’t have been emergency board meetings and late night phone calls to discuss the ramifications for Kingsley Diamonds should the certification scheme pass.

My head throbbed, the pressure so great it felt like a vice-grip had hold of my skull.

Was it seriously possible that my father was not the man I’d grown up knowing?

Was it possible that instead of being good, and kind, and generous, my father was greedy, bloodthirsty, cold, and…evil?

AN HOUR LATER, Asher and I stood in front of 3685 14th Street NW, staring dubiously at the neon sign over top the door. The lights that would’ve illuminated the ‘r’s in Larry’s name were burnt out, so it appeared to be ‘Lay’s Pawn’. A set of metal bars partially obscured the grimy glass storefront, adding to the sense of foreboding swirling in my stomach.

Wow, Lark. You really know how to pick ‘em, I thought.

Slipping my fingers into the pocket of my khaki shorts, I made sure the claim ticket was still there. Feeling restless on the walk over, I’d been checking and rechecking every thirty seconds to make sure the scrap of paper didn’t fall out. It felt smooth and slightly worn, as if someone else had done the same thing before me.

“So…,” Asher began, crossing his arms over his chest as if to protect his white polo from the dirt wafting off of Larry’s Pawn.

“So…,” I echoed hollowly.

“You ready to do this?”

Unsure, I sighed.

“No…. Or, maybe yes? I don’t know. But we just walked a mile to get here so it’s a little late to back out.”

Just like the moments leading up the discovery of Lark’s previous clues, I was feeling a mix of giddy anticipation and near-paralyzing anxiety. Unlike the previous discoveries, though, a lot of the anxiety had to do with the location. The neighborhood was even more on the ‘coming’ end of up-and-coming than the Gibson Street apartment. Not to say that I felt unsafe. I might have, if Asher weren’t standing so close that the hairs on his arm brushed my skin. It was more that I felt wary, like I was crossing the line from the girl-next-door to common criminal. Because, of course, in the books I’d read and movies I’d watched, people only frequented pawn shops for nefarious reasons.

Get it together, Raven. It’s a pawnshop, not a den of inequity.

“We could grab a cup of coffee first. You know, give you a little time to psych yourself up.”

Asher’s tone was playful. Clearly, he was trying to put my mind at ease. If I had to guess, I’d say that part of him was worried about how I’d react to whatever was about to be revealed. Particularly after my meltdown the night before. Summoning my best happy-go-lucky attitude, I smiled, hoping that the small gesture conveyed the immense gratitude I felt for Asher and his company.

“There is another option, Raven,” Asher said quietly, more serious now than he had been just a moment before. “We can always go to the—”

“Don’t say cops. Please, don’t say cops,” I practically begged, interrupting him before he could get the word out.

“Fine,” he replied cheekily, evidently unable to help himself despite the seriousness of our discussion. “The police. We can always go to the police.”

Asher’s impish compliance was rewarded with an eye roll from me.

We’d revisited the topic of involving the authorities on the walk over. Asher had pointed out that they might be able to find the forger who created the false documents, something that was beyond our sleuthing skills. But after briefly considering his argument, I’d quickly dismissed it.

The forger wasn’t likely to give us any new information, if he even talked at all. We already knew who commissioned the documents—Lark. And not only had she been squirreling away cash before her disappearance, but it was highly unlikely that a black-market contractor took debit cards. Which meant the FBI or whomever couldn’t track the payment back to some yet-undiscovered bank account. So, basically, the authorities couldn’t help us any more now than they could’ve twenty-four hours ago, when we’d decided not to go that route.

Or so I kept telling myself.

“Let’s just get this over with,” I muttered. “The sooner I finish this scavenger hunt, the sooner I can go back to living my own life.”

“Alright…if you’re sure?” Asher asked, giving me one last chance to back out.

“Absolutely. It’s go-time,” I responded, nodding emphatically.

Asher pushed the door open and gestured for me to go first.

“After you, Ms. Ferragamo,” he said with mock formality.

Again, I smiled up at Asher.

How would I get through this without you? I wondered, wishing I felt confident enough with him to say the words out loud. I pray I never have to find out.

As we crossed the threshold into the dimly-lit storefront, a high-pitched bell jangled to signal our arrival. The musty, dank aroma of baubles long forgotten enveloped us immediately. Shelves overflowing with outdated electronics—there was actually a TV with rabbit ears—mounted above glass cases filled with questionably gold jewelry lined the dark, narrow walkway that lead deep into the recesses of the pawn shop.

“Nice place,” I mumbled under my breath. “I bet I can find my mom a birthday present here.”

Asher snickered, my sarcasm not lost on him.

Cautiously, I moved down the aisle, in search of a sales counter or any sign of human life—either way worked.

“Need a Walkman?” Asher asked with a chuckle, angling his head to one side. The collection of devices he indicated looked more like the props department of a John Hughes movie than items for sale in the twenty-first century.

Unable to help it, I giggled, expelling a good deal of nervous energy.

“Those might actually be worth something,” I said. “They’re practically antiques. Come to think of it, my mom probably still has hers. I seem to recall her wearing those foam earpiece headphones around the house when she was baking. You know, when she wanted to tune out me and my father.”

“Mine did, too,” Asher said, his smile a little wistful, as if the memory pained him.

Abruptly, I realized that I knew very little about Asher’s family life. Following Lark’s clues was a fulltime job, and left little time or energy for discussion on other, more mundane, topics. All of sudden, I wanted to know everything about Asher’s life, particularly his before-law-school past.

“Can I help you kids?” a man’s voice called abruptly from somewhere in the shadows ahead.

Asher and I looked up in unison, to where a figure materialized just ahead of us. It was a middle-aged man, wearing a white t-shirt and baggy jeans, standing with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Are you Larry?” I asked.

“Depends who wants to know.”

“Um, well, I do,” I said, biting my lip to suppress a giggle. While part of the urge to laugh was due to my nerves, I honestly couldn’t believe that real people used that line.

Asher elbowed me discreetly in the ribs.

“And you are?” Larry asked, cocking his head to one side and eyeing me suspiciously.

“Um, my name is Raven.”

My voice lilted up at the end, as though I was asking, rather than telling, him my name. I cleared my throat, and tried again in a more confident tone.

“I’m Raven Ferragamo. I’m here to collect something.”

“Are you now?” the man I assumed was Larry asked gruffly. “And do you have your claim voucher, Raven Ferragamo?”

A spike of anxiety rippled through me.

“I do,” I answered brusquely, refusing to let the pawnbroker intimidate me further.

Extracting the ticket from my pocket, I waved it in front of the shop owner like a white flag.

Larry took the claim ticket and glanced down at the number. He sniffed once and hiked up his jeans.

“Wait here. I’ll see if I still got it.”

“Wait, what?” I asked. “Why wouldn’t you have it?”

“We don’t keep pawned items forever, lady. After the time has passed, we sell ‘em. Says so in the contract you signed. But I’ll check on this. Come to the back.”

Of course I’d known there was a chance that whatever Lark had left for me was gone. Still, having Larry reiterate the fact didn’t help the knot between my shoulder blades. What if the pawned item was vital to my search for her? What if it was the so-called skeleton key that would unlock all of the mysteries surrounding her disappearance?

Sensing my mounting panic, Asher placed a hand on my lower back. Unfortunately, the comforting gesture did nothing to ease my tension.

Larry turned and began shuffling farther down the aisle of secondhand electronics, one hand doing the job of his nonexistent belt and the other clutching the claim ticket. Wordlessly, Asher and I followed several feet behind.

Larry disappeared through a wooden door with a Staff Only sign, leaving us standing in front of a counter with a Plexiglas partition. With only a small opening that allowed for the exchange of money and merchandise, the divider protected Larry from the most degenerate of his clientele.

When I was positive Larry was out of earshot, I turned to face Asher. His brows were drawn together, expression pensive.

“Think it’s still here?” I asked nervously.

“Definitely,” Asher assured me.

While his tone was confident, I remained unconvinced.

“But what if it’s not?” I pressed. “What then?”

Asher smiled, his brown eyes warm and empathetic. In response, I relaxed slightly. He calmed me. Made me feel less neurotic. The hand he’d placed on my lower back earlier slid up my spine, coming to rest on my shoulder. Asher squeezed lightly.

“Let’s just wait and see. If it’s gone, we can decide where to go from there. Okay? But there’s no use in playing the what-if game.”

Trying to match Asher’s optimism and calm, I nodded jerkily.

“Okay,” I agreed.

Apparently Asher and I appeared nonthreatening enough that Larry felt safe conducting business out in the open instead of behind his plastic partition, because he emerged from the wooden door just moments later.

“You must be Lady Luck or something, sweetheart, because it just so happens I still have your box,” he announced.

“You do? Really?” I practically squeaked with excitement.

Amazingly, I was about to be another step close to uncovering the deep, dark secret that Lark Kingsley may have died for. But was I truly ready? Could I handle the truth?

Strangely, something within me whispered that I might never be truly ready for that.

“Sure do. It ain’t worth nothing. Told the girl that when she dropped it off. Only gave her a couple of dollars for it. That wasn’t you, right?” Larry’s watery eyes narrowed in suspicion, then he shook his head. “No. I remember her now. Blonde. Real high-class broad. Expensive jewelry.

“Told her I’d give her a hundred for the earrings she was wearing. They were probably worth twenty times that. Hell, even the bag she was carrying was worth more than the rest of the shop combined. One of those high-end designer ones. I could tell it was real, too. Just by looking.”

Larry tapped his temple with one meaty finger before continuing with his rambling.

“I have an eye for that sorta thing. Have to in my business, you know? She wasn’t having it, though—wouldn’t even think about it. Just wanted to pawn this box, nothing else.”

Larry held up an oval shaped box that spanned the width of his open palm.

An image of a young woman with a feather sticking out of her beaded headband was on the top. She had bright red lips and was smoking a cigarette using one of those old-fashioned holders.

“What is it?” Asher asked, apparently as confused as I was.

Larry shrugged as he answered, seemingly bored with the whole exchange already.

“Just a pillbox. Nuttin’ special. You can get these at any trinky dink shop for twenty bucks. Heavy, though.” He moved his hand up and down, as if judging the weight of it. “At first I thought it might be solid gold.” Larry shook his head sadly. “But when I took a closer look, knew for sure it was plated. Like I said, got an eye for the real stuff.”

“Um, what now? Do I pay you for it? Or…?” I had no idea how to finish that sentence. This was my first experience with a pawnbroker—I was so out of my league.

“That’s typically how this works,” Larry replied, looking at me as if I was a moron. “You pay me what I paid your friend, plus interest.”

“How much is that?” I asked.

“Thirty.”

“Thirty!” I exclaimed. “You said you only gave L—my friend a couple of bucks.”

Larry shrugged.

“I did. The rest is interest. What can I say? It’s been here for a while. I ain’t running a long-term storage facility, sweetheart. Thirty dollars. Take it or leave it. All the same to me.”

As I reached into my messenger bag for my wallet, I silently cursed Larry and his charlatan business practices.

“Here.”

Asher was faster on the draw. He had two twenties in his hand and was holding them out to Larry.

Larry retrieved a crumbled ten dollar bill from his pocket and handed both the money and the box to Asher.

“Nice doing business with you folks. Maybe I’ll see you again.”

“Hopefully not,” I mumbled, heading for the door.

If Larry heard my less-than-congenial parting words, I didn’t know. Or care. My thoughts were already past him, already consumed by the pillbox. My fingers itched to touch it. My mind whirled with the possible contents. It took all my willpower to wait until we exited the pawnshop before turning to Asher.

The bell over the front door was still chiming when I held out my hand, palm up. Asher relinquished the trinket without hesitation. My fingers curled around the cool, smooth exterior. Considering the thick layer of dust that coated Larry’s display shelves, I hadn’t held out much hope for the back room being any cleaner. But the pillbox was in pristine condition—clean and untarnished, as if it had been kept inside a dust bag. Maybe someone else who worked at the pawnshop believed the decorative box was worth more than the measly couple dollars Lark had received for it. Or even the thirty dollars Asher had just coughed up to reclaim it.

“It’s pretty,” Asher said evenly.

“Yeah,” I agreed, even though his comment barely registered.

Turning it over in my palm, I examined the box from every angle, watching the midday sunlight bounce off the gold trim. Whether it was actually an antique or just a cheap reproduction, it didn’t matter. The pillbox was beautiful.

“Raven?”

“Huh?”

“Let’s, um, maybe get off the street. Okay?”

Asher’s concerned tone surprised me. What was he worried about? That someone would think the box was expensive and try to mug me in broad daylight?

When I looked up, though, Asher’s eyes were fixed over my shoulder, on the door to the pawnshop. Larry stared at us from behind the glass. Taking in the expression on his face, I shivered.

“Yeah, sure. Didn’t we pass a tearoom or something on the way here? Tea-something?” I asked, still watching Larry watch us. “I’m too amped up to wait until we get home to look at it.”

“Yeah, just down the block. Come on.”

With one last glance at the increasingly creepy pawnbroker, I turned and followed Asher.

TeaMing was hipster heaven. Young professionals were jammed together at tiny tables that were barely wide enough for their laptops and oversized mugs. Even though it was the middle of a weekday, the teashop seemed to be at max capacity.

Don’t these people have jobs? I wondered

While Asher got in line to order our beverages, I scanned for two available spots among the sea of beanbags and funky chairs surrounding community tables. There was an empty stool at the corner of a table shaped like a piano—or maybe it actually was a piano, I couldn’t be sure—and it looked like another was about to be vacated. The girl sitting next to the vacant stool had just closed her computer and was placing it in a backpack. Before someone else could claim the seats, I scurried over. Unfortunately, the previous occupant wasn’t in any hurry. Even though the backpack was hanging from her thin shoulders, she was taking her sweet time answering a text message or something on her cell phone.

Hopping up onto the free stool, I placed my messenger bag on my lap, ready to claim the girl’s seat with it as soon as she rose. Edgy and impatient, I started tapping my foot and mentally urging her to hurry it along.

Apparently I was being quite conspicuous with my impatience, because she looked up and offered a sheepish grin.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m leaving now,” she said apologetically.

Instantly, I felt bad.

Calm down, Raven. A couple more minutes won’t kill you.

“Take your time, seriously. I just don’t want someone else to take the chair when I’m not looking,” I said, cringing at how lame I sounded.

That’s when I noticed the girl was wearing a George Washington University Law School t-shirt. Feeling the need to make up for my rude behavior, I put on a friendly smile and pointed at her shirt.

“So, you go to GW law? Is it your first year?”

The girl, a fresh-faced brunette with bright blue, square-framed glasses perched atop her freckled nose, colored slightly.

“Guilty. Is it a total One-L move to wear the school’s t-shirt out in public?”

“Oh, no,” I replied, smiling at her chagrin. “I only asked because that’s where my friend goes to school. He’s also a…One-L?”

With this, I pointed to Asher, who was slowly making his way towards us with a ceramic mug in each hand.

“Great! I just moved here from Ohio, so I don’t know many people,” she replied enthusiastically, before turning to look where I was pointing.

My new friend’s hazel eyes alighted when they landed on Asher. At her obvious interest, jealously sparked briefly within me, but I quashed the irrational emotion.

Asher is a friend, nothing more, I reminded myself.

Asher set both steaming mugs down in front of me.

“Hey, Asher, this is—sorry, I didn’t ask your name,” I said, gesturing to the law student sitting beside me.

“Jessie. Well, Jessica, actually. My mom says I should stop using a nickname and be more professional now that I’m in law school,” the girl explained, smiling as she rolled her eyes.

“I’m Raven and this is Asher,” I replied.

“Nice to meet you guys,” Jessica said, looking first at me and then smiling timidly up at Asher. “So, I hear you’re a fellow low-man-on-the-totem-pole at GW Law. Which section are you in?”

Asher hesitated before answering, evidently confused about where I found this new friend.

“Um, yeah. I am,” he answered Jessica, and then turned to me. “Should I have ordered these to go? Maybe it’s better if we take them back to the apartment. It’s really crowded in here.”

“Oh, I’m leaving,” Jessica said quickly and stood, gesturing to her spot. “This seat is all yours. I need to get home and start on that legal writing memo. How’s yours coming along? All the sections have one due next week, right? Or is that just mine?”

Jessica was bubbly and friendly, and I found myself taking an instant liking to her. But, to my complete surprise, Asher was apparently having the opposite reaction. My normally—very—sociable neighbor had been replaced by a frigid, closed-off carbon copy. His smile was thin as he answered her.

“I think we all do,” he answered. “I started mine, but haven’t gotten far.”

“Ugh, I hate legal writing. But not as much as Civ Pro. Seriously, if Professor Glenn brings up Pennoyer vs. Neff one more time, I’m going to scream. For real.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Asher said, without a trace of interest.

As anxious as I was to examine the pillbox, I was oddly transfixed by Jessica and Asher’s exchange. Honestly, I’d figured Asher would jump at the opportunity to chat with a fellow law student. He spent nearly every free minute with me, dealing with my Lark quest. Which left him little time to socialize with his classmates. But not only was he reluctant to engage in conversation with Jessica, Asher was acting as if she were an irritating fly that was buzzing around his head.

“Good, at least I’m not the only one,” Jessica said, oblivious to Asher’s standoffishness. “My friend, Marabella, she has Odom for Civ Pro, and she says that he hasn’t even mentioned the case. She’s really lucky. So, that must mean you’re with Welsh, right?”

Whether it was enthusiasm, or eagerness, or just her natural way of speaking, it was like Jessica was in a contest to fit as many words within a single breath as humanly possible. If such an event did exist, she would’ve been the clear winner.

“Excuse me?” Asher replied, eyebrows drawing together as he tried to decipher some meaning from Jessica’s hurried words.

“Professor Welsh—you have her for Civ Pro?” Jessica clarified.

“Right, I do,” Asher said at length.

Jessica’s bright smile dimmed slightly at my neighbor’s brusque-verging-on-rude reply.

Man, Asher must be just as eager as I am to check out the pillbox, I thought.

“Sorry, Jessica, my neighbor doesn’t mean to be rude. He’s just helping me with something…a project, I mean. And I, um, have a deadline coming up,” I said smiling brightly in an attempt to make up for my lame excuse and Asher’s lousy attitude.

“Right, no problem,” Jessica said, her cheery tone now ringing false. “Well, good luck with your memo. Maybe I’ll see you around school. Nice meeting you both.”

“Good meeting you, too, Jessica,” I said, genuinely meaning the words.

Asher gave the girl a brief nod of his head, but said nothing.

Watching the way her shoulders slumped as Jessica walked away, I felt a little bad for our new acquaintance. Apparently, she’d been hoping to make a new friend in Asher, to commiserate with a classmate over the hardships of a newbie law student. Moving to a new city where you didn’t know anyone wasn’t easy, so I understood that desire to bond with someone. Maybe after I found Lark and returned to my own reality, Asher could invite Jessica to hang out with me and him sometime. Not only to make up for his bad manners, but because she and I were in the same boat; I could really use more friends, too.

Once Jessica was gone and Asher had settled into the seat next to me, I turned to face him.

“You okay?”

Asher reached for one of the mugs and wrapped his large hands around the ceramic dish.

“Great. Why?”

Oddly, his tone was once again friendly and warm, and the smile he wore genuine. Perhaps I’d misread the conversation between him and Jessica. After all, I wasn’t exactly an expert with social skills myself.

“No reason,” I replied, shaking my head from side to side as I dismissed the whole interaction. We had more important things to worry about.

Given the lack of space at the communal table, Asher and I both had our bodies angled towards each other, knees touching. Taking advantage of the fact our bodies were essentially shielding the space between us, I placed the pillbox on the lacquered piano—it was definitely a real piano. The moment my eyes found the woman with the bright red lips, Jessica and her rambling conversational ways were long forgotten.

Following the path of my gaze as I scrutinized every millimeter, I traced the gold-rimmed outline of the box with my index finger. When I was satisfied that there wasn’t a hidden code or glyph on the exterior, I glanced up at Asher. Instead of looking at the box, his eyes were on me. He gave me a soft smile and then nodded, urging me to go for it. With his support, I opened the lid.

Well, tried to open the lid. It wouldn’t budge. Upon closer examination, I realized there was no seam around the top of the box. For some reason, the pillbox—named thus because it was supposed to be a small container for carrying around a couple of pills…meaning it would have to open—was one solid piece. Naturally.

Undeterred, I felt along the sides until my finger found two distinct indents in the glossy wood, roughly two finger widths apart. Wedging what was left of my right thumbnail—I’d broken it while prying the paneling over the safe loose—into one of the grooves, I hoped to have better luck opening the box than I had with the wall in Lark’s bedroom closet.

Failure.

“Try pushing,” Asher suggested. “It might be pressure sensitive.”

Bingo.

When I pushed, a small drawer slid out from the side of the pillbox. Nestled within the velvet-lined compartment was a flat silver key. Picking it up and turning the key over in my palm, I examined the flat stem. Instead of grooves like an ordinary key, this one was covered with alternating circular bumps and divots.

“Is it a key? Weirdest one I’ve ever seen,” Asher said, scratching the back of his head absently. “Any guesses what that could possibly go to?”

I traced the contours of the metal and thought of braille. But, because of the indents, I was also pretty confident that the strange pattern had nothing to do with the language of the blind.

If it was a key—I had to assume it was, since I couldn’t imagine a viable alternative—it was fit for a lock I couldn’t envision.

Remembering to answer Asher’s question, I shook my head.

“Not really. You?”

Asher said something in reply, but I’d already tuned him out again. A nagging sensation tickled my brain, making me think that I should know what the key went to. It felt like the answer to a test question when I’d half-assed studying—my brain recognized the question, and possibly held the answer somewhere, but it was evading me.

I decided that if I’d actually seen the key somewhere before, it was likely to have been during my search for Lark. So, closing my eyes, I pictured all of the clues I’d found thus far and tried to recall every detail. Coming up empty, I pinched the bridge of my nose.

Think Raven. Which clues are still unsolved? What have you found that might use a lock and key for security?

With a long exhale, I began listing the items that I’d found, starting with the most recent: the strange key. Which was inside a pillbox. There was no keyhole on or inside the box, so the key didn’t unlock another secret compartment in there. Moving on. Lark, presumably, left the pillbox at Larry’s Pawn. Was there another clue at the pawnshop? Had I missed something?

Maybe I should’ve looked around, but I’d been so eager to get out of the dark, dusty space—and away from the creepy owner—that perusing the shelves hadn’t crossed my mind.

Dread over the rookie mistake made my stomach clench.

You can always go back, I reminded myself, while hoping that I wouldn’t have to.

Next, the claim ticket that led me to Larry’s Pawn. Besides the claim number and street address for the shop there hadn’t been any other information printed or written on the slip of paper, so that was a dead end. The claim ticket had been hidden along with the passport, credit card, and First National bank card. First National was the same bank that sent Lark statements. The same bank that she made a recurring payment to every couple of months for the rental of safety deposit box.

“Raven?”

The way Asher said my name—like he was asking a question—I knew it wasn’t the first, or even the second, time he’d tried to get my attention.

“Safety deposit box,” I said quietly.

“Huh?”

“The key. It goes to a safety deposit box.”

“Wait, what? Are you sure?” Asher asked, dubious.

His obvious doubt poked holes in my confidence.

Was I jumping to conclusions? Should I keep going and consider the alternatives before settling on the safety deposit box? Were there any alternatives?

“Um, yeah…I’m pretty sure that’s it,” I hedged.

While I explained how I arrived at my conclusion, I realized that my deductive reasoning process sounded thin and stretched when I said it aloud. As Asher listened, his face was devoid of any expression, though he did nod every so often.

“You might be right,” Asher said when I finished talking, his tone hesitant as though he was merely placating me.

“It all fits. The claim ticket was with those other things for a reason, Asher. I know it,” I spoke with more conviction than I felt.

Asher saw through my bravado, his warm brown eyes skeptical.

“Do you have a better idea?” I demanded.

“Well, no…not really,” he admitted. “But isn’t it just as likely that this key goes to something we haven’t found yet?”

Unwilling to agree that my theory about the safety deposit box was wrong, I shrugged noncommittally.

Feeling defensive, I answered Asher’s question with one of my own.

“Isn’t it worth looking into? I mean, if I’m wrong then I’m wrong. We will have wasted like half an hour, no big deal,” I said, before realizing I didn’t need to convince him of anything. If he didn’t want to go, if he thought it was a waste of time, no big deal. I didn’t need his permission.

“Actually, don’t worry about it. You don’t have to come to the bank with me, I’ll check it out alone,” I decided.

Though I knew that I was toeing the line of reason, I was hurt that he didn’t trust in my abilities.

“Come on, Raven. Don’t be like that,” Asher entreated.

Tentatively, he reached over and covered the hand I had resting on the tabletop with one of his. His voice was gentle and kind and…I suddenly felt incredibly stupid and childish.

Swallowing hard against the lump forming in my throat, I turned my head so as not to look Asher in the eye.

“I’m not being like anything,” I said, trying and failing to sound airy. Like I hadn’t just acted like a little kid pouting. “All I’m saying is that I’m happy to go to the bank alone. It’s probably better anyway. You can get some of your schoolwork done while I follow up on this lead. You do have that memo to write after all,” I pointed out, recalling what Jessica had said earlier.

Asher waved off my protests.

“Let me worry about school, okay? I want to go to the bank with you, Raven. Like you said, if you’re wrong, then you’re wrong. No harm, no foul. At the very least, we’ll be able to rule out the safety deposit box as a possibility.”

“We’ll need to swing by the Pines first. That’s where the bank statements are, and they probably say which branch we need to go to.”

“So, the Pines, then First National?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright then.”

Lifting the untouched ceramic mug in front of me, I took several large gulps. If the next twenty-four hours were anything like the previous, caffeine was definitely necessary. When I looked over, though, Asher wasn’t doing the same. He was staring off into space.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

“Just that…well, if Lark has a ten-thousand dollar, impenetrable safe hidden behind a wall…what the hell does she need a safety deposit box for?”

I’d been so caught up in the key and figuring out what it went to, I hadn’t stopped to consider that.

“Honestly, I have no idea. Nothing is ever what I expect when it comes to Lark,” I replied slowly.

“Must be important,” Asher added as an afterthought.

“Yeah, really important,” I echoed, allowing that fact to sink in.

Suddenly the tumbling routine happening inside my stomach became faster, spinning out of control until I thought I might be sick for the second time that day. Nerves, I realized uncomfortably. Why, though?

With every other clue I’d been anxious in the moments just before the reveal—in the moments leading up to reading the letter, opening the box, and unlocking the safe. But now, just the thought of going to the bank gave me chills.

Asher had raised a good point—what could be that important to Lark? Something personal? Something valuable? Something that explained what the hell had happened to her? Would I finally be able to answer that question at the bank?

Earlier, when I told Asher that I’d go to the bank alone, I’d realized that I sort of wanted to do this one solo. Asher’s support thus far, especially during my meltdown after the safe, was all that kept me moving forward. My neighbor, who I’d known such a short time, was almost as invested in the search for Lark as I was, and I appreciated his cheerleading more than I was able to say. But I needed space to breathe. He was quickly becoming more constant than my shadow.

And like a shadow, I had no idea how to separate myself from him.

THE DOOR FLEW open, the force of the dramatic entrance causing it to bang against the pale blue wall behind it. Despite the sound, only the sudden rush of movement in my peripheral vision caught my attention. I allowed myself two additional seconds of Tom Petty’s crooning to calmly wash over my nerves before removing the headphones from my ears and nonchalantly closing my laptop. The musician was right. I belonged somewhere I felt free.

“Honestly, Lark, is it too much to ask that you grant me some of your time without bellowing up the stairs?” My mother’s usual poise was frayed at the edges.

Normally I relished the moments she allowed her humanness to show, today my mind was far too occupied to be amused.

“Sorry, mother, I didn’t hear you. What’s up?” Moving to sit Indian-style on my duvet, I turned to give her my full attention.

“Oh, nothing important, dear. I’m just trying to plan the biggest event of your life—well, for now, anyway, soon enough it’ll be a wedding, and heavens knows that this staff can’t handle an affair of that magnitude. I mean if I….,” The always-together Eleanor Kingsley trailed off, letting mental ramblings replace the verbal type.

Silently, I watched her, unable to muster the amusement or derision I usually felt at her prioritization of life. Sometimes I’d swear that, to her, life was simply a string of parties and events, the time between them never enough to get ready for the next. If I could bring myself to care anymore, I might pity her.

I waited while she mentally created a to-do list for my fictitious nuptials, and wondered what my mother could’ve accomplished with all of the dedication and verve she clearly possessed.

A renewed vigor in her voice, as if reaching that epicenter of attention for herself as mother-of-the-bride depended upon the decisions immediately at hand, she resumed her diatribe. “The caterer called, and is insisting on a substitution for the Coffin Bay Oysters he promised me months ago. Plus, there’s apparently some problem with the damn sturgeons, and our silver caviar may not be available. I mean, really, why must they bore me with their ineptitude? They’ve known the precise menu for months now, I don’t want to hear about these problems three days before your party!”

Given my mother’s notoriously calm demeanor, a trait she modeled after Anna Wintour’s—Meryl Streep should’ve won an Oscar for her alarmingly perfect portrayal of it in The Devil Wears Prada—this was the equivalent of an all-out tantrum from her.

“I’m sorry, mother. Honestly, it’s not important, I will be more than happy with whatever they serve,” I soothed.

“Lark, dear, that’s not the point. We want what we want, and we should get it,” she insisted.

Using “we” wasn’t entirely accurate since I’d had no part in any of the planning, but I knew pointing that out wouldn’t be helpful just then.

“I know,” I replied. “But I don’t want you to get upset about it. There are so many other things that will make the night perfect. I don’t need the biggest oysters known to man.”

Sensing an impending lecture about the importance of every small detail in life, I said the one thing sure to end the discussion.

“If you keep frowning, you’re going to get wrinkles.”

Sure enough, her mouth snapped closed. Closing her eyes, she took three deep yoga breaths before visibly calming. Once again, she was the epitome of calm, serene control.

“The driver will be here to pick us up at eight, so you only have an hour to get ready. Your father is meeting us at the restau—Lark? Lark are you listening to me?”

“Yes, mother,” I said, grabbing my bathrobe and heading for the bathroom.

It was going to be a long night.

****

Friday afternoon, 2:05 p.m. It took an hour before the digital clock on the wall flipped to 2:06. As it always does when you’re really looking forward to something, time was painfully dragging. My books and tablet were already tucked inside my tote, a fact that was earning me pointed looks from Mr. White. That wasn’t really his name, but he was the AP chem professor, so it was no surprise when Garrett called him that one day and it caught on.

After four more long, arduous minutes, I’d practically melted a hole in the plastic of the clock with my stare. When the soft, unobtrusive chime signaled the end of the day, I grabbed my bag and bolted for the door. Annie was waiting for me in the hallway, and I felt a twinge of guilt at my first instinct—to toss some lame excuse her way and duck out before anyone else stopped me.

The fact that I was already sort of ditching her that night made me grab her hand and pull her along with me, hurrying out the door to avoid idle chit-chat with anyone else. I honestly felt bad that I’d made other plans, especially since it was my actual birthday. But when weighing the options of spending the night out with my friends, for what was sure to be an exceptionally rowdy evening, or celebrating with Blake…there wasn’t any contest.

“Someone’s in a hurry,” Annie teased, hurrying to keep pace with me.

Pushing open the heavy wooden doors leading from the hallway to the courtyard, I glanced over at her with a smile. There wasn’t a hint of resentment or disappointment on her face. Annie was a really good friend, and I was incredibly lucky to have her.

“Yes, well someone has plans,” I replied with a laugh.

Okay, maybe I was being a touch too eager, but I wanted plenty of time to get ready once home. There was nothing I disliked more than feeling rushed, and I didn’t want to be all stressed out.

“Any chance I’ll be meeting this mystery man tomorrow night?” Annie asked hopefully.

Though she was always cheerfully supportive and never pushed for answers, I knew that there was a part of Annie that felt disappointed I had yet to confide in her about Blake. I’d divulged the bare minimum to my best friend—that I was in a relationship, one that I was hiding from our world. Sometimes I wondered if she’d put together the pieces—that the guy from the Met Ball, the guy from Starbucks, and my clandestine boyfriend were all the same person. But if she had, Annie wasn’t letting on.

“Right, that would be a great idea,” I answered sarcastically, giving her an exaggerated eye roll for good measure. “Subject him to my parents precisely when my mother is at her most neurotic. Trust me, I wouldn’t do that to my worst enemy. She’s acting like my eighteenth birthday is bigger than the royal wedding—there’s no way I’m exposing him to that level of crazy.”

“Maybe you’re not giving him enough credit,” Annie said, letting her idealism slip in. “Maybe he wants to meet your crazy mother. And your awesome, sweet, funny best friend.”

“Taylor?” I asked with feigned innocence.

Annie snorted and then gave me a pointed look.

“I think you should bring him. It’s your eighteenth birthday, beyond perfect for introductions. You’ve probably just built this all up in your head, and it wouldn’t even be a big deal. Unless he’s, like, really, really old. Or weird…like a clown or something. Oh! Or your dad’s boss. Wait, does your dad have a boss?”

Giggling at her ability to put things in perspective, I shook my head.

“Perfect! So you’re good to go—no rumormongering!”

Annie’s unyielding optimism was a big part of what had originally drawn me to her in ninth grade. It was why I loved her like a sister. I, of all people, could see how that optimism might be construed as naiveté. Instead, I relied upon it to bolster my own dark, hopeless view of humanity.

“I will certainly ask him,” I said, feeling only a little bad about the lie. No way was I inviting Blake to my party. “But don’t get your hopes up, okay? I don’t want a scene with my parents or the guys, and neither does B—he.”

“I get it.” Annie forced a smile. “Another time?”

“Another time,” I echoed. The crestfallen expression on my best friend’s face drew the next words from lips. “Want to come over and help me get ready for my date?” I asked, knowing full-well that she couldn’t resist the girly tradition.

“Definitely,” Annie answered brightly.

****

It was ironic that I cared most about impressing the person who cared least about my attire. No matter what I was wearing or how I looked, Blake’s face lit up every single time he saw me, without fail.

Maybe I liked the challenge—seeing the extra sparkle in his eyes when I went the extra mile because he knew I’d done so just for him.

For tonight, I’d gone for uptown chic in a classic black Chanel dress with a scooped back. To add a hint of edge, I paired it with booties instead of pumps and chose black tights with a seam up the back. All in all, I was feeling rather sassy.

Annie was curled up on my bed, leaning against the head board. She had my oversized digital photo frame in her lap, and was flipping through pictures from freshman year. Each photo seemed to remind Annie of a funny story about the night it had been taken.

I pulled a gray patent tote from the shelf in my closet and giggled along with her.

“I can’t believe I left the house with my hair like that! And I can’t believe your mother didn’t kill the girl at Freddie’s for giving you cat eyes! Speaking of eyes, have you ever noticed Brent’s? They’re this amazing shade of like honey brown….”

As Annie segued to the cute, new transfer student, I scurried around my closet, only half listening to her twentieth diatribe about his New England accent and how mature Brent was, having attended boarding school for the past ten years in Massachusetts. I added a pair of comfy, worn-in jeans and blue oxford to the tote, just in case I had to go straight to the salon for my hair appointment the next day. The silk sleep shorts and matching camisole that I stuffed in next were a peacock blue, the same shade and material as the lingerie I was wearing. Adding decidedly less fancy unmentionables for the next day, I only had to grab my travel toothbrush and I was good to go.

Instead of heading straight for the bathroom, I plopped down in my armchair to give Annie my full attention for a few minutes. Her not-so-subtle, repeated mentions of Brent weren’t normal for Annie, though that didn’t make them any less transparent.

I knew very little about the guy myself. But I had yet to hear anything scandalous about him in the month he’d been attending Gracen—news of scandals travelled swiftly in our set—and our guys thought he was too square to be a good time. So, all-in-all, Brent What’s-His-Name was probably a decent guy.

As his name flowed into her head and out of her mouth yet again, I hid a smile. And a quick prick of jealousy. Gabbing to my friends about Blake wasn’t something I’d ever longed for, wasn’t exactly my style, but it would’ve been nice to have the option.

Regardless of my evil green monster rearing his ugly head, I was all for this budding romance. Though my intentions may not have been entirely altruistic—Annie being occupied was a good thing. I’d been feeling increasingly guilty about the amount of time I was spending with Blake, and hated the thought of Annie feeling as though she’d been abandoned. Still, I never would’ve encouraged her if I hadn’t felt like Brent would be good for Annie.

Now that I understood so much more about love and emotions and romance than I had pre-Blake, I understood what Annie had been gushing about since the moment I met her. Of course, at the time, I’d always thought she was living on a different planet. Completely out of touch with any semblance of reality. Since finding out what a relationship could be, I wanted Annie to have everything she’d been dreaming about. It was corny as hell, and I would certainly never say it out loud, but Blake and I were living proof that dreams were attainable.

“Did you know he’s in my AP History class?” Annie asked.

I smiled. Yes, I did know that because she’d told me several times. Still, I was quick to say, “He is?” as though the fact were news to me.

“He sits next to the guy in front of me, and he gets the most adorable look on his face when he’s concentrating. And when he wears his glasses, wow…I mean, he’s really good-looking. Maybe even too good-looking, you know? I hate when guys know how handsome they are, it’s obnoxious. And yet, they can get away with it, precisely because they are.”

I loved seeing Annie like this. Which was why I’d kill Brent if he so much as disappointed her. Figuring I might get an extra wish since I was turning eighteen, I used one for Annie.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that, right?” I said, smiling fondly. “He is really cute, but obviously doesn’t let it define him. If he did, you know he’d be hanging out with our guys and making the rounds of the girls in school. In which case, we would’ve heard about it. It’s a shame he wasn’t around when we made the guest list for tomorrow night.”

“Oh! No, I mean, I know. I wasn’t saying—I understand,” she said.

“Luckily, we both know my mother, and we both know she’s ordered enough food and alcohol to accommodate everyone in Manhattan. You should invite him! You know…as your date,” I suggested.

Since Annie wore her feelings on her sleeve, I could pinpoint the exact moment she went from disappointed, to intrigued, to excited, to nervous.

“Nope, no way,” she laughed off the suggestion. “It’s your night. What kind of best friend would I be if I made it about me and the hot new guy?”

“The kind that does what the birthday girl says,” I replied with mock sternness. “And if you’re worried about it being awkward, just tell him how privileged he should feel to not only be graced with your presence, but to be invited to the party of the millennium. My birthday!”

A pillow sailed through the air, smacking me right in the nose. Her aim was a little off with the second fluffy missile and it slid over the top of my head. Annie snorted, apparently laughing at the new hairdo the static energy had given me. I sent it flying back to her, followed by one of the many decorative ones from my chair.

“Invite the man!” I choked out through my laughter, sending a barrage of the throw pillows flying through the air. “Make him your lovah! Waltz your way into his heart!”

My encouragement was rewarded with another pillow to the face.

DITCHING ASHER PROVED impossible. It seemed he was more determined than ever to keep me in his sights. Not wanting me to run off to Lark’s apartment alone in the middle of the night was understandable; it really wasn’t very safe for a girl to be running around DC by herself in the wee hours of the morning. But a trip to the bank in the middle of the day? Not the least bit dangerous. When I pointed this out, however, Asher played his trump card.

“What if you find more documents with your name on them? Or pictures of yourself? Sorry to bring it up, but you sort of lost it last night, Raven. Don’t get me wrong—if I were in your situation, I would’ve had exactly the same reaction. But don’t you think it will be better if I’m there, just in case?”

Much as I hated to admit it, his point was valid. I’d 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. Right? What if there were pictures of me inside? Or 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 by myself, 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 was, a part of me was comforted knowing that Asher worried about my wellbeing. Considering we barely knew each other, it was kind of him to want to be there for me through this strange journey. No one had ever watched out for me the way Asher did. Yes, being independent and self-sufficient was important. But being cared about was nice, too. Sure, my parents loved me and had always been there for me. Yet Lark’s disappearance never surfaced in our conversations. The obligatory phone calls home included only vague mentions of job searches that I hadn’t actually performed and new friends that didn’t exist. Because I loved them so much, every lie I told made my stomach ache. But telling them the truth about how I spent my time would only cause worry.

Between our negotiation over Asher accompanying me and me thinking about his protective ways, we were back at The Pines before I knew it. In Darrell’s usual spot behind the lobby desk was an older gray-haired gentleman, who gave us a kind smile as we passed. With a quick wave to him, and 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, both having street addresses in the Southeast quadrant of the city. Since everything Lark had done and left behind thus far was in Northwest, a deviation from the norm seemed unlikely. That left two possible candidates. One downtown on K Street and one on 19th 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, Dupont Circle.

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 there 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 in alone.”

This, too, was quickly becoming an overused phrase that I was tired of saying. Evidently, Asher was equally as tired of hearing it, because he finally gave up.

“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 doing their banking over lunch breaks, 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 Mindsweeper? 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.

He’s probably worried about looking shady by lingering in a bank lobby with no obvious purpose, I realized. In truth, it probably did seem kind of suspicious to any onlooker. Like he was casing the place for a robbery or 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 then 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 Quattrocchi, 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 relax and 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.”

The bank manager 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 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. Mrs. Gonzalez-Harkman 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 to the bank manager, who 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 by where he stood, still pretending to fill out a deposit slip, I tried to catch Asher’s eye, hoping for a reassuring look from him. 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 hallway to the left of the bank of teller windows. It was long and fairly wide, with numerous doors and windows that showed men and women hard at work behind their computer desks. After passing all of the offices, a pair of restrooms and a water cooler, we finally came to an elevator. The sight 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 once I was deep within the bank?

“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 plain white door with Room Five on a placard just above eye-level and a security badge scanner where the handle should have been. She swiped a keycard hanging from a clip on the front belt loop of her suit pants. A series of beeps, followed by a green light preceded a small whoosh of air. The door creaked open two inches. The bank manger 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 towards 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 there. Someone will come to retrieve your box at once.” She paused, 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 and bother you while you are in here.”

“Oh, okay. Great,” I said, unsure how else to respond. “Thanks.”

The bank manager handed me back my key.

“Let me know if there is anything else I can do for you. Just use the intercom.”

After I thanked her again, Mrs. Gonzalez-Harkman was gone. And I was alone with the safety deposit box.

I sat in one of the two chairs, surprised to find that the plastic was a lot more comfortable than it looked. As I did, I 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 pawn shop. If so, perhaps Larry would give me a good price on them so I could afford to eat.

Laughing softly, I imagined myself haggling with the pawnbroker like people do in open air markets. Yeah, 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. No matter how hungry I was. 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 was 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 actually access the damned box.

“Of freaking course,” I repeated.

Honestly, I should’ve known better. Lark was too careful to hide something somewhere that could be opened with anything as simple as 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. Seriously. 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, why?

Why me?

You’ll just have to come back, I thought. And bring Asher. He might be able to help figure out the code. Five digits.

Pushing the box away once again 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, ready to have the box taken away once more, a thought struck me—I’d uncovered clues, passwords that I had yet to match with anything.

Whistleblower.

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 zipcode?

But which one? Lark’s in New York? The one for the Pines? First National’s?

There were too many possibilities, and I didn’t really 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, and whatever clue lay inside would be gone.

“Five digits. Come on. What has five digits?” I thought maybe saying it out loud would help. It didn’t. Still, I continued aloud, hoping it would help to spark some idea. “Okay, take a step back. The key was at the pawn shop. Maybe the code is somewhere on the pillbox?”

With no better options, I withdrew the small oval from my messenger bag and immediately popped out the drawer where the key had been hiding. Nothing. Awesome.

Flipping the box over, I searched all of the sides for some sort of 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. And realized something.

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.

Yeah, I totally should’ve brought Asher in here with me. Then, at least, I wouldn’t be talking to myself, I thought.

Wasting no further time, I thrust the key into the lock and entered the five digit claim ticket number.

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. Again, I found myself wishing that Asher was here. If nothing else, to offer affirmation that I had a future as a PI.

After taking a brief moment to revel in my small victory, I opened the lid the rest of the way. And found myself staring down at yet another manila envelope.

Just seeing the envelope, I deflated.

Seriously? All of the runaround for a freaking manila envelope?

“You’re killing me, smalls,” I muttered, referencing one of my favorite childhood movies, even if it had been released a little before my time.

The writing, in large black sharpie, caught my attention. My breath caught. I blinked several times to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me. No, no they weren’t. Unlike the other clues, which I was now convinced somehow, some way, 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, really. 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 or wherever.

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, addressed it to me.

No, I thought, she wants me to get this to 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 do 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’d wondered before. Now, I needed to know for sure that Blake Greyfield was real. 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. That 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. Alive.

It might be the only way to answer that question….

Why me?

DEEP BREATH IN. Slow exhale out.

You’ve got this.

Though it appeared I was smiling off into the crowd below, the expression was simply pasted on to my face. It was taking every ounce of my concentration to place each foot down to the next unseen step in turn. The smooth underside of my brand new Choo’s slid dangerously on the marble, and 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 eye 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 an entirely different reason. Not because it was an occasion deserving of an over-the-top soiree. Not because it was a chance to show off how truly opulent my family could be. And certainly not because it was an opportunity for people to tell him over and over that, clearly, I’d gotten my good looks for him.

It mattered because it meant that I was truly an adult now. A peer. An equal. And that was something my father could relate to. I knew that, deep down, he’d tried his best to play daddy to the little girl I was, 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 about the family business and grooming me to take his place one day brought my father a great deal of joy. Now that I was eighteen, poised to really become involved in our company on more than a superficial level, Daddy was elated.

Four months ago, I’d felt the same way. Then again, four months ago, I’d also still thought my father an honest, righteous man. Now, well, now I wasn’t sure who he was. I loved him. I would always love him. I just wasn’t so sure how much I liked him. Or how much I wanted to be involved in our company, now or ever.

My father and I reached the small landing at the bottom of the staircase, still three steps above ground-level, where party-goers stood in a large cluster. My father kissed my cheek. My mother stepped forward to give me the most awkward of hugs. And then she was on; my moment was over and hers was to begin.

A microphone appeared out of nowhere. My mother took to the spotlight to extoll the wonders of being my parent, soaking in the time when every eye in the room was trained on her. My mother’s eyes shone with unshed tears, the emotion as fake as cubic zirconia. The effort that must’ve taken her freshly Botoxed-face was more touching than her words. To be fair, the waterworks were really quite the feat.

When she thanked everyone for coming, I shifted my plastered-on smile from my parents to the crowd below, hoping I was projecting warmth and graciousness.

She ended her speech with a rousing, “I hope you all have a truly magical evening”, before slipping her masquerade mask into place and basking in the gazes of so many onlookers. The guests followed suit with polite golf claps from the adults, and loud cheers from my friends in the back. I slid my own mask down over my eyes and went in search of the Eight.

“Be still my heart!” Ilan was the first to notice me. “Who is this ravishing creature? Will she return my heart, or shall I be cast off forever in search of it?”

“I think I saw it over by the canapés,” I said sardonically, reaching for Ilan’s outstretched hand to twirl beneath it like a ballerina and show off my duds.

“Holy shit, that dress is amazing!” Camilla crowed in delight, purposely ignoring the disapproving looks she was getting from my mother’s friends. I loved Cam for it.

“Thank you, thank you,” I said, exchanging the obligatory air kisses.

“Seriously!” Taylor Vanderkam chimed in, “Wasn’t that just on the runway at Paris fashion week?”

“Marchesa’s show-ender,” I replied, unable to repress my glee.

A beautiful gown can do that to a girl. This one was a midnight blue so deep that it could easily be mistaken for black, if not for the shimmering threads that caught the light. Cut in a mermaid silhouette, there were endless layers of tulle fanning out from my knees to the floor. While braving the December Manhattan weather, I’d worn a sumptuous snow white vegan fur on the way over—to my mother’s chagrin I’d been refusing to wear real fur since I was old enough to comprehend precisely why they were so soft—but I’d shed the wrap upstairs in one of the Met’s dressing areas. My shoulders were now exposed, save the one strap that began thin, the layers of soft sheer silk bunched together where they met the dress, and widened on the way up to my collarbone.

Alistair handed me a glass of champagne, ever the gentleman.

“May I propose a toast?” he said, his British accent making the line sound ever-so-proper. “To Lark, the stunning and charming birthday girl. You are a wonderful mate to all of us, and we are ever so lucky to have you. I hope you have a brilliant night, full of mischief, and maybe just a touch of mayhem.”

“To Lark!” The rest of my friends exclaimed, almost in unison, calling attention to our group.

Grinning for real, I raised my glass to clink the crystal gently against those of my friends. Looking around the circle, my heart ached with how much I loved these guys, how much we’d all been through together. I’d become so jaded in the past several months, and hadn’t truly appreciated just how much they all meant to me. I was going to miss them when I moved to D.C.

“Miss Kingsley?” a voice called from behind me.

Turning, I saw Jarett Brandley, the infamous Page Six photographer standing only feet from me and my circle of friends. His ever-present camera in one hand, he extended the other to shake mine.

“Happy birthday, Miss Kingsley,” Brandley said, oozing manufactured warmth. “Would you mind if I get a shot of you and your friends?”

As always in these situation, I had two choices. Though he wouldn’t dare name names if I were to refuse, there would undoubtedly be a blind item about the snobby birthday girl in the Post tomorrow, along with every single antic that went down at the party. Choosing the path of least resistance, I went for the second option—a couple of shots for tomorrow’s paper, and no fit being thrown by my mother.

“Come on guys!” I said, my smile a little less bright than it had been moments before. I hated random strangers seeing intimate pictures from my life. I hated the scrutiny and gossip. I hated being considered a ‘socialite’. Sadly, it was easier to give in with a small smile than rail against the system. For now.

Everett and Barrett stood on either side of me, their identical arms wrapped around my waist. The rest of my crew gathered in and the flashbulb went off several times, leaving bright spots in my vision.

“Okay, thank you!” I said finally, unable to bear any more of the assaulting light. With my practiced gracious smile, I gave Brandley a wave. It was the standard signal that we were done, and he knew it.

“Thank you so much,” the photographer replied. “Have a wonderful night.”

As soon as he walked away, I tipped my champagne glass back and drained it dry. No sooner had I finished the glass than a waiter appeared with a tray, offering fresh glasses around the group. He was young, probably in his early twenties. His smooth tan skin and the sparkling blue eyes peering out from behind a simple black mask were indicative of a model or actor paying his bills as a cater-waiter while waiting for his big break.

“Keep ‘em coming, my good man,” Alistair said with a grin. “What’s your name?”

“Andrew,” the handsome waiter replied with an easy smile. “Is there something else I can get you?”

“Nice to meet you, Andrew. This here,” Alistair slid his arm around my waist and pulled me close, “is the lady of the evening, the reason we’re all here. And we want her to have the best night ever. Think you can help us out, maybe keep her from getting thirsty?” With that he slid a bill into the young waiter’s free hand.

Knowing Alistair and the correlation between his generosity and his intoxication, the young man would make more tonight than he had in all his months of waiting tables.

“No problem,” Andrew replied, his bright blue eyes now trained on me.

“How about a couple of Goose and tonics?” Barrett chimed in, before giving us girls a questioning glance. “You ladies want anything else right now?”

“I’m good with champagne,” Annie answered.

Cam and I nodded in agreement.

“A round of lemon drops?” Taylor said, giving me a wink before plastering on her trademark look of practiced innocence.

“There you have it,” Alistair said to Andrew, slipping him another folded bill. “Whatever these gorgeous ladies want, they get.”

“Of course,” the waiter replied. “Anything you need at all, just let me know.”

With that, he went in search of the bar. As soon as Andrew disappeared into the crowd, Taylor began fanning herself.

“Day-um!” she exclaimed. “Those muscles did not come from carrying drinks around.”

While Camilla agreed and the guys heckled them, I turned to Annie.

“You look gorgeous, by the way,” I said, squeezing her hand. “Love that dress!”

“I swear, my mother drove me crazy until I agreed to wear white,” Annie replied, rolling her eyes. “It’s like she thinks it will send off a subliminal message to some random guy: ‘This one over here is sweet and untouched! She’s primed and ready for marriage!’”

I couldn’t help but laugh, since I knew exactly how her mother could be. Just like mine, except with more weight placed on acquiring a ring.

“Well, regardless, you look amazing. The dress and the color really suit you,” I said with a wink.

And it did. The ivory scoop-necked gown with the occasional seed pearls sewn into the bodice was stunning, and the shade of white perfectly set off Annie’s flawless complexion. With her light brown hair swept in a high bun, it perfectly showcased the matching low scoop in the back.

“So,” I said, “What did you decide about Brent?”

Annie wrinkled her nose. “I chickened out.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just felt like this night should be about us and our friends, and—”

“Ladies!” Alistair appeared out of nowhere, slinging his arm around Annie’s neck. “Shot time!”

“We’ll talk about it later,” I promised Annie.

We slid back over to where the crew was gathered around Andrew, everyone taking a shot glass and a lemon covered in sugar granules.

“Birthday girl?” the waiter said, extending the engraved silver platter towards me.

“Thanks” I said, passing the small glass back to Annie before taking one for myself.

“To the Eight!” Ilan proclaimed, stretching his shot glass towards us.

We all groaned in unison. The name was obnoxious, and we only used it in jest.

“To staying single—” Barrett began, cut off by another wave of protesting groans.

“To one hell of a night,” Cam said simply, thrusting her glass up in the air in front of her.

We all clinked them together. The vodka was top shelf, but it still burned slightly going down. Quickly biting down on the lemon to ease the sensation, my mouth was flooded with first sweet, then a hint of bitterness.

“You ready to have some fun?” Taylor asked playfully, bumping my hip with hers.

“Absolutely,” I replied, truly meaning it.

Unfortunately, I had no idea what the evening had in store for me.

A NEW GUY started working for David last week. I only noticed because he was so much younger than the rest of the crew. And far more friendly.

Given the complete lack of things to occupy my time here, I watch a movie most nights. I always wait until it is late and everyone else has gone to bed. It is the only time that I feel at peace. When there are none of the constant bustling reminders of where I am.

The only other people ever up and about are the guards charged with keeping me locked up tight. I’ve been here for months now without seeking out a knife and hacking my way out, or doing anything out of line. Yet they still eye me suspiciously, and the guards are careful to keep their distance.

That’s why it is so startling when the new guy sits down on the couch beside me with a bowl of popcorn while I am watching my nightly movie. With his eyes on the screen and not me, he extends the bowl in my direction, a silent offering. I shake my head adamantly. The new guy shrugs his shoulders and digs in, crunching the kernels a mouthful at a time. Almost as if he understands that my denial is predicated on a fear of being drugged again.

The bowl is extended my way again several minutes later, now almost half empty. Looking over to where his eyes are still focused on the screen, I smile and take a handful of popcorn. For the next hour, we sit there companionably, neither of us saying a word nor looking at the other. When the credits begin to roll, he stands, smiles at me, and then disappears into the darkened hallway.

We repeat the same act the next night, though he is there for the start of the movie, instead of showing up midway through. The third night, he speaks. It is nothing earthshattering, only a comment about the movie itself, but surprises me nonetheless since he’s been mute until now. After that, we speak during the movie, asking each other questions and discussing plot holes, but nothing more.

Then, a few days later, I notice him during the day. A wink comes my way when we pass each other in the hallways. A half-smile when no one is looking. Nothing overt, nothing crazy. We keep up the late-night movies, alternating between his picks of Guy Ritchie films and my nostalgic favorites. Then, last night during the original Sabrina, one of my all-time favorites—I think Audrey Hepburn was better in it that in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but that’s just my opinion—he scooted closer to me. Closer than I am comfortable with. But not so near as to mitigate my curiosity in what he has to say.

His gaze sweeps from the reading nook on one end of the room to where the grandfather clock sits on the other side, right next to the hallway. With a not-so-subtle glance over either shoulder to ensure we are alone, he whispers the most beautiful words my ears have ever heard.

Do you want to leave?

My mind flashes with an immediate rush of thoughts and ménage of emotions.

My first instinct is a product of the environment I’ve been rotting in for far too long: he’s fucking with you. So I don’t answer him. Just give him a sidelong glance before returning my attention to the antics of Kristin Wig, my new favorite funny lady.

Lark. Seriously. Do you want to get out of here?

Though the words could be taken the same way a frat boy in a bar meant them, I instinctively know that this isn’t an offer for awkward groping. He means escape. And I am not taking the bait. Because, if he means it, it is a really stupid question. Of course I do.

My father taught me a long time ago that you could often force people to bid against themselves by simply remaining silent after an offer had been made. The same tactic also applies to retrieving additional information. People have an innate desire to fill awkward silences.

I apply my father’s wisdom to my current situation. It is a game of chicken and I just have to wait for him to swerve. Turning my full gaze on him, I quirk an eyebrow and say nothing. As expected, I win the game.

I mean, okay, I guess that’s a rhetorical question. I know you don’t want to be here. It’s just…well, you don’t belong in a place like this, with these people. It’s not safe.

You think I don’t know that?

Let me help you.

And he apparently means it.

A couple hours ago, he slipped me a note: Take only what you absolutely must. Be ready.

A Burberry tote is among the rest of my belongings in the closet. When I noticed it originally, I thought it was such a ridiculous, ironic thing. Where the hell would I be going that I’d need a tote bag? Nowhere. Absolutely nowhere.

Clean underwear, several t-shirts that rolled up into small balls and a couple of pens. That is the extent of what I put inside. When I’m done writing this, I’ll slip this diary inside, too. I don’t know where I am supposed to go, where I will be safe, and what I’ll need once I get there. But nothing else in my prison cell is worth taking.

The only other thing I care about is the iPod Nano that I’m also using at the moment. I’ll put it in the slim front pocket of the tote when it’s time to go, but I’m not ready to sit in silence just yet—this Foster the People song about falling in love is soothing to my nerves.

The iPod itself was docked on the nightstand when I arrived, and had all of the same music as the one I owned. It was a pleasant surprise. Music allows me a much needed mental escape. Though I have always wondered how they knew which songs to put on it. This iPod isn’t a touchscreen like the one I have at home—presumably because that one can connect to the internet, whereas this one can’t—it is still a lifeline. Having my music is a gift I appreciate more than I can ever say. Or will ever say. Since I’ll never thank these assholes for a thing. I wouldn’t need their small kindnesses if they’d just left me alone, if they’d never brought me here.

How I got here is still a puzzle to me. Though I’d like to know the answer, it isn’t as important as knowing that I will soon be outside these four walls, and not just on the grounds. I just hope that I will end up somewhere better. Anywhere better. Even through the chorus of ooh la la’s, a small part of me worries incessantly. Is this a trick? Is he going to turn me in? Or take me somewhere even worse?

It doesn’t matter. I will do anything to get out of here, far away from this place and these people who hold me captive. Even if that means I’m walking straight into a trap.

Now I’m sitting here on my bed, hiding out to conceal my anxiety. I can’t seem to stop my foot from tapping, my eyes from checking the clock every ten seconds.

What will happen if I’m caught?

The unbidden thought flashes through the darkness in my mind at random intervals like a neon sign. It doesn’t matter. Honestly, they can’t do much worse to me. I repeat the mantra: they’ve already stolen my life. Stolen me. What do I have to lose? They can’t do anything worse than they already have. Even though, yes, I know that’s not true at all. That I can, in fact, be treated much, much worse than I have been. But I tuck away the truth in a distant corner of my brain, as though it is an out-of-season garment. It doesn’t matter. I’d risk physical pain and psychological torture to get out of here. To get back to him.

Shit, I can’t let my mind go there. To him. I miss Blake so much it physically hurts. I’ve read about this ache, this longing. I’ve seen it portrayed in movies. And always thought it was a thing of fiction, something dreamt up by novelists and screenwriters. It’s not. It’s very real, a visceral reaction to being apart from the person you love when it’s truly real. I miss his smile, his laugh, his smell, his warmth, his…everything. Him.

Great, now this page is splotchy and smeared. And so is my face. I can’t look like anything is amiss. I can’t act like anything is amiss. I simply can’t think of him right now.

Focus, Lark. Focus. Don’t think about the very real possibility of seeing him so very soon. Don’t think about anything beyond the hour, the minute, the second. Don’t count your chickens before they hatch, don’t count on anything happening until it’s already occurred. Another mantra of my father’s. It’s weird, but I didn’t appreciate him while I should have.

I didn’t appreciate all of the life advice and sage wisdom he was passing along. Didn’t appreciate those random ramblings of his, the ones I’d have to fight to not roll my eyes at as he prattled them off, often repeating something he’d already told me several times before.

Even if I do make it home, do get to Manhattan from who-knows-where I am being held, I will not have much time left with him.

Will it be enough? Will I get the chance to tell him that he’s been a good father? That he’s done the best he can? That he has been a reprieve from the constant pressures of my mother, the only soft, warm place in my cold, hard childhood? That I am sorry, that I never wanted to hurt him? Will he understand why? Why I had to do it, had to set things right if I ever wanted to live a life without guilt and shame and everything else I’d been drowning in for too long?

Seriously, Lark, stop. This isn’t the time for these mental wanderings. You need to concentrate on handling this minute, and then the next. If it was any other night, I would soon be tip-toeing out to the darkness, the quiet stillness that usually gave my nerves a break. So I need to do that. Need to go sit on that couch like it’s any other night. Need to sulk and ignore everyone, just like every other night. Need to wait with as much patience and as little anxiety as I can possibly muster. Need to wait for their Judas to come let me out.

I’m going to go now. Going to go sit in the middle of the lions who skulk around me in the darkness. Going to go show them that nothing is amiss. The next time I write I might be free. I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up that he’s going to come through. Hope is an ill-advised emotion when you’re in a situation like this. But I can’t help it. Hope is all I have right now, so I’m clinging to it for dear life.

I hope I live to put pen to paper here again. If not, if someone else is reading these words, just know this: Sometimes you have to take risks, proportional to your desires, to get what you want. And there is so much that I want. So I’ve risked it all.

ANOTHER GLASS OF champagne later, I was feeling far less tense and was getting caught up in the spirit of the evening. The dim lights, the elegant gowns and tuxes, the masks lending an air of mystery to it all…it was exactly how I’d imagine the party, but better. If nothing else, my mother knew exactly how to build an entire atmosphere as opposed to simply having a theme.

Leaving the others behind, Annie came with me to work the crowd, to greet people and thank them for coming. It was best to get protocol out of the way before the guys ordered any more drinks.

“Ms. Stories, how lovely to see you,” I said, swapping air kisses with Camilla’s mom.

“Have you met Jacque?” she asked, gesturing to the tall, broad man standing next to her.

There was no doubt, he was a hunk. His thick dark hair hung just past his ears, in a style that said exotic without being hippy.

“Ahh, Mees Lark, eet is such a pleasure to fine-ally meet chu!” Jacque said in a thick French accent, placing one large hand on my shoulder as he bent to kiss each cheek. “Ah have ‘eard so much about chu from Cameela.”

Though I knew he was wealthy in his own right, wasn’t outwardly slimy or slick, and didn’t come off as sleazy or too interested in his girlfriend’s daughter’s teenaged friends, there was still something about him that made me uneasy. Almost like he was too confident in Camilla’s mother’s affections towards him.

Ms. Stories swept a glance to where his broad fingers were still on my shoulder, and reached out to take both of my hands in hers, effectively pulling the attention back to herself.

“Lark, you look so beautiful!” she replied, holding me out at arm’s length to take in the dress. “You know, I remember when you girls were just starting high school, so young and so awkward. And of course Camilla was a late bloomer and hadn’t yet sprouted her…”

Ms. Stories went on for a while about how much we’d all grown up over the past four years, before finally releasing me to continue on my way.

“I can’t believe the things that woman will say after a little gin,” Annie laughed.

“I can’t believe her new boyfriend!” I replied, peeking back over my shoulder at Jacque.

Before I could ask Annie what she thought of the Frenchman, we were stopped by Taylor’s mother.

“Lark, sweetheart,” she trilled. Leaning in for more air kisses, I wondered how high I’d get if I began to count them. “Happy birthday, darling!”

“Thank you Mrs. Vanderkam. I’m so glad you could make it,” I offered one of my standard lines of the evening.

“But of course! We’d never miss such a to-do. Your mother,” Mrs. Vanderkam paused, taking in the scene with her keen eye for details, “Your mother did such a wonderful job pulling this all together!”

Coming from Manhattan’s elite hostess with the mostess, that was quite a compliment. I briefly wondered if she’d shared it with my mother, or was waiting until the end of the night to announce her approval, to keep my mother guessing.

“She really did,” I agreed. “I’m so lucky that she did all of this for me.”

While I knew that she didn’t really do it for me, that my mother had truly slaved over tonight’s affair for herself, her friends, and her reputation, I genuinely appreciated the time and effort she put into the party. Descending the stairs, with a birds-eye view of the dim chandeliers, the glowing candles everywhere, the pristine ballroom full of elegantly dressed people wearing masks, had been like something from a dream.

Though in my perfect version, Blake was my escort.

And then, as if my subconscious was playing tricks on me, I swore the broad shoulders and head of dark curls weaving through the crowd belonged to Blake. Attempting to shake off what was surely an alcohol-induced hallucination, I tuned back to the conversation.

“It was really lovely,” Annie was saying, picking up my conversational slack.

“It absolutely was,” I added, utterly unaware of what we were talking about, still focused on the guy who looked like Blake. “I don’t mean to be rude,” I continued, “but will you excuse us?”

“Of course, dear, of course. I know what it’s like, trying to make the rounds.”

“Thank you,” I replied with a smile. If I commented on the last bit of her statement, we’d never get away. “We’ll be sure to find you later.”

Grabbing Annie’s hand, I pulled her through the crowd until we reached the edge, only nodding or calling out greetings over my shoulder as we went.

“Sorry,” I said to Annie when we reached the wall.

“No worries,” she said with a sympathetic smile. “I needed a break, it’s not shocking that you did, too.”

Flagging down a passing waiter, I asked for two bottles of water. Unless I wanted to see Blake’s green eyes hiding behind every mask, I needed to chill on the vodka for a little.

“Yeah,” I replied, grateful for her understanding. “It was just getting to be a little overwhelming.”

“Do you ever worry we’re all just going to grow up and become our parents?” Annie asked, surprising me. That was usually my line.

“Where is this coming from?” I asked, wondering if I should be worried about Annie going rogue on me.

“I don’t know. Just life,” she answered. “I know my parents aren’t half as bad as yours with all of the pressure and demands, but…it’s still a lot.”

“I know, sweetie,” I replied, giving her a sympathetic smile. “They just…they never stop.”

“Exactly!”

“Your father and lectures about colleges and grades?” I guessed.

“Yup.”

“Your mother and the pressure to be perfect, to be desirable, to marry someone acceptable?”

“I wouldn’t have put it like that,” she admitted. “But yeah, it’s basically the same thing.”

“What a charmed life we have, eh?” I said wryly.

Speak of the devil, and she doth appear.

“Lark, dear,” my mother said, coming to a stop in front of us. Spotting her disapproving glance, I immediately stood up straight, shoulders back, public persona in place. “I was looking for you.”

“Everything okay?” I asked, bracing myself for the answer.

“With the party? Of course,” she said dismissively, turning to Annie. “Why Annabelle, hello, dear. It is so lovely to see you. I feel like we haven’t seen you at the house in ages.”

My mother loved Annie. Luckily for me, of course. In fact, had my mother chosen anyone on earth to be my best friend, it would have been Annabelle Stanley. Yes, those Stanley’s. They may not have been the oldest money, but they were as much American royalty as the Kennedy’s, and certainly more respected. Though Henry Stanley himself had never had children, the name—and the money—had filtered down to the children of his second wife, which included Annie’s paternal grandfather.

“It’s been a crazy fall,” Annie replied. “There has been just so much going on.”

“Yes, it most certainly has. I hope you girls aren’t being worked too hard in school. Oh! And what a lovely job you all did at the Ballet’s benefit—it was so beautiful.”

“Oh, thank you, but it certainly wasn’t just us, we were just the help,” Annie said modestly, giving me a sideline glance that I took as a plea for help.

“Nonsense,” my mother declared. “Before you know it, you girls will be running those committees. In fact—”

“You said you were looking for me?” I interrupted. This earned me another frown, though she quickly smoothed her expression. After all, wrinkle lines were more critical than her daughter’s rudeness.

“Right. There are some people you simply must greet. Would you excuse us for a moment, Annabelle? Lark needs to say hello to some old family friends. Now where did they get to, I wonder?”

Groaning inwardly, it was my turn to give Annie a beseeching look. The last thing I wanted was to spend the whole night with my parents’ friends, but I also knew it was par for the course.

While my mother was searching the crowd, Annie mouthed “Sorry.”

“Come find me when you’re done,” Annie said out loud. She gave my hand a quick, encouraging squeeze, before sliding between two men in identical tuxedos and disappearing into the swarm.

When I turned back to face my mother, I was surprised to find a guy my age standing in her place. Like every other man in the room, he was wearing an impeccable tuxedo, which he filled out quite nicely. His warm caramel eyes were smiling down at me, the grin on his face hauntingly familiar. As though he stepped straight from a Ralph Lauren ad, his brown hair was combed smoothly over to the side, sans product, and his teeth were perfectly straight and white.

“Lark, dear. You remember the Ridells, don’t you?” my mother prompted.

Involuntarily, my hand flew to my mouth. He looked so different, so much older, so much cuter.

A woman with eyes the exact same shade as her son’s had appeared by his side, and she leaned in for the standard greeting. Though I went through the motions without breaking stride, I felt as though a grenade had exploded in my stomach.

“Lark, I can’t believe how much you’ve grown!” Mrs. Ridell exclaimed, cupping my face in her hand.

I forced out a smile.

“And Senator Ridell,” my mother prodded me, gesturing to the tall man with snow-white hair standing on her other side.

“Of course, it’s lovely to see you,” I managed to say through numb lips.

“We were so delighted when we received your mother’s invitation!” Mrs. Ridell said. “We wouldn’t have missed this.”

“Now I feel kind of bad about Adam’s eighteenth,” the Senator said, clapping his son playfully on the arm. “We just took him out to dinner.”

As my mother and the senior Ridells began discussing us, their children, I turned my attention back to Adam.

“Wow…It’s been a long time,” I said, still dumbstruck by his presence.

“Yeah,” he answered, awkwardly looking down at his shoes. After a moment of silence where he stared at the shiny leather, Adam finally met my gaze. “How’ve you been?”

“Good,” I said, pretending it wasn’t a loaded question fraught with underlying meanings. “I’ve been really good. It’s very different here in Manhattan, not at all like Connecticut, but I’ve gotten used to it…at least, as much as anyone who wasn’t born here can.”

Adam smiled sympathetically, as if he understood what I meant.

“Yeah, things are certainly different,” he said, sweeping his arm to encompass the ballroom and the masses of people.

“You know my mother,” I said with a dramatic eye roll. “She was made for this life. She actually has a friend named Bitsy.”

“You’re joking. Right?” he asked, cocking a quizzical eyebrow.

“Not even a little bit,” I said, feeling the tension between us easing. “My friends are pretty awesome, though. You want to come have a drink?”

Adam glanced around dubiously.

“Yeah, yet another difference. In Connecticut we still have to pretend to hide the debauchery.”

“We hide the debauchery,” I replied with mock indignation. “It doesn’t get rowdy ‘til all the adults head home to pour themselves into bed, hopefully around midnight.

His face morphed into a devious grin.

“I do have my own room at the Plaza.”

“See, you fit right in,” I teased.

Crooking his elbow, Adam offered me his arm.

“Shall we?”

“It was so nice to see you both,” I said to his parents, tucking my arm through Adam’s. “Thank you so much for coming!” I called over my shoulder as he pulled me away.

Once we’d made our way through much of the crowd, I paused, pulling him to a stop with me.

“Hey, I need to ask you something.”

When he turned back to face me, a rush of memories flooded my mind. Nervousness and apprehension edged at the sides, thinking of the last time Adam and I had seen one another—on quite possibly the worst day of my life.

SO, AS IT turned out, Blake Greyfield was real.

Very real, according to the internet.

In Lark’s journal she’d mentioned that Blake played soccer for Rathbourne Academy. But she’d failed to mention that Blake Greyfield was his high school’s soccer team. The guy had received more awards, more accolades, more offers than an eighteen-year-old David Beckham. And because he was that good, he had more press write-ups than probably any high school athlete ever. Naturally, this was excellent for me—it made him incredibly easy to Google.

Of course, as with any good fairytale, Lark’s prince was every bit as gorgeous as she’d claimed—maybe even more so. His bright green eyes sparkled on my computer screen. His ever-present smile was infectious. And unlike the typical son-of-money-smirk, there was something sweet and kind in his expression.

In addition to articles about Blake’s soccer prowess, I found pictures of him in Rathbourne’s online yearbook and a brief blurb about some charity event he’d attended with his parents. It wasn’t hard to understand why Blake appealed to Lark. He was like her and her crowd, but…not. He knew her world, but only orbited the small sphere of massive influence that surrounded Lark.

Blake was, as Lark put it, ‘new money’. His last name didn’t open doors to exclusive clubs and organizations. No Ivy League institution had a library or sports complex paid for by his ancestors. Although his school, Rathbourne, was in the top ten private high schools according to all the lists, it had only opened its doors in 1976. Conversely, Gracen—Lark’s alma mater—had celebrated its centennial anniversary in the late ‘90s.

Further digital snooping revealed that Blake’s father, Henry Greyfield, was a prominent and well-respected architect who traced his humble beginnings back to the Midwest. His mother was—yes, she worked, gasp!—the proprietor of an art gallery SoHo. Since she hadn’t cured cancer, performed surgery blindfolded, or scored the game-winning goal in a World Cup match, the internet had little else to say about Emma Greyfield.

After everything I found, I decided that I liked the Greyfields. Their way of life didn’t appear as foreign to me as Lark’s and her friends—the Elite Eight. They seemed more like a normal family who probably just took better vacations and dined at better restaurants than most.

Most importantly, nothing, not one digital breadcrumb, linked Lark Kingsley and Blake Greyfield. Considering that both were mentioned frequently in one capacity or another, it was an extremely impressive feat. But Lark was nothing if not careful, and had been just as efficient about covering her tracks with him as she was at hiding secrets and clues for me.

Interestingly, I did stumble across several mentions of Lark’s involvement with another guy: Adam Ridell. He was the cookie-cutter prep school boy that I’d seen pictured in the Washington Post article about Lark’s disappearance. Photos of the duo showed a beautiful couple with matching good looks and an air about them that left no doubt that they were people who mattered. In the prom picture, the one in the article, Adam gazed upon Lark as only a guy in love does. The rest of the photos I found online were candid, with no posing, no camera-ready smiles, and they told a very different story. Their body language was all wrong for teenagers in love. The pair was obviously very close, but I had a very strong suspicion that romance played no part in whatever relationship existed between the diamond heiress and the Senator’s son.

Though it wasn’t important enough to get sidetracked with now, at some point I needed to go through Lark’s journal and look for Adam’s name.

After spending several hours perusing the internet, my eyes were beginning to ache and the persistent pounding in my head returned. I considered putting the cyber-stalking aside for the night and doing something mindless, like playing WordHero on my phone. But there were a couple more hits left, articles I had yet to look at, and I was desperate to accomplish something productive before the day was over.

It had definitely been a busy one, between finding the claim ticket, trooping to Larry’s Pawn for the safety deposit box key, and discovering the box itself with the mysterious envelope addressed to Blake. Except, none of that actually progressed my search for Lark. As Asher so indelicately pointed out, none of the clues so far gave any indication to her whereabouts.

Was it possible that this entire treasure hunt was supposed to culminate here, with me sending Blake this package? So that…what? So that he could go find her?

That theory didn’t sit right with me. For one, Lark was a smart girl. There were certainly better, easier, more guaranteed ways to send Blake the envelope. Two, I still hadn’t solved all the clues yet. So far, I hadn’t found a combination lock or password protected site that ‘whistleblower’ unlocked. And I wasn’t finished with the journal yet. Lark had planted one clue in there. Maybe there was another? And last, but certainly not least, there was the passport with my name and picture, along with two cards bearing my name. If my sole purpose on this journey was to get the envelope to Blake, forged documents wouldn’t have been necessary.

You could just open the envelope and see what’s inside for yourself, the devil on my shoulder whispered.

If Lark had wanted you to read the contents, she would have left you instructions to do so, the angel on my other shouldered countered.

“Well, damn,” I muttered. “Choices, choices.”

Of course, I desperately wanted to know what was inside that envelope. And yet, I also desperately didn’t want to know.

What can I say? I’m complex like that.

The missing girl had let me into her life, showed me what it truly felt like to be Lark Kingsley. She’d shared Blake with me. The fears and pressures thrust upon her by a woman who would never win mother of the year. The father that she deeply revered and worried that she would never impress. The people whom she called friends, yet knew her no better than the doorman to her family’s Manhattan digs. Most of all, she’d asked me for help.

Me.

Not Blake.

Which made the fact that there was now something she wanted to hide from me all the more curious.

Torn between the devil and the angel, I toyed with the clear, plastic tape holding the flap on the back of the envelope closed.

Is it so wrong to want a look?

“Finish your search,” I ordered myself. “Then you can return to contemplating your moral ambiguity.”

With that need for progress driving me, I returned my attention to the open laptop in front of me on the coffee table.

The next hit on the list was a brief write-up on ESPN about college soccer.

Wow, I thought. He’s doing so well. That’s incredible—ESPN knows who Blake is.

Scanning the article, I slowed down when I saw a mention of his name. After reading the line once, I had to go back and read it again, confused. Beyond confused.

“Sophomore Blake Greyfield of Georgetown University scored three goals in the season opener against Syracuse.”

Sophomore Blake Greyfield?

No, that wasn’t right. Blake should be a freshman. He was the same age as Lark. He’d been a senior at Rathbourne when she was a senior at Gracen. I was sure of it. And yet, this article claimed that Blake was a Sophomore when he’d only graduated high school three months ago.

Typo, I told myself, brushing off the detail.

The reporters who covered college soccer weren’t exactly known for Pulitzer-Prize-winning journalism. Or maybe it wasn’t a typo. It was always possible that Blake had enough AP credits to technically be considered a sophomore. A number of my high school classmates left our academic halls with at least one semester, if not two, of college credits under their belts.

That’s definitely what it is, I decided.

The pounding behind my eyes was steadily increasing. Spots of light began dancing at the edges of my vision and I went in search of the aspirin in the bathroom medicine cabinet. After swallowing two capsules with a handful of water from the faucet, I decided to call it a night.

On the way back to the bedroom, I gave one last longing glance towards the living room where the envelope lay on the couch next to my laptop. After a brief moment of hesitation, I continued on, leaving the seal intact.

“Tomorrow,” I announced to the empty apartment, “I’m heading over to Georgetown. I’m going to find Blake myself.”

Before that moment, I hadn’t considered really going to track down Blake in the flesh. Cyberstalking was one thing. Actual stalking was just plain creepy.

Except, I wasn’t doing it to be creepy—I was searching for his girlfriend.

Plus, I had no intention of making contact with Lark’s mysterious boyfriend. It was just an urge that overcame me with no warning: I wanted to see him in person. Because Lark was so descriptive of her feelings and their time together in her journal, I felt…I felt like I knew him. Which, yes, was obviously a little weird. But my entire life was so far past weird at this point, I couldn’t stop to worry about things like that.

So, yeah…I’m going to do this. I’m going to find Blake, I decided.

How to find him among the vast sea of other preppy people in Georgetown—that was going to take some thought.

Tomorrow, I’d worry about that tomorrow.

Unfortunately, no stroke of genius occurred while I was sleeping. On the plus side, I woke up in the same place I fell asleep—my bed—and didn’t have to spend my first waking moments confused, followed by an all-out panic. So, that was refreshing. Until the night I found the butterfly necklace in my car, it had been years since the last time I’d sleepwalked. Attempting to brush it off, I told myself it was stress. That I was stressed over finding Lark, but also stressed over devoting all of my time and energy to an activity that was above my pay grade when I wasn’t even getting paid. When I should have been finding a job and concentrating on building a life for myself.

Deciding a little fresh air might give me a new perspective on the situation, I took my laptop and the Lark files to the nearest Starbucks for an overpriced cup of strong coffee and free WiFi. But even once I was wedged in between a woman with a double stroller and a truant teenager, I still had no clue how best to find Blake.

On the one hand, I felt pretty certain that I’d recognize him once I saw him. But then again, going to Georgetown’s campus, wandering aimlessly, and hoping to stumble across Lark’s boyfriend didn’t seem the surest of plans. Given the size of the campus and number of students, success with that strategy was about as likely as wandering around Rome and happening upon the Pope. Not bloody likely. No, I needed a more concrete plan of attack.

Taking a gulp of my rich peppermint mocha for good luck, I opened my laptop. The Google search I’d done the night before was still up on my browser, and I clicked one of the links at random. Unsure of what to do next, I stared blankly at my screen, now on Georgetown University’s homepage. It showed an eclectic mix of students sitting in a lecture hall, attention focused on the former First Lady standing at the front of the room.

After staring at it for so long that I was lucky I hadn’t burned a hole in the screen, the picture gave me an idea. AP classes and credits replaced the Gen. Ed. Classes required of freshmen. Since Blake was apparently a sophomore, he’d likely be taking classes specific to his major. If I could figure out his major, all I had to do was sit outside that building or section of campus or whatever, and wait for Blake to show up.

Admittedly, it wasn’t the greatest plan devised—Lark was the mastermind, not me. But it was also all I could think of just then, so it’d have to do.

Next to me, one of the children in the double stroller let out an earsplitting wail. The sudden noise made me jump, and I fought the urge to cover my ears to preserve my hearing for future use. The children’s mother must have noticed my reaction because she was quick to offer an apology.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “The twins are usually so well-behaved in public. This place,” she made a small circle with her index finger meant to encompass the entire chain coffee shop, “is a little overwhelming for them. Especially little Evie.”

The woman beamed with pride as she bent down and swept a tuft of unruly dark hair from her daughter’s forehead.

“Johan is usually my little troublemaker,” she added.

The tiny toddler, Johan, cooed at the mention of his name, then reached a pudgy arm over and placed it around his sister.

Unable to help myself, I grinned. The twins were adorable. Watching them interact tugged at my heartstrings. For as long as I could remember, I’d desperately wanted a sibling. Someone to share not just life’s ups and downs, but things like family vacations and Christmas morning. Someone who loved me, even when she didn’t like me. Someone who wasn’t my parents.

Was that why I felt so close to Lark? Reading her journal gave me a perspective on her life that even her closest friends didn’t have. It created a bond between us that few ever shared with another person. Despite all the odds, I knew the real Lark. Her insecurities, her worries, her secrets.

When this was all over, would we become friends?

Would I share with her all of the parts of me that I hid from the rest of the world?

The woman sitting next to me blew on her coffee, worry darkening her gaze. She shifted in her seat, and I realized that she was waiting for me to say something.

“It’s no bother,” I said, waving off the woman’s apology. And then for good measure added, “They’re really adorable.”

The mother swelled with maternal pride, the slight blush of embarrassment that had crept into her cheeks disappearing.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

With one last smile at the twins, I returned my attention to the search for Blake. Still at a loss, I browsed several more articles about his soccer matches at Georgetown. The write-ups were impersonal, mentioning little beyond his position—center midfield—and stats. Even the one interview I stumbled across failed to list a major or hint at where he spent his free time.

Feeling defeated, I clicked over to Georgetown’s athletic department page in a last-ditch attempt to learn something that might help me find Blake on a campus of nearly eight thousand. And finally struck gold. The elite university’s soccer team practiced at six p.m. daily, at the stadium on Hoya Drive.

Yahtzee! I thought, faith in my sleuthing abilities renewed. Maybe after this was all over, I really would open a PI business. Solving a case like this—saving a missing diamond heiress—would definitely give me street cred.

Glancing at the digital clock in the bottom right hand corner of my laptop screen, I was surprised to find that it was already just after noon.

Wow, where had the morning gone?

There were still five hours to kill before Blake’s scheduled practice time. Which meant I had just over five hours to work up enough courage to spy on Lark’s boyfriend.

Part of me was excited—giddy, even—at the thought of seeing Blake Greyfield in real life. Not that I had any reason to feel that way. It wasn’t like I was the one he’d be over the moon to reunite with—I was well aware of that fact and not harboring any delusions otherwise. And yet, I still felt jittery with anticipation.

Conversely, there was also a part of me that dreaded seeing Blake. And I did understand that feeling. Now that I’d confirmed Blake’s existence, my heart broke for him.

What must he have gone through since she’d vanished?

What must he still be going through?

Even if his love for Lark was a mere shadow of her love for him—doubtful, after everything I’d read—the guy must be in agony over her disappearance. Worrying constantly about her safety. When I saw him, would I really be able to keep all I knew inside? Didn’t Blake have a right to know that Lark hadn’t just decided she was done with him and taken off? That there was someone or something out to harm her? Whether it was because she’d been kidnapped or…hurt because of it, or that she’d run away to save herself, Lark’s disappearance wasn’t her choice. Her choice was Blake. To be with him, no matter the consequences. That’s what she’d wanted and had been planning for—to move to DC to be with him.

But, did he know that?

If I were Blake, would I want to know?

Too many questions, too few answers.

One thing I knew for sure: Asher was so not coming along to watch me stalk Blake. For that matter, it was probably best if I didn’t even divulge what I was going to do. Given my neighbor’s protective instincts where I was concerned, it would just cause a problem.

With my plan in place, I packed up my things and started walking home from Starbucks. Just as I began devising excuses to ditch him for the evening, lady luck paid me a visit. To my utter astonishment and immense relief, eluding Asher for the evening was ridiculously simple, only requiring a brief textual exchange:

Asher: Got plans tonight?

Me: Nothing special.

Asher: I have class until 7:30. Wanna do a late dinner around 8:30?

Me: Sounds good. I’ll buy.

That earned me a smiley face from him, matching the one spread across my own features.

In truth, I felt bad lying to Asher. He’d been nothing but kind and caring and helpful since our very first encounter.

I’ll tell him all about it over dinner, I decided, appeasing my conscience. I mean, maybe. Probably. Possibly. Who am I kidding? That’s totally unlikely.

Since I wasn’t going to speak to Blake, it wasn’t like I’d learn any new or vital information that would help us find Lark. Besides, Asher might think I was nuts for going to find the guy from a stranger’s diary. I didn’t want or need my only friend in D.C. questioning my mental stability.

****

After a couple hours of mundane distractions, I was nervously awaiting the time to head over to Georgetown. In true creeper fashion, I listened at my door for the sound of Asher leaving for his evening class. Then, I waited while fifteen long, agonizing minutes ticked away before I, too, exited the Gibson Street row home. Once in my car, I punched the address for Georgetown’s stadium into my GPS. It was a little before five o’clock, and the GPS had my ETA at 5:08 p.m. That gave me about an hour to find public parking, and hoof it to the stadium. Assuming parking in Georgetown was as bad, if not worse, than everywhere else in the city, I might need every spare minute.

Of course, once I reached the cobblestoned streets of the posh district, I found that it was definitely as bad. Way worse, in fact. Unable to find anything closer, I had to park in a residential neighborhood set three blocks back from the mini shopping mecca and bar scene that Georgetown was known for. And a lot farther from the stadium.

The evening was cooler than the previous few, though I was still comfortable in my wine-colored J. Crew shorts and white t-shirt. If my calculations were correct—though I was, admittedly, directionally challenged—it would be a ten-block walk through streets filled with tidy townhouses and luxury sports cars. Stretching my legs felt good, and the walk went a long way toward burning off the nervous energy coursing through my veins.

The envelope I’d found at the bank was in my messenger bag, the weight of it causing my shoulder to ache after only a few blocks. Maybe I should’ve put it in the outgoing mail first thing that morning. Or at two, when I heard the mailman downstairs. Or stopped at a post office on my drive over to Georgetown. Or in the numerous public blue boxes I passed on my walk to the stadium.

But I didn’t.

It wasn’t that I didn’t have every intention of mailing it—I did. I was definitely going to send the envelope to Blake. Most likely, it would still be unopened when I did. Because, of course, reading mail meant for another was wrong. In the last twenty-four hours, I’d told myself that over and over again. It was just that, unfortunately, burning curiosity was a powerful moral inhibitor.

I just need to see Blake first. Then I’ll feel better about mailing him the envelope, I kept telling myself.

Just call me the master of stall techniques.

Finally, there I was. Standing outside the entrance to Georgetown’s stadium just before quarter to six. Though it seemed highly unlikely that Blake would have any idea who I was, I had no interest in being called out as a crazy stalker chick. As such, my face was obscured by oversized sunglasses. And partially hidden behind a pole.

Strangely, I was finding it hard to take deep breaths. Hard to think. Hard to…anything. This felt like such a defining moment. Though I had no idea what line I was about to cross. All I knew was the thump of my heart in my ears overtook all other sounds. The only sight I knew was the front of the stadium. The area leading up to it. The place where I might finally catch a glimpse of Blake Greyfield.

Suddenly, emotion so strong it took my breath away slammed into me. I didn’t just want to see Blake, I needed to see Blake. Needed to lay eyes on the guy who had stolen Lark Kingsley’s heart.

And then the man, the myth, the Blake Greyfield walked towards the entrance gate. I held my breath and sent up two simultaneous prayers. One that he would look in my direction so I could see his face head on. And another that his attention would remain focused on his two companions.

Earlier, I’d decided where to wait for him with as much strategy as I could muster. My location was near enough to the entrance that I would see Blake, but not so near as to be obviously lurking around it like I was waiting for someone. As bits of conversation drifted my way, I felt satisfied with my decision. Until Blake and his teammates veered off course.

They moved farther from the entrance gate and closer to where I stood—right next to an unmarked door that I’d stupidly assumed led to a closet or something. Instantly, my lungs felt tight from lack of oxygen. Reminding myself to breathe was almost more than I can handle. Because I was so totally busted.

“Dude, Rachel is hot. What more do you need to know about her?” one of Blake’s friends was asking him. The guy was the blonde, surfer-type, the kind that belonged in California and a wetsuit.

A sudden urge to punch the kid in his slightly-crooked nose came over me.

An alarm went off in my head, telling me I needed to move, to not allow Blake to pass so closely to me. Briefly warring with the emotion, the same longing feeling I felt earlier flared and, bizarrely, something akin to…envy.

Who was this Rachel chick and why did it matter whether she was hot?

Needing to hear more, I took a step back into the shadows and remained within ear’s shot.

“She’s pretty,” Blake agreed, his tone indifferent.

A fierce pang of jealously caused my stomach to cramp. Blake thought another girl was pretty?

Your girlfriend is missing, you asshat! I wanted to shout the words so badly that I dug my nails into the flesh of my palm to keep from giving in to the urge.

“But I’m not really in the dating mind frame right now,” Blake added.

The words were like a balm to a scorched heart.

The third guy, an exotic mix of dark skin and baby blue eyes, laughed before chiming in. “Umm, from what I understand, Rachel doesn’t exactly date.”

Even worse. Rachel is a hussy. What great friends, throwing skanks at Blake. They suck.

“I’m not in that sort of mind frame either. Going to the mixer with her would be mean when I’m not interested,” Blake insisted.

Exactly. Don’t lead the poor girl on. And don’t forget about the love of your life, while you’re at it.

The three guys were at the door, just ten feet from where I lurked. Err, stood. Caught up in their conversation, my presence didn’t register on their radar.

“Seriously? Come on, Greyfield, have you hooked up with a single girl since coming to college?” Blondie asked as he reached for the door handle.

Yes, Blake, I thought, have you ‘hooked up’ with a girl since coming to college? Have you?

As nuts as everything had become in my life, I was still surprised by the vehement feelings—and um… peculiar thoughts—their conversation was bringing out in me. By how much the thought of Blake with someone other than Lark bothered me. I was truly indignant on her behalf. Secret relationship be damned, that didn’t give him the right to go off and hook up with another girl. There was a nationwide manhunt going on for his girlfriend, for heaven’s sake.

“It’s complicated,” Blake said with a sigh, as if he’d said those same words many, many times. “I’m just…. It’s just…. It’s complicated.”

One by one, the three guys filed through the door, without so much as a glance in my direction.

“Well then could you put in a good word for me?” I heard the blonde guy’s voice ask from somewhere beyond the door. “’Cause to me, it’s pretty simple: a hot girl needs a date to her sorority mixer. Where the alcohol consumption will be high and inhibitions will be low. I’m so there.”

Just before the door clanged shut behind the three boys, I heard Blake’s reply

“She’s all yours, man. She’s all yours.”

A grin spread over my face.

Right answer, Blake.

“ARE WE COOL?”

I held my breath waiting for Adam’s reply.

“Of course,” he replied. Putting his hand on my arm, Adam gave it a gentle squeeze.

The tension between us lessened another notch with his assurance.

“Are you sure? What happened, it must’ve been so weird for you.”

“It wasn’t weird, Lark. I was just worried about you.” Sincerity shone in his caramel eyes, and I had a feeling his words were not simple platitudes meant to make the situation less awkward. “You left without ever saying goodbye. I called, sent texts, and you never replied. I didn’t know what to think and I worried about you.”

“I know and I’m sorry. I can’t begin to imagine how you felt and what you thought. I wanted to call, honestly. My parents, they flipped. Of course. And they…overreacted is a severe understatement, that’s like saying this is a quaint space to have an intimate party. They flipped their shit. Completely lost it, and….”

Lost in a flood of emotions, I didn’t notice Adam had closed the gap between us until his strong arms wrapped around me. The hug was comforting and I laid my head on his chest. He’d grown so much in these last few years, no longer my short, scrawny childhood friend but nearly a full-grown man.

“I didn’t know you called. My mother took my phone. I just figured you didn’t want to see me or talk to me,” I said against his lapel. “I thought you were angry, or humiliated, or…I don’t know. I thought you hated me.”

“Hate you?” Adam scoffed. “Of course I don’t hate you. I missed you. I do miss you.”

Fighting hard against the tears that pricked at my eyes every time I thought of what happened that summer, I recalled exactly why I’d pushed it to the furthest recesses of my mind. I didn’t want to remember.

Squeezing Adam hard, I let his warmth envelope me. His presence had always soothed me when we were younger, like aloe on a sunburn. And I hated my parents a little for cutting him out of my life.

“I missed you, too,” I said sadly.

Giving Adam one last tight squeeze, I drew back from the embrace to take another good look at the boy who’d been my best friend for so long. I smiled up into his caramel eyes, and then frowned. Apparently, our reconciliation had attracted an audience.

Not fifteen feet away stood the Eight, staring at us with blatant interest. Annie was quietly admonishing the others in a failed attempt to give Adam and me our privacy. Slightly worried, I wondered how long they’d been watching me hug a guy who, to them, was a complete stranger.

“Come on, time to meet the crew,” I said, grabbing Adam’s hand and dragging him over to my circle of friends.

“Hey guys! This is Adam,” I called, smile a little too bright, voice a little too cheery.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Annie said, the first to step forward. She sounded overly enthusiastic, and her cheeks were flushed—she obviously took more shots in my absence. She offered Adam her hand. “I’m Annie.”

“Nice to meet you, Annie,” Adam said, shaking her hand and shooting her that effortless smile of his that always put people at ease.

“Alistair, pleasure to meet you, mate.” Alistair stepped forward, straightening up to his full height so he was eye-level with the unknown guy. “Can’t say we’ve heard much about you, though,” he continued.

“I know,” I said, interjecting before the manly chest thumping went any further. “I’m just full of secrets.”

“Well I, for one, am just thrilled to finally meet you!” Camilla exclaimed, leaning in to brush a kiss on Adam’s cheek. “I simply can’t fathom why our Lark has been keeping you all to herself.”

Adam’s smile never faltered, but he shot me a sidelong questioning look. I shrugged, as if to say, “Alcohol, it does funny things to people.”

The twins and Ilan took their turns shaking his hand, with Everett pumping Adam’s hand a little too hard and Barrett making a point to stare down his nose at the newcomer.

Rolling my eyes dramatically at the ridiculous display of male posturing, I was just glad Adam didn’t feel the need to reciprocate.

“Okay, peacocks, stand down,” Annie ordered, punctuating her words with glares all around. She turned back to me. “We’re just excited you brought him. Err, well…that Adam came tonight!”

“Yeah, I’m really glad he came, too,” I agreed.

“How do you know Lark—Allan, was it?” Alistair interjected.

“It’s Adam. And that’s a long story,” Adam replied, shifting from one foot to the other and showing the first sign of discomfort since our initial encounter.

“I’ve got all night,” Alistair said.

I began to wonder if introducing Adam to my friends had been a huge mistake. The initial testosterone-fueled antics aside, my guy friends were good people. I got it, they wanted to make sure my “friend” was worthy of me, but Alistair had been throwing back liquor drinks all night and his tone was verging on hostile.

“It’s not a very interesting story,” I said before Adam had the chance to answer Alistair.

“I’d still like to hear it.”

“Ally,” Annie hissed. “Stop. Seriously.”

Camilla stepped forward. “Ignore him, Adam, our British friend is just drunk.” She held out her hand. “I’m Cam, by the way.” Adam and Cam shook hands, and then Cam turned to me. “I’m gonna be totally honest here, Lark. Since you’ve keeping this guy a secret, I figured he had like a growth on his face or something. Or, you know, was more fling and less cha-ching, like our buddy Andrew over there. I’d totally spend the hours between midnight and four a.m. with him, but as far as boyfriends go, yeah, he wouldn’t make the cut.”

The waiter in question, Andrew, was approaching again with another tray full of crystal champagne flutes and whiskey tumblers. But, thankfully, was still far enough away that he didn’t hear Cam’s comment.

“He’s not? Could’ve fooled me,” Alistair muttered into his vodka glass.

Enough was enough. I’d put Adam into this situation, naively assuming my friends were adults and could be civil at the very least. Apparently, I was wrong. And my guy friends’ maturity levels weren’t the only thing I’d been wrong about, I hadn’t realized that all my friends would assume Adam was my secret boyfriend. Outside of Annie, I wasn’t even aware my friends knew I had a secret boyfriend.

Time to clear up the misunderstanding.

“Adam and I are—What I mean to say is, Adam isn’t—” As I fumbled for a way to explain our relationship, Adam slipped his arm around my waist and pulled me to his side.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. We were going to tell our parents tonight anyway, we might as well tell your friends the truth, too,” Adam said, his voice confident and his grin wide.

For a moment, I just gaped at my old friend. Seriously? He wanted to play with my friends? Amusement danced in Adam’s caramel eyes as he gazed down at me like a man in love. Oh yeah, he totally wanted to play with my friends.

I managed a small laugh, a nod and shrug of my shoulders, in that order. Apparently that was all the confirmation the Eight needed. Yes, Adam’s proclamation was a little insane, but also quite funny, so I let the charade continue.

The girls started asking questions about us, the guys started asking about him, and Adam handled it all with dignity, grace, and, most importantly, a straight face. Feeling equal parts relief and guilt, I stood there with Adam’s arm around my waist, listening to my supposed boyfriend talk about our fabled romance.

After several moments of make believe, I excused myself, needing an escape from the madness, if even just for a minute. Annie and Taylor asked if I wanted company—Cam was chatting with Andrew the waiter. I declined the offer. Unlike Adam, who was spouting off stories of romantic interludes we’d never had and plans for a future that would never occur, the lies didn’t come so easily to me.

I wound through the crowd on my way to the lobby. Guests called out greetings as I passed, which I returned politely, but didn’t pause to talk. Lost in thought about the strange course the evening was taking—seeing Adam for the first time in four years, him suddenly becoming Blake’s public stand-in—I ran straight into one of the partygoers.

“Excuse me, I’m so sorry,” I mumbled and brushed passed.

Strong fingers caught my wrist and held me in place. Startled, my eyes darted upwards to the masked figure. His gaze was intense and focused solely on me. Nervously, I glanced over my shoulder to see if anyone was paying attention to us, if anyone might swoop in and intervene. For the first time all night, no one seemed to care about me and what I was doing.

I stared pointedly at the fingers gripping my arm as their owner tugged me sharply backwards. Suddenly I was no longer in the vast open space of the lobby, but instead was being dragged down a narrow, dimly lit hallway off to one side. Once in the shadows, the hand at my wrist fell away and an arm wound around my waist from behind, pulling me flush against a hard, lean body. I let out a startled yelp right before a second hand covered my mouth.

His breath, warm against my flushed skin, fanned across my cheek when he leaned down and spoke into my ear. “Don’t make a sound,” he whispered.

My heart hammered against my ribs and I wondered if he could feel it beat against his chest. He pressed me into the wall, his muscular frame concealing my much smaller form should anyone else venture down this way.

“Nod if you understand,” he insisted.

Slowly, with deliberate precision, I bobbed my head up and down.

“Good.”

The hand at my waist spun me until I faced forward, spine now pressed into the wall behind me. My eyes were wide and chills ran from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. He held one finger up to his own lips, reminding me of my promise to remain silent, then let the hand covering my mouth fell away. Bending down, so close that our masks were touching, he murmured, “Who knew you’d be so difficult to kidnap?”

SINCE LURKING IN the shadows was super creepy and all, I didn’t linger long outside the stadium. Just long enough to catch one more glimpse of Blake as he joined his team on the field and began stretching.

I really did want to see Blake’s soccer skills in action. After all, he was supposedly one of the best players that Georgetown had recruited in years. But there wasn’t anywhere inside the stadium to sit where I’d go unnoticed. And being the lone spectator in a large, empty stadium wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. Besides, I needed to get back before Asher returned from class, with dinner in hand.

Not today, I decided, a little disappointed.

As I began walking away from Blake and the soccer stadium, a thought struck me and I paused. There were no more reasons left. I’d confirmed that Blake Greyfield was a real person. That he did, in fact, attend Georgetown University. And now I’d seen him in person. I was officially out of excuses.

It was time to give Lark’s envelope to Blake.

With another glance back at the figures on the soccer field, now running speed drills, I wondered if using the mail was even necessary. He was right there. Sneaking into the locker room and leaving the envelope with Blake’s things was a viable option. Entering a guy’s locker room, however, did not, sound appealing. Who knew what I might see? Ugh, or worse, smell.

Gross boy hygiene aside, I had to be honest with myself—I still felt torn about the fate of the envelope. But…why?

Lark wanted him, not you, to have whatever was inside, my angel reminded me.

Maybe then she should have sent him on this snipe hunt, my devil countered.

And there it was. The reason for not wanting to part with the envelope. If she’d trusted me with her life, with her fate, if she’d put her full faith in me, to make me the only person who could find out who or what happened to her on that critical day…what didn’t she trust me with? What was within the envelope that Blake could know, and not me? Was the answer to the most burning question contained within the manila sides?

Why me?

Maybe. Or maybe it’s something personal.

Either way, I decided with a sigh, walking up to the blue mailbox on the corner outside the stadium, it doesn’t make a difference.

When I started following Lark’s clues and reading her journal, I’d done so because she needed help. By not going to the authorities, I’d agreed to discover the truth about her disappearance. Sure, it wasn’t a legally binding contract or anything. But I felt bound to Lark. And if she wanted Blake to have the information in that envelope, then I was going to make sure that happened.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Lark,” I muttered as the heavy manila envelope thunked into the mailbox.

Pizza was both cheap and easy. A Little Slice of Pie, a pizza shop on 7th Street, had high reviews on Yelp and a small parking lot for patrons. Setting my phone to the speaker option, I placed the order while I drove out of Georgetown, so that it would be ready when I arrived. When the guy on the other end of the receiver put me on hold while he rang up my order, an idea flashed through my mind.

It was risky. And I had no idea what Lark’s intention was. If there was a single, specific purpose for the item she’d left, Lark hadn’t made me aware of it. Since my name was on the card, and there weren’t instructions, was I supposed to assume she was offering to cover my expenses while I searched for her? For that matter, was it even valid? Or was it as fake as the passport bearing my name?

“Sorry about that, miss,” the deep male voice said, cutting off the smooth jazz hold music. “Your total is $14.72. Will that be cash or charge?”

Still unsure, I took a deep breath, wild thoughts bouncing through my mind.

“Charge, please,” I finally said, practically mumbling the words.

“What’s your card number?” the pizza man asked.

As I slowly read him the numbers from the debit card I’d found in the safe, I told myself that I at least needed to find out if it was the real deal.

“One moment,” he responded, ostensibly punching in the numbers and pressing enter.

Terrified that it might set off some sort of alarm or trigger a pack of hellhounds, I held my breath, anxious to see whether the payment would go through.

“Alright, give us fifteen minutes, miss. If you pull into one of the pickup parking spaces, we’ll bring it out to your car.”

A bark of relieved laughter bubbled up in my throat.

“Th-thanks,” I stuttered.

When I get home, I totally need to figure out how much money is in this account, I thought.

Not long after, the pizza box was riding shotgun as I pulled to a stop in front of the Gibson Street apartment. With uncanny timing, Asher was just walking up the front steps. I honked my horn to get his attention. At first, when Asher turned, alarm filled his big brown eyes. But when he saw it was me beeping at him, a grin broke out across his face and he waved.

“Hey, sorry I’m running so late,” Asher called as I got out of the car.

Glancing towards the clock on my car’s dashboard, I saw it was just after 9 p.m.

Forcing a bright smile, I called back to him across the street. “No worries! The pizza place was packed, it took forever.” But I felt nauseated by the lie.

Doing quick mental calculations, I realized that it wasn’t all adding up. Since I hadn’t loitered for long after Blake’s practice started, I’d left the stadium at a little after six. The walk back to my car couldn’t have taken more than thirty minutes, tops. Driving across town had probably taken another thirty with all the rush hour traffic. But I’d waited less than five minutes outside of A Little Slice of Pie. From there, it was less than two miles to Gibson Street.

So…where had the rest of the time gone?

“What’s wrong?” Asher asked, immediately sensing that something was off with my mood.

“Nothing. Nothing,” I assured him. “Traffic just sucks. I mean, it took me like an hour to go two miles.”

Asher laughed.

“Yeah, that’s D.C. for you. Here, I’ll take that.”

Handing over the pizza box, I trailed Asher up to my apartment. There was no discussion over the dinner venue; it seemed a given that we’d eat at my place. A small part of me wondered if the decision had to do with my little invasion of privacy act, when I’d looked at his mail from Kim.

We ate on my couch with The Big Bang Theory playing for background noise. Between bites of cheesy goodness, I told Asher that I’d mailed the package to Blake.

“So you looked him up then? He’s real?” Asher asked.

“As real as you and I,” I confirmed. “And he’s definitely a student at Georgetown. I found him on their website. He’s like a soccer phenom or something.”

“What do you think the odds are that the school actually gives him the package? Sending it to Student Services seems sort of risky, you know?”

“Now you tell me,” I groaned.

The point Asher had just brought up was not one I’d considered, and my attention was quickly diverted to the potential pitfall.

“Raven?”

What were the odds Blake would actually get the envelope? And if he didn’t, where did that leave Lark? Would I be able to find her still? Find out what happened to her? What if the contents of that envelope, and Blake receiving them, were somehow the key to all of this?

“Raven?”

When I met Asher’s gaze, I saw concern and uncertainty.

“Lark…,” his voice trailed off and he cleared his throat before starting over. “Lark has been extremely careful to this point. I don’t think she would’ve left Blake receiving that package to chance, if she really wanted him to have it. I’m sure Student Services will make sure it gets to him. Okay?”

Though the idea still made me uneasy, Asher had a point. Lark was nothing if not cautious.

“You’re right. Sorry. I’ve just been really on edge these past couple of days. We’ve found so many things, but there’s still so much left, so many unanswered questions.”

Asher set his plate with a half-eaten slice of pizza down, then took mine and set it beside his. He scooted closer to me on the couch and took my hands in his.

“We’re going to get to the bottom of this, okay? Trust me. I can’t imagine how weird this is for you,” Asher promised, his voice low and husky.

“Weird is a huge understatement,” I said, feeling oddly close to tears for some reason.

Looking down, I focused my attention on my lap to keep Asher from seeing the pools building in my eyes.

“Raven?” Asher asked uncertainly. “Look at me, Raven.”

Finally I met his gaze. And then, my lips were on his. Asher’s hands were around my waist, making their way up my back.

Two lips across mine. Ten fingers down my spine. No space between us.

The words popped into my head unbidden. I jumped back, as if Asher’s touch was electric. Through wide, watery eyes, I saw my own shocked expression mirrored in Asher’s face.

What the hell had I just done?

“NOW THAT YOU have me, what do you plan on doing with me?” I asked, playing coy.

Blake’s deep, rumbling laughter echoed in the dark hallway, filling me with warmth and love. Emerald eyes shone with amusement from behind his black mask, several sable locks of his silky hair curled around the edges. Reaching up to cup his cheek with one hand, I used the other to push the mask up onto the top of his head. His hands were untying the ribbons holding my own mask in place. And then, Blake’s mouth was on mine and it was his kiss that filled my heart with love.

Wrapping my arms around his waist, I pulled Blake closer and deepened the kiss. He ran a thumb along my jaw, while the fingers of his free hand toyed with one strap of my dress. Tendrils of liquid fire licked every inch of skin that Blake caressed.

Wishes do come true, I thought.

Voices from the far end of the hallway, closest to where the party—my party—was still in full-swing, drifted down to where we stood, wrapped around each other.

“I don’t think this is where the bathrooms are,” slurred a female voice.

“The bathroom? I thought we were looking for the coat check,” a second woman replied.

The click of high-heels faded as the two women retreated.

Gently, I pushed Blake away from me, fully aware that we’d come incredibly close to being caught. Breathless, we broke apart.

“Happy birthday, love,” Blake whispered.

Overjoyed as I was at his unexpected appearance at my party, I knew that dragging me into this hallway was reckless.

“Blake! You scared the shit out of me!” I admonished with a swat to his chest.

He caught my wrist and brought my hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss on my palm. “Really? You didn’t know it was me?” Blake asked playfully.

“I did,” I admitted. “Of course I did. It’s just—what are you doing here?”

The light in his eyes dimmed a little. Worried I hurt his feelings, I hurried to add, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy you’re here.”

“Yeah?” Blake threaded his fingers through mine. “Just happy?” His lips brushed briefly across mouth, before trailing kisses along my jaw, up to my ear. “More like ecstatic, I’d say. I’m going to have to kidnap you more often.”

A low moan escaped my lips and I trembled slightly as Blake nuzzled my neck.

“Are you cold? Do you want my jacket?” he murmured against my skin.

“You know good and well that my chills have nothing to do with being cold,” I managed to say.

“That I do.”

I let my head fall back against the wall as Blake’s lips returned to mine. The kiss that followed was the best present that anyone had given me all night. It was tender and demanding, passionate and loving, hungry and gentle, all at the same time.

When we broke apart, I sighed contentedly. “Best. Birthday. Ever,” I declared.

Blake laughed. “Good. That was what I was going for,” he said. “Seriously, I am sorry if I scared you. I figured you’d know it was me, even with the mask.”

“I did.” Touch feather-light, I traced the contours of his face with my fingertips. “I’d know you anywhere.”

He closed his eyes and grinned.

In my heels, it wasn’t much of a stretch to place a kiss on his cheek, right beside his ear, and whisper, “You didn’t answer my question, though. So I’ll ask it again: Now that you have me, what are you going to do with me?”

With an insistence he rarely showed with me, Blake moved his hands to my hips and pulled me into him. Running my fingers from the taut muscles of his chest down to the chiseled washboard of his stomach, I thanked the soccer gods for his perfect physique. Embolden by the liquor I’d consumed and the thrill of doing something so naughty right under my mother’s nose, my fingers traveled lower and tugged at the bottom of his dress shirt.

Evidently my touch was doing a little too much for him, because Blake brought his hand up from my hip and covered my own with a groan. I giggled, even though I, too, was disappointed that this was as far as we could go in that hallway.

“Is there a problem?” I asked innocently.

“Only that this moment has to end,” Blake said.

“Who says?” I asked. “Last time I checked, it was my birthday and this was my party.”

“Well then, by all means, your wish is my command,” Blake said, softly running his thumb back and forth across my cheek.

“Have I told you today that you’re perfect?” I asked.

“Today? No, I don’t think so,” he replied, bringing his lips back down to mine. This kiss was soft and sweet and made me melt in an entirely different way than the last.

Suddenly a voice encroached on my bubble of bliss, causing panic to rise in my throat instantaneously.

“Have you seen Lark? It’s 11:40 and she was supposed to blow out the candles on her cake at precisely 11:30. She knew that.”

My mother’s words cut a trail down the hallway, resonating as though they’d come from above and fallen all around me.

“Oh shit, I totally lost track of time. I have to go!” I said, feet already carrying me away from Blake and our perfect time together.

“Hang on,” Blake soothed. “It’s okay, it’s not like you’re late for anything important.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snapped, looking up from where I’d been smoothing my dress.

“Nothing,” he said, giving me a weird look. “Just that it’s not the end of the world.”

“I know,” I said, forcing myself to calm down. “But it is a big deal for her. And she did all of this for me, and I am grateful.”

“Right. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say it wasn’t important, just that it would be okay.” Blake came to stand in front of me. “Are you mad?”

“No,” I replied with a sigh. “Just stressed. Sorry I snapped. But I really do have to go.”

I gave Blake a quick his on the cheek and turned to leave.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay?” he called after me. “I can meet the parents—parents love me, I promise—glad-hand the friends, and we can just get it all out of the way. You’re eighteen, sweetheart. You can do this.”

I spun to face him.

“It’s not about how old I am,” I said bitterly, irrationally annoyed by Blake’s words. “It’s just not a good time,” I finished lamely.

“Is there ever going to be a good time, Lark?” he asked, not bothering to hide his irritation. “Or am I just going to remain your dirty little secret? You know, if I—”

“You are not my dirty little secret!” I exclaimed.

Only three steps separated us, but for the first time in our relationship it felt as though we were a million miles apart. Part of me had worried that this day would come, the day when Blake wanted more than I had to give. But I’d hoped that his patient, caring nature would triumph, and we’d make it down the rocky road together. It wasn’t always going to be like this, our relationship wasn’t destined to be a secret forever. I just needed a little more time.

Closing the physical distance between us, I tried to bridge the emotional one the only way I knew how. “I love you,” I said, laying the palm of my hand against his cheek. “I can’t see a future without you. I don’t want a future without you. My parents, my friends, every single person in this whole building…they don’t matter like you do. I don’t care what they think. That’s not the problem. And I know it’s a lot to ask, but please be patient just a little bit longer.”

“I love you, too.” That was all that Blake said, but I could see him softening. The irritation was gone from his deep green eyes.

“And that’s all that matters,” I said, sealing my words with a meaningful kiss. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I took one more hit of his scent, relishing the calm high it gave me. If Blake was my drug, I wouldn’t be joining NA anytime soon. “I’m sorry, baby, I have to go.”

“I understand, go.” Blake’s smile was thin and pained. He squeezed my hand one last time before I turned to leave, for real this time.

Hurting Blake broke my heart. But it was unavoidable. If we were to have a future together, I needed to keep him separate from my friends and family now. I knew he didn’t understand why and I couldn’t explain it to him. One day he would understand, though. I just prayed that I would be around when that day came, and that all of the heartache would be worth it.

OMG. OMG. OMG.

Shit.

What had I just done?

Asher was long gone, having made some hurried excuse about needing to post an assignment before a ten p.m. deadline. Which, I was positive, didn’t exist. Not that I blamed Asher for turning tail and running for the hills. If I’d been in his position, I would’ve done the same thing. Hell, I would’ve in my position, but seeing as the totally out-of-the-blue-should-not-have-ever-happened kiss took place in my apartment, I was kind of stuck. Unless I’d abandoned him here, which would’ve been even more awkward. Though, in the thirty seconds of stunned silence that followed that damned kiss, I considered it numerous times.

Frantically pacing back and forth in my living room, I tried to work out where the urge to kiss Asher had come from. And why the hell I’d acted on it.

Okay, so Asher was hot. There was no denying that. He was sweet. He was kind and caring and everything else a girl wanted a guy to be. But kissing Asher had felt wrong. Like seriously wrong. Like kissing my uncle wrong. Which would’ve made me feel bad, like I was being unnecessarily harsh, expect I was pretty sure that Asher felt the same way. Although he’d been an active participant in the kiss—surprisingly participative given the fact I’d basically accosted him out of nowhere—once the initial lust or whatever had worn off, he appeared as full of regret as I was.

Good job, Raven—way to alienate your only friend, I thought.

Unaccustomed to dealing with awkward sexual encounters, even those on the vanilla end of the spectrum, I had no idea how to best to handle the situation. Did I go downstairs and talk to him? Explain that our ten second lip-lock had been a mistake? Or should I feign amnesia? If I pretended it hadn’t happened, would Asher do the same?

Sure, the second option was not very mature, but I wasn’t feeling particularly mature. Didn’t being eighteen to his twenty-something give me leeway to be a little childish?

Suddenly, I needed to get out of the Gibson Street apartment. Needed to put more than a floor between me and Asher, if just for the night. Luckily, I had the keys to a posh penthouse apartment with tons of distractions hidden in its depths.

As I threw some clothes into my messenger bag along with my laptop and Lark notes, I worried that Asher might try to follow me. To prevent such an outcome, I went full-on stealth mode with my exit. Easing my front door shut, I winced and held my breath when the lock clicked into place. Creeping down the stairs, my entire being was painfully aware of each creak and groan of the floorboards.

Either my spy skills were greatly improving, or Asher was as reluctant to face me as I was him. Regardless, I made it out to the street without another awkward encounter. Trying to appear cool, calm and collected, in case I was being watched, I made my way over to my car and hopped in. Only once I jammed the key into the ignition and started the car did I hazard a glance over to the building I’d just fled.

When I saw a large silhouette materialize behind the curtains in Asher’s front window, and then fingers curl around the fabric and a face appear in the divide, I realized that twenty-something guys were just as immature as eighteen year old girls. And that made me feel a little bit better.

Twenty minutes later I parallel-parked my car in a spot two blocks from The Pines. Darrell was on duty. The blank look on my face caused enough alarm that the front desk man waved me forward, offering to sign me in so I wouldn’t have to waste the precious ten seconds that it took to scribble my own signature. The small gesture made me feel rather important. And a little lucky, too, since I really didn’t want to waste any time before barricading myself inside Lark’s apartment and immersing my mind in her problems to forget my own.

“Thanks, Darrell,” I called over my shoulder as I breezed by.

“Of course, Ms. Ferragamo,” he replied, tone reverent.

I must be growing on him, I thought with a smile.

Given the late hour, I was hoping Lark’s neighbors would all be tucked inside their apartments. So when Deidre from 10B poked her head out into the hallway, and called, “Yoohoo! Robin?” I jumped and dropped the key I was about to shove in the lock to Lark’s door.

“Sorry,” Deidre said, not sounding sorry at all. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I’m not usually one of those nosy neighbors who sits around waiting for something interesting to happen.”

The way she said it gave me the impression that was exactly the type of neighbor she was.

“But,” Deidre continued, “I thought you might want to know that a young man stopped by your friend’s place a little bit ago.”

A young man? I thought, hackles rising.

Who knew about this apartment? Did Blake know?

“He had his own key,” Deidre was saying. “So I figured he knew y’all. It was just, well, he was a little dodgy if you catch my meaning. Didn’t say two words to us. Sam and me, I mean—we were leaving at the same time he was going in.”

His own key? Who would Lark trust enough to give a key? Only Blake, right? It had to be Blake.

“Do you remember what he looked like?” I asked hopefully.

If Deidre got a good look at the mystery visitor, she’d be able to describe him down to the freckle. She was totally that type of person: nosy.

“Tall. Medium build. He was wearing one of them baseball hats pulled down real low and it pretty well hid his face, so that’s really all I can tell you,” Deidre said apologetically.

Obviously fond of gossip and eager to tell me—and probably anyone who would listen—every last detail about him, I was betting that Deidre was mostly sorry because her own curiosity wasn’t satisfied.

“His hair was probably light brown, if I had to guess. That ball cap mostly covered it, though, so I can’t be certain,” Deidre explained, grasping for details to keep my attention.

Brown hair. Blake had brown hair.

“What time was this?”

Deidre’s blue eyes flitted to the left as she thought about it, and she drew in her plump bottom lip between professionally whitened teeth.

“Hmm, let’s see. Our reservation was for 7:00 at the Oval Room—ever been there? Great date restaurant. Any guy who takes you there has money, trust me on that. Sam and I used to go quite a bit when he was first courting me, but of course now we only go on special occasions. Today is the anniversary of our first date.”

“Happy anniversary,” I said with a forced smile, trying to keep the agitation in my voice to a minimum.

Standing here while Deidre gabbed about her day was the exact opposite of what I wanted to be doing right then. If I didn’t get her back on track soon, I’d be standing there all night listening to her drone on about nonsense I didn’t care about. Already Deidre was rambling on about the fish being a bit too flaky, but Sam’s sirloin was perfection, so then she’d ordered a sirloin, too. Apparently, Deidre only allowed herself red meat on these special occasions because she has to watch her waistline, after all.

The whole time she described their night in minute detail, I kept wondering if these ‘special occasions’ were contrived so she’d have dates to mark in her calendar, to look forward to. Because what married couple celebrated the anniversary of their first date? That was something teenagers did, not adults.

“It’s all downhill after thirty, Robin,” she was saying, still babbling away despite my obvious lack of interest. “Believe you me. Your workouts get longer and your calories get lower. And you can forget carbs. I haven’t eaten—”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I interjected, before this one-sided conversation became any more ridiculous. “So then, what time did you say you saw the guy go into L—the apartment?”

“Right, right.” Deidre laughed. “You’ll have to forgive me. A couple glasses of wine and I turn into a chatty Cathy. Anyway, our reservations were for 7:00, so we must have left here about 6:15.”

“Okay,” I said, this new bit of information throwing me off. “Tha—”

“No, no, wait…let me think a minute,” she continued, as if I hadn’t been speaking. “Nope, it was closer to 6:30. The babysitter was late. I remember now. She gave some excuse about track work on the Red Line causing the metro to run slow. If the girl wasn’t always late—”

“Thank you, Deidre, for telling me about the visitor. I’ll check with my cousin to find out who else has a key.”

“So you don’t know who the young man was?” she plied, overdoing the shock. Deidre’s hunger for a juicy scandal to share with her Mommy-and-Me group or whomever was as transparent as the floor-to-ceiling windows inside the apartment.

“I have a guess,” I said nonchalantly, trying to throw Deidre off the scent. The last thing I needed was to bring attention to Lark’s secret hideout, to make it a source of gossip and speculation among the neighbors.

Though, truth be told, the only “guess” I had was clearly wrong. At 6:30, Blake was still at soccer practice.

“Alrighty then. Well you simply let me know if you need anything at all, I’m just right next door. And I’ll be sure to keep a close eye on the place now. Have a good night, Robin.”

Deidre wiggled her fingers in a friendly wave as she retreated back to her door.

“Deidre?” I called.

She turned around, big blue eyes wide and shiny with anticipation. Apparently she was hoping for even more to add to her story about the mystery visitor next door.

“Yes?”

“It’s Raven,” I said, finally correcting her. “Not Robin.”

Deidre’s tinkling laughter echoed throughout the hallway and her hand moved to cover her heart, as though embarrassed by her gaffe.

“Oh my heavens, I’m so sorry, Raven. I’m such a scatterbrain! I knew it was one of those bird names.”

“Yeah, you got that part right,” I said, my words dripping with sarcasm that I was too tired to suppress.

Wanting this conversation to end so that I could freak out in the privacy of Lark’s apartment, I bent to retrieve the key I’d dropped when Deidre first popped out of her door. After jamming it into the lock, I turned back to her. Deidre was busy listing off all the other names she knew that were also types of birds. Is that seriously happening? I wondered in amazement.

After staring for a moment at the spectacle, I cut her off midway between Heron and Wren—or Ren, if you’d name a little girl Lauren and want to use a nickname instead.

“Goodnight, Deidre. Thanks again for the heads up,” I called over my shoulder, letting the front slam shut behind me.

“Her poor, poor husband,” I muttered to the empty apartment, wondering if she ever allowed him to speak.

More importantly, though, who the hell was in Lark’s apartment? And why?

My body went tense as I suddenly realized how stupid it was for me to have just come waltzing inside without a second thought. Without knowing if the mystery man was still here. Deidre had seen him enter, but said nothing about him leaving. If he’d left. For all I knew, this random guy—whoever he was—was still inside, lurking around.

Shit. What do I do now?

The apartment was dark. Dark and suddenly very creepy. It was possible there was a light on in one of the bedrooms, but I couldn’t tell from where I stood in the entryway. Closing my eyes and concentrating, I listened for any noise at all, some sound that would alert me to an intruder’s presence. The squeak of bedsprings. A drawer sliding shut. Footsteps. Running water in the bathroom. Anything at all to signal that I wasn’t alone. All I heard was the rapid beating of my own heart.

Leave. You should totally leave right now unless you want to be the dumb girl from the horror movie. The girl who runs up the stairs to get away from her attacker, even though that is clearly the worst possible option since there is no way out from the second level. The best case scenario isn’t all that great in that situation, unless a broken leg or neck didn’t bother you. Yeah, that girl always dies first. Don’t be that girl.

But I didn’t leave. I didn’t move a millimeter. My sandals were glued to the floor, spine ramrod straight, both hands clenched around the strap of my messenger bag. The sound of my own breathing was impossibly loud to my ears. Waiting. Waiting….

Don’t just stand here. Make a move. Either grow a pair and go see if there is someone back there, or leave and come back with Asher, I lectured myself.

Asher. The entire reason I’d bolted to the Pines. If I hadn’t deeply regretted the kiss before, I definitely did then. After what happened, I couldn’t ask for his help. Hell, I couldn’t even look at him, much less talk to him.

So not important right now, Raven, I chastised myself. You have much bigger things to worry about.

After standing there, still as a statue, for what felt like hours, I decided to pull my big girl panties on. Taking a deep breath, I slowly eased the strap of my messenger bag over my head. With painstaking care, I gently lowered the bag to the ground near the door. As an afterthought, I moved it quietly to the side, in case I needed to make a run for it. Finally, I slid my feet out of my flip-flops—bare feet made less noise after all.

This is not smart, I thought as I darted towards the kitchen. This is verging on outright stupidity.

Ignoring the nagging voice screaming for me to leave and let someone else clear the apartment, I thought about the situation as rationally as possible while making irrational decisions. If I was going to confront the intruder, I needed to be armed. Since I didn’t exactly roam the streets with a Glock 9 millimeter, nor was I skilled in archery Katniss Everdeen-style, I was going to have to make do with whatever I could find.

Lark had intended to live in the apartment at some point, so the kitchen was stocked with every utensil sold by William Sonoma. Including some very sharp knives. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness and there was just enough light streaming through the partially open blinds that I found the block with no problem. As my fingers closed around the largest of four handles, my mind continued blasting warnings about how incredibly stupid and reckless confronting the mystery guy was.

Curiosity trumped safety, though. I wanted answers. This nonsense had gone on long enough. Someone knew Lark’s whereabouts. Someone knew what had become of her. Someone knew why she’d disappeared. And the guy in possession of a spare key to Lark’s secret apartment might just be that someone.

Knife in hand, positioned over my shoulder as I’d seen people do in the movies, I exited the kitchen and started towards the hallway.

The guy is a friend of Lark’s. He must be. She trusted him with a key, I soothed my internal voice screaming to get out of the apartment.

Heart galloping faster than a Triple Crown winner, I tiptoed down the hallway. The bathroom was directly across from the guest bedroom, both doors ajar. Had I left them that way?

My palm was flat against the door to the guest bedroom when a muffled sound, like something heavy falling onto carpet, came from the back of the apartment.

From Lark’s bedroom.

My next breath caught, sticking in my throat like wad of gum.

A sound somewhere between a yelp and a choking cough escaped my lips.

He, whoever he was, was still here.

Run. Run. Run. Get the hell out of here!

But I’d come too far to chicken out now.

There was no light seeping out from beneath the door to Lark’s bedroom, which meant the guy had heard me come in to the apartment and was hiding. Did that mean he was as scared of me as I was of him? Or was he waiting to ambush me?

Only one way to find out.

Throwing caution out the window, I noiselessly crept down the rest of the hallway. The bedroom door was closed all the way.

Last chance to turn around, my reasonable-self reminded me. You can just go right back out the front door.

No friggin’ way, the part of me that was desperate for answers countered. This is happening.

Wanting not only the comfort of light, but also to be able to see inside once the bedroom door was open, I flipped the switch to turn on the hallway lights.

With my free hand, I steadily turned the knob.

And then, in one fluid motion, I shoved the door open.

“Who are you and what the hell are you doing here?” I screamed as I burst into Lark’s bedroom, slashing the knife wildly in front of me as though it were a machete and I was cutting my way through the Amazon.

My question was met with deafening silence. Stunned, I blinked several times in fast succession. The bedroom was empty.

There is still the adjoining bathroom and the closet, I reminded myself.

But the master bedroom didn’t just appear empty at first glance. It felt empty. I turned on the overhead lights, the recessed bulbs so bright they were an assault on my retinas. Eyes darting erratically from the bed to the open bathroom door to the walk-in closet, I searched for movement through starbursts of light. My heart was in my throat, my breaths were uneven, and my voice shook more than I’d have liked when I called out.

“Hello? Hello? Is there anyone here?”

Yeah, sure, I knew it was silly and cliché, but the adrenaline rush had robbed my brain of witty statements and intelligent quips. I was operating on basic instincts, nothing more.

Again, no one answered my questions—no surprise there.

With the lights on, I had a clear view of the entire room. It appeared empty.

I sighed, relieved. And then had to remind myself that I should still be worried. Even if he was long gone, someone had been in the apartment.

To be safe, I did a sweep of every conceivable nook and cranny where a person could hide, including the ones a full-size guy would have to fold like an accordion to fit in. A nervous giggle escaped my lips and echoed off the bathroom walls when I threw aside the shower curtain to make sure the tub was empty—it felt like I was reenacting the shower scene from Psycho. Haphazardly I tore garments off of their hangers to assure myself that no one was lurking amongst the Vineyard Vines sundresses and Banana Republic pullovers. Kneeling on the floor beneath the clothes, I examined the panel covering the safe. Unfortunately, all the scraps from when Asher and I pried it loose were still laying on the carpet, so it was impossible to tell whether someone else had attempted to do the same. When I flipped up the bed skirt, I half expected a hand to dart out and grab my ankle. But underneath, I found only dust bunnies.

No longer in stealth mode, I turned on every light in the apartment—electricity bill be damned—and performed similar searches in the guest bedroom and second bathroom. Never in my life was I so relieved to come up empty-handed.

After opening every cabinet, the refrigerator, the freezer, and all of the drawers in the kitchen, I was finally satisfied that I was, in fact, alone. Relieved to the point of hysteria, I started to laugh. The short, high-pitched bursts of laughter bounced off the walls and made me feel like the apartment was mocking me.

“Oh come on, someone was in here,” I grumbled, and then felt even sillier for talking to inanimate objects.

Who, though? Who had been in the apartment? That was the $64,000 question. And one I had no clue how to answer.

I’d come to the Pines as an escape, as a way to physically distance myself from Asher. And damned if the childish coping mechanism didn’t work. Though, given the circumstances, facing the guy I’d kissed in a moment of weakness, and possibly lust, seemed the far lesser of two evils.

Now that I was convinced no boogeymen were hiding in Lark’s apartment, however, I was torn as to my next move.

“You’re already here,” I mumbled around the thumbnail I was chewing absently as I paced the living room. The unwanted visitor was unlikely to return tonight, I reasoned. And if he did, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe I would finally get some answers.

All the clues I’d found thus far were in my messenger bag. Before running into Deidre I’d planned on revisiting those clues to look for something I might have missed. But I was no longer interested in pouring over notes and articles that I could recite verbatim. No, now I was intent on uncovering the identity of the visitor. If not Blake Greyfield, then who? Who else had Lark trusted enough to give a key to her apartment?

Now that I was more clearheaded, I took a moment to look around for things out of place. The apartment was just as neat and tidy as I’d left it. The drawers and cabinets in the kitchen were only askew because I’d opened every last one in my search for the intruder. The clothes in the walk-in were only piled into a heap on the closet floor because I’d tossed them there. Nothing was amiss. Except….

The noise. The thump that came from Lark’s bedroom, the one that led me back there in the first place. What fell?

Sans butcher knife, I returned to the master bedroom. Standing in the doorway, I scanned the room, just as I’d done earlier. This time I wasn’t looking for a person, but rather an object. Something had to be out of place. My gaze zeroed in on the culprit immediately. A book was laying on the floor next to the bed. It was so obviously not right that it was a wonder I’d missed it before.

Kneeling down, I retrieved the book of Sudoku puzzles. Last I was able to recall, it had been on the bedside table. It wasn’t the only item, either. The manila envelope from the safe with the passport had fallen, as well.

Had I left them so close to the edge? Or had the visitor been looking at the contents?

I picked up both the envelope and the puzzle book and sat on the bed. The passport was still inside the envelope, just where I’d left it. Neither the bank card nor the credit card was there, but that was to be expected since I’d placed both in my wallet earlier.

Absently, I thumbed through the pages of the passport, ticking off all the reasons someone might be interested in the forged document. To learn my identity?

If Lark confided in one of her friends, maybe he knew about me? Maybe he knew that Lark asked for my help? Except, wouldn’t she have told him my name, too?

Ugh, no that didn’t make any sense.

Every muscle in my body suddenly froze, an unsettling realization causing temporary paralysis. The claim ticket. What if the guy had been looking for the claim ticket to Larry’s Pawn? That ticket was a stepping stone to the safety deposit box with the envelope addressed to Blake. Perhaps I wasn’t the only one following clues that Lark had left behind. Maybe this guy had found another apartment key in a train locker. Or his glove box. Or even under a freaking rock.

Was it possible?

Lark was careful—a planner and plotter worthy of her own detective show. I’d wondered before how a girl like that could leave so much to chance. Now I considered that maybe she hadn’t left anything to chance. Maybe the guy Deidre had seen entering the apartment was the Hardy Boy to my Nancy Drew. If I found him, we could work together. Two heads being better than one and all that.

How to find him, though.

While I pondered that conundrum, I flipped through the Sudoku book without really paying attention to the puzzles, except to note that they were all completed. Apparently Lark kept her mastermind skills sharp by obsessively playing number games.

“Think, Raven. Who did Lark trust? You have her journal for heaven’s sake.”

The journal.

If I was a cartoon character, a light bulb would have just appeared above my head. Lark’s journal was documentation of the last year or so of her life. She wrote about school, parties, the Elite Eight, Blake, her parents. If not Blake, then maybe mystery guy was one of the Eight?

Worth a shot, I told myself, ignoring the nagging voice in the back of my head reminding me that I was not one of the people Lark mentioned in her journal. At least, not yet. But I hadn’t read the entire journal.

A wave of cold washed over me as I considered the possibility that eventually I might stumble across my own name in Lark’s journal. That, in the lines of looping scrawl, I’d learn the answer to the question that bothered me almost as much as Lark’s disappearance. Why she, a girl with so much, asked me, a girl with so little, for help. My hands began to tremble and I dropped the Sudoku book. Surprised, I stared down at my shaking fingers.

What the hell is wrong with you? I wondered. Don’t you want to know how she chose you? Why she chose you?

“Of course,” I said firmly, answering my own question aloud. “I do.”

EMERGING FROM THE darkness into the brightly-lit lobby, I took a moment to let my senses adjust. The sounds of the band playing emanated from the ballroom, the latest upbeat Pharrell song played by the most talented cover band in Manhattan. Clusters of family, school, and society friends mingled in the lobby, but most partygoers were inside. Where I was supposed to be, preparing to blow out the candles on my birthday cake.

Stupid and brief as the fight with Blake was, it was also our first. Sure, he’d hinted that he wanted our secret relationship to become a public one sooner rather than later, but he’d never actually made a comment like the one earlier. My dirty little secret? Hardly. There was nothing dirty about our relationship, it was the most pure, most honest thing in my life. Maybe the only pure and honest thing in my life.

Instead of heading towards the open doors and the music, I sought out a deserted bench. I needed a minute to regroup before returning to the spotlight. Mother would just have to wait.

Plopping down on the cool metal, I leaned forward to rest my forehead in my hands. I used my fingertips to massage my temples, and focused on clearing my mind. If I didn’t turn my mood around pronto, everyone would spend the next week talking about how unhappy I looked while blowing out my candles.

Personally, I couldn’t care less about what the gossip columns said about me—they could call me an ungrateful brat, say I was pitching a hissy fit because I didn’t get exactly which gift/band/cake/whatever that I wanted. Or even create some wild story, like I’d been caught having an orgy in the suite upstairs and was annoyed that I’d been forced to leave to blow out the candles, when I wanted to be blowing something else.

But I didn’t want a scandal, particularly after my mother had given so much of her time and my father had given so much of his money. And not just that, but I’d already put them through enough of the malicious gossip in the past. Seeing Adam had reminded me of that. The worst part? There had been a lot of truth behind those rumors.

“You okay?”

Without looking up, I knew exactly who sat beside me.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I answered.

“You sure?

“Yep.” I sounded fake, even to my own ears.

“Want me to beat him up for you?” Adam asked.

My entire body tensed in the span of a microsecond. How did he know? Had he heard Blake and me fighting? So not okay.

Relax, Lark. Calm down, he’s probably just throwing out a wild guess, and you’re giving yourself away.

“Who?” I asked, going for a mixture of nonchalance and confusion.

Since the torment I felt over hurting Blake was still eating away at my soul, I refused to meet Adam’s gaze. My face would undoubtedly give it away, if my voice hadn’t already.

“That guy you were talking to back in the shadows.”

My head snapped up so quickly that the nerves in my neck screamed in protest. Everything I’d done, everything I’d put Blake through…it was all for nothing. We had been seen together.

Staring into the bright caramel of Adam’s eyes, searching for answers, it was like someone had pressed the mute button on everything and everyone else. No more music. No more happy chatter. No plates clanging as the caterers collected them. No more melodic pings of crystal being knocked together. Nothing.

“Lark?” Adam asked, his voice sounded as if it were coming from somewhere far away. “Lark? Are you okay?”

He blinked, and I snapped out of my trance. Taking in the concerned expression on Adam’s face, I remembered how close we had once been, how much I’d trusted him. How much we’d cared about each other. How much we’d looked out for one another.

“I…”

While thinking about how to complete that thought, something occurred to me.

“Wait, were you following me?” I asked, unsure.

“What? No, of course not,” he replied, looking at me like I’d grown a second head. “After downing two drinks with your friends, I had to use the bathroom.”

“Two drinks?”

“Yeah, you’d been gone for twenty minutes before I excused myself. Why would I follow you?” he asked, probably wondering when I’d grown so paranoid.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean that how it sounded,” I said quickly. Pull it together, girl. “I was just surprised.”

“When I was walking over to the bathrooms,” Adam pointed over to a large Restrooms sign across the lobby, “I heard you, um, talking with someone in that hallway. I wouldn’t have said anything—obviously it’s none of my business—but when you came out, you just looked so miserable. Sort of like you do now. And the guy you were with, well, let’s just say I’ve seen death row inmates with happier expressions. You sure everything is okay? I really will beat him up for you if you need me to.”

Even knowing that Adam was trying to make me smile, to lighten the mood, I couldn’t muster the appropriate reaction.

“No, really, I’m okay,” I said. “I don’t need anyone beat up. But thanks for the white knight offer.’

“That’s what I’m here for,” Adam replied, giving me a gallant, seated bow.

At that, I did finally smile. Adam’s goofy antics reminded me of the old days, when he’d make a fool of himself just to hear me giggle.

A tuxedoed waiter passed by our bench on his way to the ballroom. Adam waved him over and snagged two sparkling glasses of champagne. He raised his flute in toast and we clinked glasses before taking sips of the bubbly.

“So, I’m guessing that he’s the real secret boyfriend?” Adam asked.

“Yep, that’s him,” I replied, feeling the corners of my mouth rise. Just thinking of Blake did that to me.

“He’s cute,” Adam said, with a wink.

“Hands off, buddy,” I said, giving him a gentle nudge with my shoulder. “You know I don’t share. Blake is mine.”

“Oh, secret boyfriend has a name?”

“Yes,” I scoffed, mentally chastising myself for the slip. “His name is Blake.”

“And why exactly is Blake a secret?” Adam raised one eyebrow, as if he didn’t quite get the game. “Is that something you people do here in Manhattan? Do you have a whole slew of secret boyfriends?”

“What kind of person do you think I am?” I asked with mock indignation. “There’s no slew. At least, not yet. For now there’s just the two of you.”

“Well that makes me feel much better about myself,” Adam said sardonically. “But seriously, why the secret? Do his parents disapprove of your humble Connecticut childhood? Does his publicist think it’s bad for his image? Do his friends hate diamonds?”

“Where do you come up with this stuff?” I asked, laughing.

“US Weekly, duh.”

“Right, of course,” I intoned. “That makes total sense.”

“Are you avoiding my question?” he asked pointedly.

“Maybe a little,” I admitted. “It’s hard to explain. I mean, it’s complicated. At first, it was to spare him from being judged by my friends. Also, of course, my mother. And then it just felt so good to have something of my own, something that was untouched, unsullied by other people’s opinions and thoughts, and just about Blake and I…”

As I thought about our happy little bubble, and how close it was to popping, I trailed off.

“And then?” Adam prompted gently.

“And then it became harder. Tonight, for instance. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Don’t get me wrong, I want nothing more than to share this, to share everything, with him. The last thing I want to do is hurt his feelings. It’s just a really difficult situation.”

Even though it was a huge relief just to say Blake’s name out loud to another person, I wasn’t exactly ready for a kumbaya moment. There was too much at stake, too many people who would get hurt. Most of all, me.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Adam said, as if sensing my hesitation.

“I know. It’s kind of nice to talk about it though. That’s one of the hardest things about having a hidden relationship. I can’t exactly talk about it with my friends.”

“Well, if you change your mind, I’m here to listen.”

“I really have missed you so much,” I said, leaning to rest my head on his shoulder. “I love the friends I’ve made here, in Manhattan, but it’s not the same.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Adam replied, putting his free arm around me to give me a squeeze. “Coming out of the closet in the preppiest town on earth wasn’t exactly a day at the park.”

“You came out?” I asked, sitting up to give him an excited hug. “I’m so proud of you! I thought for sure you’d wait until college, until you weren’t living in Stepford.”

“I considered waiting,” he admitted. “But I just wanted to be me. It’s not like I made any formal announcement or anything, only my parents do know. That wasn’t a fun conversation, and my mother keeps introducing me to her friend’s daughters and—Um, Lark, mancandy stage left, and he does not look happy.”

I glanced to the left, knowing who I’d find even before my eyes landed on him. Awesome. As if our fight wasn’t bad enough, now he’ll think me a liar. Because I was not blowing out my candles as I’d left him to do, but sitting, cuddling with another guy.

As Blake approached, Adam’s arm disappeared from around my waist. I watched as my boyfriend’s expression changed from surprised, to confused, to sad, and finally to anger. In that instant, I made a decision that shocked all three of us.

“Blake, over here,” I called, waving him closer.

He hesitated, looking over his shoulder just in case another guy named Blake was behind him. When his green eyes returned to me, I repeated the gesture. Slowly, seemingly still unsure I was motioning at him, Blake joined us.

“I want you to meet a very good friend of mine,” I said to Blake, ignoring the obvious tension between us. “Blake Greyfield, meet Adam Ridell. Adam, this is Blake, the guy I was telling you about.”

Skeptical, as though unable to believe this introduction was actually happening, Blake extended his hand to Adam. “Hey.”

“So you’re the boyfriend? It’s wonderful to finally meet you,” Adam replied, making it sound as though I’d been filling his head with talk of Blake for ages, instead of the couple vague comments I’d made moments earlier.

The transformation was instantaneous. Blake’s small, polite smile grew into a full-on grin, and his handshake was a little more enthusiastic than necessary. “I am. It’s great to meet you, too. I don’t know many of Lark’s friends.”

“I’m the only one that matters,” Adam joked.

“So how do you two know each other?” Blake asked innocently.

He was obviously excited that I’d introduced him to one of my friends, but also a little uneasy. Which I understood, since I’d never mentioned Adam to Blake. There hadn’t been a reason to, until now.

“Lark was my girlfriend. You know, before I was ready to admit to the world that I’m gay. Even though both she and I have known since the day we got into a fight over who was more likely to marry a Jonas brother.” Adam deadpanned.

Blake froze, and then slowly looked from Adam to me with wide, shocked eyes. “Seriously?” he asked. “Oh all of the guys to end a relationship over, you two picked the Jonas brothers? I hope it was Joe.”

All three of us burst out laughing at the joke. I looped my arm through Blake’s and beamed up at him. Despite the fact that we were in the open, in full view of anyone passing by, I leaned over and kissed his cheek for good measure.

“I’m more of a Nick fan myself,” Adam admitted. “But please, don’t hold that against me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Blake chuckled.

The two of them quickly began chatting amicably about less interesting topics, like college and some restaurant in Connecticut they both apparently loved. I felt some of the burden I’d been carrying around lift off of my shoulders. Blake and Adam were genuinely hitting it off. It was like they’d been longtime friends and I was the third wheel, which was just fine by me.

Maybe Blake never would meet the Eight, my Manhattan set. But as much as I loved those guys, compared to Adam, they were new additions to my life. Sure, Adam and I hadn’t seen each other in four years, but ours was a friendship forged in diapers. He’d been there for me through the truly tough times, and apparently had tried to be there for the toughest of them all. It wasn’t Adam’s fault that my mother had excised him from my life like a misshapen mole. It was fitting that Adam show back up now, when ugliness once again plagued my life.

As Adam and Blake conversed about the future—both headed to D.C. come fall, Blake to Georgetown and Adam to work with his Senator father on the Hill while attending George Washington University—I realized how fortunate Adam’s reappearance in my life truly was. Adam had never been far from my thoughts, but until hearing him and Blake talk about their plans for the following year, I’d forgotten a very useful bit of information about Adam Ridell.

In order for me to have a future, I needed both of them. Or should I say, I needed all three of them: Blake, Adam, and Senator Ridell.

UNFORTUNATELY, I ONLY managed to get through three additional journal entries that night before sleep claimed me. I dreamed of a boy in a hooded sweatshirt chasing me from one empty subway car to the next. When I reached the last car, I sprinted for the door at the end. My hand closed around the metal handle, but when I tried to push the lever down, it refused to move. Sweat poured down my spine in a never-ending cascade of warm water that puddled at the small of my back like a wading pool. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the boy in the sweatshirt, hood pulled low to obscure his facial features, confidently striding towards me as if he had all the time in the world.

“Open, damn it!” I muttered frantically, yanking the handle so hard that the metal bar came loose.

“Lark! Stop, it’s me,” my purser called, voice calm and low, sultry even.

He was less than five feet away when I started beating my fists against the door and screaming for someone to help me.

Just as the boy in the sweatshirt reached me, the door sprang ajar. The momentum from the moving train carried me through the opening. I stumbled, my left ankle giving way beneath me. Strong arms closed around my waist from behind. My lips parted, a bloodcurdling scream gathered in my throat. His mouth was next to my ear, breath warm and pleasant on my neck.

“Careful, love,” he muttered, lips brushing my skin. “Those heels are high, even for you.”

I looked down at my feet, which just seconds ago had been wearing sneakers—I was sure of it. A pair of gold Jimmy Choos with five inch spikes for heels shone up at me. Delicate straps, lined with small crystals, crisscrossed my feet and ankles.

The arms around my waist felt familiar and comforting.

“Blake?” I whispered, voice breathless and shaky.

His deep chuckle made his chest vibrate against my back.

“Sorry to disappoint, doll. Tonight it’s only me.”

Craning my neck to one side, I finally got a good look at the boy who’d been chasing me through the subway cars. Or, at least I should have. He was wearing a Phantom of the Opera mask. Letting loose the scream I’d been holding inside, I pushed off of my captor’s chest and tumbled backwards off of the small platform at the back of the train. Just before I hit the tracks, I saw his lips move, and though I couldn’t hear his words with my ears, they rang out loud and clear in my head.

Lark, I’m here to help you.

I woke with a start, arms flailing as if to fend off an attack. The scream from my dream carried over into the waking world, so loud that I’d scared myself into awareness. Cold sweat trickled into my eyes and I wiped my forehead with the back of one hand. Tangled strands of hair clung to my skin and my heart beat so hard and fast that my chest ached as a result.

“Just a dream. Just a dream.” I spoke the reassurances out loud, as if needing to hear the words with my own ears.

At some point in the night, I’d kicked the covers off. The comforter was now in a heap at the end of the mattress. The silvery-blue top sheet was wound around one of my legs like a vine. And my ankle, the one I’d turned in the dream, throbbed with phantom pain.

The bedroom was dark, the sun having yet to rise, apparently. Fumbling around in the absence of light, I groped the bedside table in search of my cell. The time on the display read 4:15 am. And then I saw the missed calls and texts.

Asher.

He’d called ten times and sent five texts, all with the same message: Are you okay? We NEED to talk. While each message contained the same words, Asher showed his increasing worry through the use of exclamation marks. The last of the texts had four, because, of course, one wasn’t enough.

With a sigh, I began typing a reply, before remembering the reason we needed to talk.

The damned kiss.

Sometimes, Raven, you really are an idiot, I thought.

What had possessed me to kiss Asher? And, more importantly, what should I tell him my reasoning was?

Staring blankly at the phone display, I pondered all the reasons a girl might kiss a boy and all the reasons he might kiss her back. Asher had kissed me back. At first. But then he’d pulled away—or had I pulled away?—as if suddenly waking up from a trance and realizing that what we were doing was wrong.

Coming up with nothing intelligent to say, I simply typed back: I’m fine. Talk soon. And hit send. Then, remembering that it was ridiculously early, hit every button on the touchscreen in an effort to stop the text. Which, surprise, surprise, had no effect.

“Shit,” I swore. “What now?”

As with most of my dreams, the images were already fading from my mind. Much as I wanted to forget the horrible scene, I felt that it was important that I remember.

What had the boy in the mask said to me? Oh, right. Lark, I’m here to help you.

For the eighty billionth time, I vowed to find lighter bedtime reading material than Lark Kingsley’s journal. Obviously reading about her troubled life was having a negative effect on my sleeping habits.

My messenger bag was leaning against the base of the bedside table. Reaching down, I fumbled through the contents until I found my own journal and a pen that worked. Furiously, I scribbled every detail that I could recall from the moments right before I woke. The recollection only spanned half a page. I read and reread what I’d written several times, focusing on the part about the boy in the mask being there to help me. Err, nope, not me—Lark. Not being the type to hold much stock in dreams and the meanings behind them, I was surprised by how important finding out who that boy was mattered. It was like learning his identity was crucial. Just as crucial, in fact, as finding out who Deidre had seen entering the apartment.

I flipped to the next page of my journal and began making notes. At the very top, I wrote: Baseball hat boy, Mask boy—one and the same?

But…who?

It couldn’t be Blake.

The boy in the dream had said as much. And I’d already determined that Blake was not the guy Deidre had seen earlier that night.

A chill ran down my spine. That’s what you need to be doing, I thought, figuring out the intruder’s identity. Dreams aren’t real. The guy in the apartment was. Flesh, blood, and bone real.

Abandoning my notes, I tossed my journal onto the bed and started for the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. A girl with bloodshot eyes and dark circles stared back at me from the mirror over the sink. Her face was barely recognizable. It was too thin, too pale. All the shit with Lark Kingsley was taking a toll on me. I needed to find out what happened to her, pronto. Otherwise, I was going to lose myself in the process.

Not the least bit tired, and somewhat worried that my subconscious would invent another crazy dream, I shed the shorts and tank top from the night before and decided to start the day off right—with a shower.

The hot water went a long way towards making me feel human again. It was the cold water, however, that woke my senses and brought my brain to full alertness, which I needed. The past twenty-four hours had been a never-ending barrage of unanswered questions. What I needed now was to decide which ones were important. The kiss with Asher, why I’d done something so stupid and how to handle the situation now, were not at the top of the list. In the grand scheme of things, those four seconds were inconsequential. Finding meaning in them wouldn’t help Lark. Or me, if I was being honest. Locking lips with Asher was not the first idiotic act in my life, and surely wouldn’t be the last.

Figuring out who’d invaded Lark’s sanctuary—who even knew about it—ranked pretty high. As I sifted through the mess of clothing I’d left lying on the closet floor for something to wear, a thought popped into my head. The sign-in book at the front desk. All visitors had to sign-in with their name, time, and the apartment they were visiting. Even having a key, the mystery man was not a resident. Which meant that Darrell, or another of the clerks, would’ve made him sign in. All I had to do was look at the log from yesterday, at approximately the time Deidre had seen the guy, and I’d have my answer. While I fully appreciated the number of issues—fake names, incorrect apartment numbers, lazy front desk workers—the log book was the best place to start my search.

After selecting a khaki skirt and striped tee that made me look like I was headed off for a day of yachting, I checked the time: 5:02 am. Instead of being deterred by the early hour, I was actually glad. Darrell had been on duty when I’d come in the night before, and hopefully, his shift hadn’t ended yet. Since he was the only front desk worker I was on a first name basis with, he was my best shot of getting a little help.

Practically sprinting to the elevator, and then through the lobby of the Pines, I grinned when I caught sight of a sleepy-eyed Darrell draped over the welcome desk.

“Morning!” I called brightly.

Darrell straightened, eyes going wide until his gaze landed on me.

“Ms. Ferragamo, good morning. You are out and about early today,” Darrell said with a tired smile.

“Yeah, I guess I am. You know what they say, early bird gets the worm.” I cringed. Could you be any more ridiculous, Raven?

Darrell chuckled softly.

“Are you off for a day of fishing, Miss?”

It took me a second before I understood the joke, and then I laughed.

“Oh, right. Worms, fishing. I get it. Sorry. Haven’t had my coffee yet,” I said. “Anyway, I was hoping you might be able to help me with something.”

Darrell appeared startled, as if a resident—or friend of a resident—asking him for help was a first.

“Of course, Miss. If I can, I would be delighted to help you. What is it you need help with exactly?”

“Deidre, in 10B, she said that a man stopped by our apartment yesterday. Around 6:30 in the evening. And I was wondering if I could look at the log book? You know, to see who the visitor was? He didn’t leave a note or anything, and I wanted to let my cousin know. In case it was important or something.”

Darrell wrung his hands together, posture growing rigid and uneasy.

“Well, you see, Ms. Ferragamo, I really should not give that information out to a nonresident.”

Wrong answer, Darrell. Come on buddy, work with me….

Instead of voicing my thoughts, I hid my agitation behind a brilliant smile.

“No, no, of course not, I completely understand. It’s just…well, it’s just that this guy has a key to the apartment. And until Deidre told me about him, I thought there were only two keys—mine and my cousin’s. Being that I’m the only one here right now, it just makes me a little nervous that someone else has a key. I mean, what if he’s a stranger, you know? But if I had his name, I could run it by my cousin. And truthfully, I’d just feel better knowing who it is.”

My rambling wasn’t particularly helping my cause. If anything, Darrell was more reluctant to let me see the log book now that I’d mentioned another key out there floating around.

“I can speak to management for you. Cer—”

“No,” I practically shouted, and then swallowed back any further protests upon seeing Darrell’s startled expression. “Sorry. I just don’t want to make a big thing of this, you know? He’s probably a friend of my cousins, but I’d feel better knowing who it is coming and going from her place. So would she, I’m sure. Besides, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. Like I said, it might be nothing, but then I’d still at least know who I might encounter inside her place.”

A lifetime seemed to pass while Darrell debated my request. Chewing the inside of my cheek nervously, I readied myself to bolt, in case Darrell insisted on involving management.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Darrell smiled.

“I do understand, Miss. You are right to check. A young girl such as yourself never can be too careful. Certainly if this man has a key, he is a friend or relative of Ms. Quattrocchi. And yours, hopefully. But it won’t do to have you worrying about it. A quick look cannot hurt.”

“Thank you,” I said gratefully. “Thank you so much, Darrell. It would really put my mind at ease.”

“Happy to help, Miss.”

Darrell reached under the counter and produced the previous day’s log book.

“6:30 you say?”

“Thereabouts,” I answered casually, trying to keep the excitement to a minimum.

Using one long, thin finger, Darrell scanned down the entries and frowned.

Seeing his look of confusion and concern, my heart skipped a beat.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“No, I…. Well, possibly. It does not seem as though there were any visitors to Ms. Quattrocchi’s apartment at 6:30 last night. For that matter, there are no visitors to any of our residents listed between six and seven.”

The skin around his mouth puckered as his frown deepened. Darrell flipped to the next page, concern etching more lines in his skin.

“I never allow a visitor entrance without signing in. As you are undoubtedly aware, not even a frequent guest such as yourself. Are you sure about the time?”

The fact that Darrell, formal, by-the-book-Darrell, forgot the “Miss” at end of his question, told me that he was just as upset over this development as I was. Albeit, for an entirely different reason. Darrell probably worried that the oversight might cost him his job. As where I worried it wasn’t an oversight at all, but rather a purposeful omission. As if the visitor had somehow made sure his name wasn’t in that log book.

To put Darrell’s mind at ease, even if not my own, I quickly backtracked.

“Actually, no, I’m not. Deidre wasn’t positive of the time. She just knew it was when she was leaving for dinner,” I explained, forcing a laugh. “You know what, though? Maybe she meant when she was returning from dinner, not when she was leaving. I’ll ask her.”

“Please do, Miss. I hate to think an authorized guest was in the building on my watch.”

“Thank you for checking, Darrell. Really, I appreciate it very much. I’ll talk to Deidre and we’ll get this straightened out. Who knows? Maybe when I talk to my cousin, she can tell me who the guy was. He did have a key after all.”

With that, I turned to leave, anxious to return to the apartment even though I really wanted to ask about surveillance cameras and viewing the footage. Somehow, I was betting Darrell wasn’t going to honor that request.

“If the gentleman had a key, it is always possible he came in through the back entrance or the garage,” Darrell called after me, almost as an afterthought.

Huh?

“There’s a garage? And a back entrance?” I asked, feeling a little stupid for not knowing.

“Yes, miss. The same fob that grants access through the front doors will work on both the back door and the garage. We here at the Pines strongly discourage residents from having their friends use either entrance, since we prefer all visitors sign in for security purposes, of course. But…,” Darrell shrugged. “Sometimes these things are out of our control.”

“Right, I understand. Thanks again.”

Once again, I started towards the elevator.

“Ms. Ferragamo?” Darrell called, a tentative note in his voice, as if already regretting what he was about to say.

“Yes?” I replied, not sure I wanted to hear what he had to say.

“If you are concerned, I can check with management about viewing the surveillance tape. It runs on a seventy-two hour loop, so last night’s feed will not have been recorded over yet.”

Hope soared in my chest. This was just the sort of breakthrough I’d been waiting for. A real, honest-to-goodness lead that might help me find Lark.

“Really? You’d do that for me?” I sounded pathetically grateful.

This time, Darrell’s smile was kind, caring. Clearly, I really was growing on the guy.

Big softie, I thought.

“The security of our residents is very important to us. I hate for a young woman such as yourself to feel anything less than safe while staying here, if even for a short time.”

“Thank you. That’d be great. Can I leave my cell number? You can call if your boss says it’s okay for me to see the tapes?”

“Yes, Miss.”

Darrell produced a pen and paper from beneath the counter and jotted down the numbers as I rattled them off. After thanking him at least ten more times, I finally returned to the apartment.

The previous night, the knowledge that someone had been in the apartment while I was not had sent me running for a butcher knife, as if I was a match for an intruder. But as dawn broke on the new day, my outlook on the situation had a rosy tinge. Finally, I was getting somewhere. Or, at the very least, getting to someone who would lead me somewhere. Hopefully, to Lark.

Full of excitement, I wanted to share this new revelation with Asher. And I was halfway through a text message to do just that when I remembered the kiss. Somehow, in the excitement, I’d temporarily forgotten the previous night’s blunder. I placed the phone back on the nightstand, the text saved as a draft. Later, I vowed. I’d act like a grownup and talk to Asher, explain that the kiss was a mistake—something I was confident we both agreed on—and we could move past it like adults.

Too wired to go back to sleep, I decided to keep the momentum going and search Lark’s apartment for more clues, certain that she’d left more breadcrumbs for me to find lying around. Well, okay, not lying around exactly. But maybe buried in another wall or sewn into her mattress or something.

Of those two possibilities, I decided to start with the mattress. Did I think it was all that likely I’d find a piece of paper shoved inside one of the coils or stacks of hundreds wrapped in stuffing? No, not really. It was worth a shot, though.

Once in the bedroom, I reached for the covers, intent on stripping the mattress, when the book of Sudoku puzzles caught my eye. The first time I’d seen it, all I’d thought about was how bad I was at playing the numbers game. The second time I’d seen the book it had been lying on the floor, having fallen off the nightstand.

Was it possible the intruder had been looking through the book? Was there something, a clue, hidden inside the pages? If so, was it still there? Or had the mystery man taken it with him?

“Only one way to find out,” I muttered.

Sitting on the edge of the unmade bed, I began flipping through the puzzle book, unsure what I was supposed to be looking for. Unfortunately, I felt even more uncertain that I’d spot the clue if it was still inside. But, hoping that the elusive nugget of inspiration would jump off the page and bite me on the nose, I persisted. Five pages in, I began to see a pattern. And not one that made me very happy. All the puzzles were complete. Someone, presumably Lark, had filled in all the boxes. Every single one.

“Awesome. And the day started out so promising,” I muttered, tossing the book aside with an exaggerated sigh. “Now what?”

Maybe it was because I needed a place to focus all my nervous energy. Maybe it was desperation. Maybe it was a sixth sense. Maybe I am just that stubborn. In any case, I felt certain a clue was hidden in that damned book somewhere. It was so Lark. So her style.

Starting at the beginning yet again, I studied each puzzle carefully, taking care not to miss an empty box or glaring error. Pretty much the only thing I did know about Sudoku was that each number only has one right spot. Repeated numbers and letters within the smaller boxes or along the rows and columns were obvious signs that something was off. Hopefully, they would be easy to spot.

By the tenth puzzle, my resolve was beginning to waver.

Was it too much to ask for a folded page?

Or big stars surrounding underlined words that read: THIS ONE?

One hundred puzzles into my quest—there were a thousand total—I had a massive headache and was seriously considering the vodka still left in the kitchen from the other night. As a compromise, I struck a deal with myself: Get through five hundred, then take a coffee break. Or maybe a vodka break. Screw propriety.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to go that far.

Honestly, I was dumbfounded I’d missed it in the first place. The only boxes with numbers in them on Puzzle 324 were the ones that it started with. Lark hadn’t completed it. And not only that, someone—presumably Lark—had used a yellow highlighter to highlight one of the columns from top to bottom.

In my head, angels sang the Hallelujah chorus. Beyond excited, I actually did a little shimmy dance to celebrate. Lark kept tossing up the pitches, and I kept hitting homeruns.

You’re making this scavenger hunt your bitch, I thought with glee.

Then, reality hit. To ascertain any sort of meaning or clue or code, I’d actually have to solve the puzzle.

Well, shit.

“You can do this, Raven,” I gave myself a pep talk. “It’s Sudoku, not rocket science.”

An hour later, I was pretty sure rocket science was easier than Sudoku. Eager for a distraction, I checked my phone for missed calls from Darrell.

None.

I checked the ringer to make sure it was on high so I wouldn’t miss a call from Darrell.

It was.

To be sure my phone was, in fact, working, I called my voicemail.

No messages, but everything appeared to be in working order.

Because procrastination was likely to be my major if I ever went to college, I made a coffee run. The Starbucks barista gave me an odd look when I ordered two extra shots of expresso in my macchiato.

“That sort of day?” he asked knowingly.

“You have no idea,” I said.

The caffeine made me jittery but focused. Forty minutes after returning to the Pines, I was semi-convinced I’d completed the puzzled correctly. All the boxes were filled in, with no repeat numbers. That meant I’d done it correctly…right?

Hesitant, I re-checked every little box, every row, and every column. As far as I could tell, nothing was out of order. Which meant another victory shimmy dance was in order.

Triumphant, I retrieved the notepad where I’d been keeping track of all the clues. Under a crude drawing of the butterfly pendant that I’d found in the backseat of my car, I wrote down the nine digit sequence corresponding with the highlighted boxes: 862439715.

The thrill over finding string of numbers died quickly.

“Now what?” I asked the notepad. “Where do I do with these numbers?”

As always, the possibilities were endless. Maybe it was a bank account number. Or maybe it was the password for the bank account at First National. Maybe it was the password for the online site where my brand new credit card had been issued. Or maybe it was the combination to another safe, or locker, or deposit box. Maybe it went to one of a hundred clues still out there that I had yet to find.

Awesome, just awesome. Disappearing into Lark’s life was supposed to make me less stressed, yet here I was a heart attack waiting to happen. If only I had just one concrete answer. That’s all I really wanted right now. Just one. Was that so much to ask of the universe?

Be careful what you wish for, Raven. Sometimes the truth is the most undesirable thing in the world.

As if on cue, my cell phone rang. Startled, I leapt off the bed. The lid popped off of my to-go coffee cup, and hot liquid sloshed over my hand, the notepad, and the puzzle book. To make matters worse, I then dropped all three. Helplessly, I watched as the rest of my drink soaked into the carpet fibers.

Muttering obscenities worthy of a midshipman, I reached for the phone.

“Hello?” I said, not bothering to check the display to see who was on the other end.

“Ms. Ferragamo? It’s Darrell Mantz. From the Pines,” he added unnecessarily. “Is everything okay? You sound…troubled.”

“Hi, Darrell. Yes, everything is okay, I just spilled something. No biggie.”

Using my shirt as a towel, I attempted to dry my wet skin. Then I remembered it was Lark’s shirt, not mine, and felt horrible.

This is so not my day.

“I spoke with the manger and explained the circumstances. He is happy to allow you to access to the tapes.”

“Oh my…really? That’d be so great. I’m free now, is that okay? Can I come down now?”

Suddenly a little spilled coffee didn’t seem so important.

“If it’s not too much trouble, it would most convenient if you came when I am on duty again. Would that be alright, miss?”

“Um, yeah, I guess so,” I replied, deflating a little.

“I am terribly sorry for the inconvenience,” Darrell said, sounding like he truly meant it. “If you were the resident of record, having someone else show you the tapes would not be a problem, but….” Darrell trailed off, leaving me to read between the lines.

Darrell must have told his manger that the resident wanted to see the tapes. The white lie meant he was risking his job for me. His next shift would have to be soon enough.

“It’s not a problem at all, I understand completely. When you’re back would be great, Darrell. Thank you so much, I really appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it, Miss. Of course, I mean that literally.”

Unable to help myself, I laughed.

“Not a problem.”

Hanging up the phone, I did my third shimmy shake of the day. Even though I had to wait longer than I wanted to, I was finally going to get a decisive answer. The mysterious intruder wasn’t going to be a mystery for much longer.

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 Jyranji. I know about the blood diamonds. I know about the horror and atrocities committed on behalf of our company. What I don’t know is why. Or…how.

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 about all of those things and so many more have allowed such atrocities to happen?

Did Mother really need another pair of shoes that badly? Did I really need another dress?

The people of Jyranji…they needed you encouragement, guidance, love, and everything else you have to offer. But, instead, you gave them hardship. You gave them fear. You gave them all—no, that’s overly kind…it was more like you condemned them all to—miserable, horrific lives of grave suffering.

So now you’re giving them what you owe them: everything. Not only compassion and kindness and empathy, but hope and promise and a future. You’re giving them schools. Food. Civilized homes. A livable wage. The people of Jyranji will flourish, all because of you and your altruism. And no one ever needs to know that it wasn’t your idea.

Because there is no delicate way to say this, I won’t be delicate: 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 great big, shiny cubic zirconia, made just for Mother. Truth be told, I’ve always found it in poor taste for her to wear something so extravagant and valuable around her neck as an ornament when so many people are hungry, sick, and homeless. Now that I know the true cost of that stone…it disgusts me.

You, 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 and the general opulence and the greed. But never for you. I think a part of me pities you. I know that’s terrible to say, but the pressure Mother puts on you? It must be the weight of the world on your shoulders. Because that’s what Mother expects—the whole world, just hers for the plucking. And the pressure of people’s jobs…I can’t imagine what it means to run a company that employs so many. To have the weight of all of those lives on your shoulders as well. 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 towards you. The fury born of the knowledge that grave injustices are being dealt to thousands of people 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 now and I’ve barely been able to face you. I’ve known for six months that a monster lurks within your loving exterior, and it has torn me apart.

So I’ve been stealing from you. I admit it. I can’t believe I’ve been driven to thievery, but the guilt has been nothing compared to the guilt I’ve felt everyday living in the luxury and opulence of your world when I finally know the true cost of it.

All of this rambling and confessing and purging has a point, I promise. The point is this: I couldn’t live with myself without doing something to right the wrongs you’re committing.

The week after my eighteenth birthday I met with Matthew Nace, an attorney who specializes in founding and running charitable foundations. I signed over my trust fund. Everything that became available to me when I turned eighteen is gone. Every dime last dime. And every other dime of yours that I could get my hands on along with it. Not because of the anger towards you, not because of the disappointment. But because of the life-altering guilt I inherited from you.

And now, the real reason I’m writing you this letter: the aid that has helped the people of Jyranji? It’s just the beginning. In this envelope, along with a copy of the videos that destroyed my world, is a press release that Sotheby’s will be disseminating very soon. I encourage you to play along, and have Kingsley Corp’s PR department send it out as well. The gist of it is this: Sotheby’s will be auctioning off the largest, rarest, red diamond ever mined for an exorbitant price. 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 put into place and set into motion. The real diamond—by the way, Mother should stop wearing that fake—will be delivered to the auction house in time for the auction. All you need to do is call Cynthia Bailey at Sotheby’s in Washington, DC 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 four-hundred-million-dollar diamond seems a bit sketchy.

Our only other matter of business doesn’t require the same press or exposure. At least, not as long as you follow through with it. It’s very simple: shut down the mine in Jyranji. Stop funding the rebels. Providing aid for the people and hope for the government only means something if you stop paying for the weapons for the insurgents. If you stop funding the rebel movement.

This doesn’t have to be a permanent situation. If the money and weapons for the insurgents run out at the same time the Relief Fund provides aid to the government, there is hope for the people. Hope for a future free from living every day at gunpoint. Hope for the children to be kids instead of toting guns around and living as pawns in a war they don’t understand. And yes, hope for Kingsley Corp to reopen the mine—it would, after all, provide jobs for the people—and export genuinely conflict-free diamonds.

I hope that you can see how this would be better for everyone. Wouldn’t you like to be able to sleep at night without the dreams of child soldiers haunting you? I know that I would.

I also hope you don’t construe my generous offer as blackmail. It’s not. This is my attempt at finding a way to live with myself and everything I have. I can’t bear the true cost of it. 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 saw the tapes. I heard the conflict in every word you spoke. I believe that you did what you thought was best at the time, even though it was as wrong as humanly possible. And I know you can see that in hindsight.

So, just like McAvoy pressured you into this, I’m pressuring you out of it. That’s all this is: me offering you an out. So few people are given an opportunity to right the wrongs they have committed. This is your opportunity.

Even though what you’ve done has hurt my heart, I believe that we can repair some of the damage. 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, softer, legitimate version of Kingsley Diamonds. I hope to have you by my side when I do.

I’ll take the Kingsley Corp’s announcement of this generosity as your agreement.

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

L.

ONLY TWO MINUTES of my life were more awkward than those right after I kissed Asher: the ones we spent staring at each other in the vestibule of the Gibson Street building a day later.

Believing he’d be in class and that I’d be able to sneak in without his knowledge, I returned home from the Pines after a quick nap—waking up at 5 a.m. had finally taken its toll on me after getting off the phone with Darrell. Apparently my timing was off, because Asher exited his apartment at the exact moment I entered the front door from the street. Mind suddenly blank, I simply stared. I felt my lips part, as if about to say something, but my brain wasn’t on the same page.

My downstairs neighbor was evidently no better prepared for the encounter, because he was clearly as out of sorts as I was. He, too, simply stared. The silence that followed was absolute and awkward and harder to break than a diamond.

For what felt like an eternity, neither of us spoke. It was like living out one of those scenes from the movies, where the two main characters stand motionless while the world moves in fast forward around them. Both of our lips moved silently at various times, as if to speak words that wouldn’t come. The tension in the air was thick and stifling, making the small space feel crowded as if a third person had joined us.

Asher regained his composure first.

“Look, Raven, about last night…,” he began.

Wow, those are definitely words that no girl wants to hear, I thought.

“Don’t, Asher. Please, just don’t. I think we both can agree it was mistake. So maybe we can also both agree to never mention it again. Okay?”

While I made my plea, I concentrated my gaze on my toenails, which were painted a cotton candy blue. When he didn’t answer right away, I dared a quick, hopeful glance up at Asher through my lashes.

“It’s just that…well, I’m…,” he started again, evidently still unsure how to finish a sentence.

“Older?” I suggested helpfully, giving Asher the easy out.

Truthfully, there were a million reasons why the kiss had been a mistake. My ego just didn’t need for them to be enumerated.

“Yeah, there’s that,” Asher agreed, nodding jerkily. He looked directly at me, but seemed to be staring through me. “It’s just, well, it’s complicated, Raven. I like you. I like you a lot, actually.”

“But just as a friend?” I said dryly, channeling my inner bitch.

“Yes, as a friend. But, well, you and me,” he pointed back and forth between us with an index finger. “It’s just not appropriate. I’m sorry,” Asher replied.

Without thinking, I crossed my arms over my chest, as if to protect my heart. It was the standard defensive pose known the world over. Even though I was well aware that the kiss had been a colossal mistake, Asher’s words still stung. And yes, my feelings were hurt. No girl wants to hear that she isn’t kissable.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Asher. I kissed you,” I said with a large dose of attitude, knowing that I was being oversensitive. “So, I guess I’m the one who’s sorry. You’re right, I was out of line. The kiss was ‘inappropriate’.”

I made air quotes, mocking him and feeling only marginally bad about my juvenile behavior.

Inappropriate? I thought. What a strange choice of words.

As I started for the stairs, I could feel my cheeks flaming with embarrassment. Asher stepped in front of the staircase, blocking my escape. Undeterred, I turned sideways and tried to squeeze by him. Asher wasn’t having it. He touched my arm, holding on until I finally met his gaze.

“You’re right, okay? Let’s just pretend it never happened, yeah? It’s already forgotten in my mind.”

The twinge of rejection was washed away by a tidal wave of relief. This was what I wanted after all, to forget that the stupid, stupid kiss had never occurred. Blot it from my memory with a big ink stain.

Asher cleared his throat, waiting to see if I would respond. When I didn’t say anything, he rushed on.

“So, um, want to go grab something to eat? And you can bring me up to speed on the Lark hunt? It’s been almost forty-eight hours since I last talked to you.”

“I think you need to go back to math school, buddy. There are only twenty-four hours in a day.”

Asher looked at me quizzically, and then shook his head, as if to clear it.

“Classes are kicking my ass. My sense of time is all screwed up.”

Without too much thought, I decided to take the olive branch. In our brief time apart, I’d missed him. And learning that someone had been in Lark’s apartment the night before made me realize I needed Asher. Before, his overprotective nature had seemed silly, and a bit over the top. Now? Between sketchy Larry and the unidentified trespasser, I was beginning to see that searching for Lark might be dangerous. Clues and puzzles aside, this was no game. And Lark’s life might not be the only one at risk.

“Food would be great,” I said, forcing a smile. “And in Lark news, I do have something to tell you. Fair warning, though…you’re not going to like it.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Asher replied. “Come on, let’s do Mexican tonight.”

On the walk to Café Poca Cosa, a restaurant Asher said he’d been dying to try, I filled him in on both the prowler and the Sudoku puzzle clue. Part of me was surprised that Asher didn’t whip out his cell and punch in 9-1-1 before I finished my story. Instead, he got all quiet and introspective, leaving me to wonder what thoughts were bouncing around in his mind.

“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “Darrell, the front desk guy, got permission to show me the surveillance tapes. So, really, I think this might be a good thing. This guy might be the break we need. He might even know where Lark is.”

“That’s unlikely, if he was going through her apartment,” Asher pointed out. “He was probably looking for her, or some indication to her whereabouts. Which would mean he’s just as clueless as we are.”

“Well, yeah, I guess that’s true,” I relented. “But he knows about the apartment, which is something. She rented it under a false name, Asher. Her parents don’t know about it. Blake doesn’t know about it. Her friends don’t know about it. I just…I don’t…it’s just a feeling I have, okay? I feel like this guy knows something that will be useful to us.”

“Maybe. Probably not, though,” Asher said with a shrug, obviously unconvinced. “Regardless, how do you plan on finding him? Even if you can see his face in the tapes, that won’t tell you who he is.”

“True. But maybe this is worth taking to the authorities. They can run facial recognition or whatever.”

With a dubious look, Asher laughed.

“This isn’t an episode of Bones, Raven. It’s somewhat doubtful that facial recognition software works quite as well as they make it seem on TV. Besides, if this guy did have anything to do with Lark’s disappearance, don’t you think he’d be careful enough to hide his face? Didn’t the neighbor lady say he was wearing a hat? Don’t you think—”

His pessimism was beyond grating on my nerves, and I cut him off.

“Stop poking holes in my theories, okay?” I snapped. “I’m not naïve, I get it—it’s a long shot. But, so far, all I have are a bunch of cryptic clues that lead nowhere. The most concrete evidence I’ve found was that envelope addressed to Blake, and I mailed it to him without reading the contents. Which, looking back, was probably stupid.”

Drawing near to the end of my rope, I threw up my hands. Asher’s Debbie Downer attitude was exasperating.

Sensing my annoyance, Asher grabbed my hand. After pulling me to a stop, he gently tugged on it until I faced him. Twin creases formed between his brows.

“I’m sorry,” he began. “I don’t mean to poke holes. I’m just playing devil’s advocate. You’re right—this mystery guy could lead us to Lark. But you’re also right that this is getting too dicey for us to handle. Maybe it’s time to alert the authorities. Why don’t we get the tapes from Darrell and I’ll call this FBI agent I know? He’s old friends with my dad, I’ve known him forever. We can give him the tapes. You and I can keep following the clues if you want, but we’ll leave the real police work to the professionals.”

Though involving the authorities had been my suggestion, I was sorely regretting it now. Yes, the FBI or whomever was better equipped to track down the trespasser. At the same time, I wanted to know who had been in Lark’s apartment. And there was a chance that they wouldn’t share that information with me.

What if it was one of her friends? Lark had known something was going to happen to her. She’d prepared for it. Left a trail of clues for me to follow. Maybe this guy was one of them. One of the bad guys.

“Before you contact your FBI guy, I want to see the tapes,” I said stubbornly.

Asher sighed.

“Fine. But—”

Irritation bubbling to the surface once more, I jerked my hand free from him.

“No ‘but’s, Asher.”

With that, I started walking again. Leaving him no choice but to follow.

Our fight didn’t help to lessen the remaining kiss-related tension between us. We spoke little on the rest of the walk, except to agree that takeout would be better than dining at the restaurant. Instead of returning to Gibson Street with our food, however, Asher suggested going to the Pines. He seemed eager to go over all the clues, including the newest one I’d found. With the possibility of involving the FBI soon looming over us like a storm cloud, I shared his impatience.

All of a sudden, it was like we were approaching a deadline. Like an invisible clock was counting down our remaining time, and the seconds were ticking away too quickly. There was no getting around one inescapable fact: once we turned the tapes over to the authorities, I’d be sidelined from the investigation. Agents would be crawling all over Lark’s apartment, demanding I turn over every clue I’d found. They weren’t going to want me muddying up the waters, sticking my nose in places it didn’t belong. And that was so not okay with me.

The more I thought about it, the more I regretted telling Asher about the surveillance tapes. Even more than that, I regretted the offhand comment about the authorities and facial recognition. It had been a knee-jerk reaction to Asher’s pessimism about identifying the mystery man.

You sure do have a lot of regrets these days, I thought bitterly. Which was ironic, since I couldn’t think of anything that I truly regretted in my life before moving to Washington, DC. Maybe I should’ve told Dave Alvando that I thought he was cute back in the tenth grade. Maybe I should’ve taken prom for the memory it was, instead of a silly night out with the girls. Maybe I should’ve done more of the high-school-memory stuff in general, instead of always working and worrying about leaving New Freedom. But those weren’t real regrets. They were silly little nothing thoughts compared to what I was facing these days—irrevocable decisions that could mean the difference between life and death for Lark Kingsley.

And maybe even for me, too.

I DID IT. I actually fucking did it.

I’m out. I’m free.

I cannot believe that I’m actually out of that place. That place where I was never meant to be. I cannot believe that I am sitting here.

The soft, cheerful chatter around me. The peppermint aroma that wafts from the piping hot mug in front of me. The strands of white twinkle lights and lush wreaths with their bright red bows. The rich polished mahogany floorboards. The smiling people with their shopping bags and enthusiasm.

It’s all so…normal. In the most gratifying way possible, it’s an unremarkable scene. An unremarkable day for all of these people. While my whole world has been turned upside down and shaken, everyone else has gone about their business in a series of unremarkable days. Though the thought saddens me, being dropped right in the center of one of those days is comforting. It means I can get back to my life. I can build a new life. I can do anything. Because I’m suddenly free.

AT ASHER’S INSISTENCE, we spread out all of the clues on Lark’s living room floor when we got back to the Pines. As we ate, we discussed several of the items in front of us, trying to guess how some might fit together. With everything laid out in front of us, including the random scraps of paper I’d written notes and solutions on, it looked like the contents of a kitchen junk drawer in the house of a particularly eclectic hoarder.

As if by magic, the moment we sat down in the midst of Lark’s breadcrumbs and began discussing them, our fight seemed to be ancient history. Just like the kiss, Asher was content to pretend it never happened. Following his lead, I was also acting as though nothing was out of the ordinary, that everything was okay. Honestly, as far as I was concerned, it really was. As soon as we started talking about the clues, it was like someone had hit rewind and we were back to two days ago. Now it seemed we were recording over the scenes that neither Asher nor I wanted in the final cut of our friendship.

It was especially satisfying that we’d found a way to get back on track, because I was really feeling like we were close to uncovering something big, at long last. And I hated dwelling on petty, unimportant matters when Lark was out there somewhere, in need of my help.

We decided to start with the mail I’d collected that first fateful day, when I’d come to the Pines. Unsure whether there was actually anything to be learned from the mail, we split it up to cover more ground. Asher volunteered to go over the newspaper articles, which left me with the small stack of bank envelopes.

It was the first time I’d really looked at them in any great detail. Before, I’d felt they weren’t my business, like I was overstepping. So I’d given them a quick once-over, and left it at that. By this point, though, I’d already become privy to so much of Lark’s private thoughts and feeling that reading bank statements hardly seemed like an intrusion. Besides, it seemed the further I delved into the shadows of her life, the closer I was to finding her.

Picking up the envelope on the top of the stack, I ran my finger across the clear plastic rectangle positioned over the addressee. Lila Quattrocchi.

As far as I could tell—which, truthfully, wasn’t very far—it seemed safe to assume that Lila was Lark’s chosen alias, and not another person helping her. More than anything, I wanted that to be the case, because I couldn’t handle another huge question in need of an answer. If not, who was Lila? And where did she come into this story? There was only one small point that I couldn’t figure out: if Lila was indeed an alias for Lark—where on earth had she come up with a last name like Quattrocchi? Wouldn’t something like ‘Smith’ have been a better, easier choice?

Ugh, this is not a path you want to go down right now, I decided. The speculation alone will kill you, and that’s all you can do: speculate. Move along.

I opened the first envelope, and began studying the single sheet of paper inside.

Crap.

It wasn’t actually a statement, but instead only a notification of withdrawal for the safety deposit box fee. As, I quickly learned, were the rest of the correspondence from First National.

Just as I was ready to announce my utter failure to Asher, who was laying out the various clippings, a line at the bottom of the page caught my eye:

For more information on your accounts, please visit www.FirstNationalBanking.com.

Sweet! Maybe they’re not a dead end after all.

Since I seemed to be on a roll, I allowed myself a brief moment of excitement. Though, I did refrain from shimmying with Asher there.

Pulling my laptop over from where it sat off to the side of the array of clues, I called up my browser and went to the bank’s homepage. Asher glanced up, eyebrows raised.

“Online banking,” was all I said in response. With a quick smile, he went back to thumbing through the slips of newsprint.

The good news? Filling in the username field was easy—one of the options was to use the nine-digit account number that I retrieved from the statements.

The bad news? I was clueless about the password. The string of numbers from the Sudoku puzzle seemed a good place to start. I transferred the sequence from the slip of paper I’d written it on earlier to the password field. No dice. After trying Raven_Lark and Lark_Raven, a message written in bright red font popped up on the screen: Four Tries Remain Before Account is Locked.

Crap, I thought. If they lock her account, I’m totally screwed. Think, Raven, think. What has she given you that might be a password for this?

Wracking my brain, I came up with nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Just as I was about to ask Asher for suggestions, two small words caught my eye: Forgot Password?

Bingo.

True, it was a long shot. But it was also my only shot at this point.

Instead of asking for an email address or the answer to some obscure personal question, the top of the screen read ‘Password Reminder’. Beneath that line were both a visual clue, and a written clue. Apparently they’d been provided by Lark herself.

The picture was simple: a white box with a red heard inside. The two words were vague: Your Future.

Blake.

In many of her journal entries, Lark had lamented about wanting a future with Blake. She’d even been ready to defy her parents’ wishes and come to D.C. with him, instead of staying in New York to attend Columbia.

Going back to the login page, I typed Blake_Greyfield in the password field.

The screen refreshed.

Three Tries Remain.

Crap, crap, crap.

After omitting the underscore between the two words, I pressed enter once more.

Two Tries Remain.

Future. Future. What is Lark’s future, in terms of her heart, if not Blake?

And then it hit me. Her future. Holding my breath as I typed, I entered Lark Greyfield. The page took eons to load, and I kept waiting for it to tell me that I only had one attempt left. What should I try for the final one? Mrs. Greyfield? Mrs. Pattinson? Lark Elgort?

Thankfully, it didn’t come to making that critical decision. Not caring that Asher was there to bear witness, I pumped my fist in the air in victory.

“Yay!” I shouted out loud, drawing an endearing smile from Asher.

“Success?” he guessed.

“Yep, I’m in!” I said excitedly, not even trying to contain my enthusiasm.

Asher scooted closer to me and I angled my screen so we could look over the account webpage together.

Seconds later, he let out a low whistle and sat back against the couch again. It didn’t take me long to see the reason.

Lila Quattrocchi had quite the balance. I was startled to see just over twenty-five thousand dollars in the account. From that overview page, it appeared that the only recent deposits were interest payments from the bank, and the only withdrawals were the safety deposit box rental fees.

Seconds later, I noticed something even more startling. Something that would’ve scared the shit out of me two weeks ago, but only induced minor heart palpitations now. My name was also on the account.

My. Name.

Holy crap.

The earth stood still. Lark put my name on this bank account. It was nuts. While still staring at those two words, my name, on the screen, something else caught my eye. As if I weren’t already overwhelmed enough, my heart skipped seven beats when I saw it.

One pending charge.

Holy shitake. Lark was using the account? Lark was…no, no way. Except, it had to be…. Was it possible that the only clue I needed was suddenly right in front of my face? Without giving myself time to fully consider the ramifications and have a total freak out, I clicked on the hyperlinked words.

A Little Slice of Pie.

My charge. Our pizza. My debit card….I…I had…whoa. Twenty-five thousand dollars.

Technically, I had enough money to pay cash for a brand new, moderately priced car. Or for a fabulous new wardrobe. Or to take one hell of a vacay.

Just to be sure, I grabbed my purse and yanked out my wallet. Asher was back to reading articles, and didn’t even look up to see what I was doing. Which was good, since I wasn’t sure what to tell him about this new development.

Quickly checking the account number online against the sixteen digits on the debit card with my name embossed across the front, I found that they were, indeed, a match.

Stunned, I let myself fall backwards against the couch cushions. If I had any lingering thoughts about identity theft, they’d just been vanquished. Lark definitely hadn’t stolen anything from me, she was handing me the money I needed to survive—to pay rent, to buy groceries, and for the all-important Starbucks stay-caffeinated fund—while trying to help her.

“Maybe she stole it from her parents?” Asher suggested, his voice breaking into my reverie and drawing me back to the present.

At some point he’d set aside the articles, his attention now focused on me.

“Huh?” I asked distractedly.

“The money in the bank. Maybe she stole it from her parents,” Asher repeated slowly, emphasizing each word as if I belonged on a short bus.

“Twenty-five grand? No way. That’s a lot,” I replied.

“True. But they are the Kingsleys,” Asher reasoned. “That kind of money is probably pocket change to them.”

“Regardless, I’d bet anything that she didn’t steal it,” I replied thoughtfully. “It’s not Lark’s style. She probably sold off some jewelry or something.”

Asher shrugged nonchalantly.

“Maybe. But even if she did take it from her parents, is it really stealing? She’s their daughter, sole heir to their empire and all that. The money will all be hers one day, I think that entitles her to borrow from the family coffers, you know? Even if she was just slowly siphoning it off, or setting aside some of her crazy big allowance, it’s not stealing.”

“Where you going?” Asher asked as I turned and headed down the hallway.

“Bathroom, if you must know,” I called over my shoulder. “Nosy,” I added in a lighter tone.

This earned me a raspberry from Mr. Law School himself. How professional.

As I walked back to the guest bathroom, I decided that, as awe-inspiring as I found the new developments in my financial standing, I should move on from the bank statements. The mystery of where Lark acquired so much money was not all that important in the grand scheme of her disappearance. At least, I didn’t think so. After realizing that both Lila’s and my own name were on the bank account, I started to think that the money was probably to help Lark set up a new life. Adding me to the account—though I still didn’t understand why me—was a safeguard. It allowed someone access to all that lovely cash, and made sure that I didn’t have to work. Because, after all, working would totally get in the way of devoting every waking hour to discovering clues and deciphering their meanings.

While I was drying my hands on a hand towel and deciding what to obsess over next, I heard a knock at the front door. Every cell in my being immediately froze. Who the hell could that be? Asher was already here. I didn’t know anyone else in the city. So….

The intruder.

Then I remembered that he had a key. And, seriously, what kind of intruder would he be if he knocked?

“Raven? You expecting company?” Asher called, his voice muffled by the still-closed bathroom door.

“Um, no,” I called back.

The knock came again, louder and more insistent this time.

Taking the brave route, I cowered in the bathroom and let Asher answer the door. He probably would’ve insisted on doing so anyway. Especially now that we’d realized another person knew about Lark’s secret apartment. So I was just saving us the trouble and skipping ahead.

At least, that’s what I told myself as I hid.

“Hey,” I heard Asher say, his voice clipped and low as if bothered by the visitor. His next words were downright rude. “What are you doing here?”

After that, Asher’s voice got even lower and I couldn’t make out what he said.

I caught very little of the person’s reply.

Mumble, mumble.

“—here?”

Pause.

“Okay?”

The visitor was male. Definitely not Deidre asking for a cup of sugar. Her husband, Sam, maybe?

“Depends…day…good…confusing,” Asher responded.

He was really making me work to hear his side of the conversation. I pressed my ear against the door, wishing I had a glass to amplify the sound, like people in the movies.

Or you could just go out there, I thought.

“This should help, I think.”

This time, when he spoke, the visitor’s words came through loud and clear. My heart leapt into my throat. Weak-kneed I stumbled backwards, bumped into the sink, and, ungracefully, sank to the bathroom floor.

No. Way.

No fracking way. It can’t be.

“—leave,” was the only word of Asher’s reply that penetrated both the haze in my brain and the inch-thick door.

Quickly scuttling across the two feet to the door, I scrambled to put my ear back into position, not wanting to miss a single syllable of the conversation. Holding my breath, I waited for the other boy to speak again. To confirm that I wasn’t crazy.

“Do you think she wants to see me?”

There was no doubt. I recognized the voice. I was positive it was him. Him.

Even though I’d only heard him speak once before, I was sure. Then, he’d been talking about a girl named Rachel. But now…Blake Greyfield was standing at my door.

No, Lark’s door, I corrected myself.

Regardless, he was there. Asking about…well, about what? Lark? That was obviously the ‘she’ he referenced.

Why, though? Why was here? Did he receive the package? Had there been a note inside, telling him to come here? Was it possible he’d known about the apartment at the Pines all along?

For that matter, was Deidre wrong about the time she’d seen the guy in the hallway? Was that guy Blake, after all? Did he know about me? What did he know about Lark’s disappearance?

Suddenly, I was desperate for answers. Jumping to my feet, I threw open the bathroom door and tore down the hallway. I made it to the living room just in time to see Asher close the front door.

“Who was that?” I demanded, pointing an accusing finger at the door. “It was Blake, wasn’t it? Why’d he come here? What did he want?”

“Raven—” Asher began.

“Move,” I insisted, pushing him aside and reaching for the doorknob without waiting for a reply.

Asher called my name a second time as I dashed passed. I shrugged off the restraining hand he placed on my shoulder. A ping echoed in the hallway, signaling the elevator’s arrival. The doors gave a tinny whine as they opened. With his head tilted, Blake’s unruly curls hung down his cheek, obscuring his profile.

But I knew it was him. I’d known from the moment he first spoke.

Dressed in navy cotton pants, a white polo, and brown leather Rainbows, Blake was picture-perfect as he stepped onto the elevator. If he heard the door to the apartment open again, he didn’t react—he didn’t so much as glance in my direction.

“Blake!” I screamed his name just as he disappeared from sight.

Too late, I thought.

Some very unladylike words escaped my lips and I was about two seconds from stomping my foot in frustration. So. Close. Blake Greyfield had been so damned close. And I’d let him slip away. More accurately, Asher had let him slip away.

And then…fingers curled around the metal door, preventing the elevator from closing. A balloon inflated in my chest. I watched as the top of Blake’s head emerged from between the car doors. After letting out a shaky breath, I opened my mouth to ask any of a million questions. They flew through my brain, every single thing I’d wondered about in the past weeks. Which would he know the answers to? I’d have to ask them all, though I had no clue where to start.

As soon as he turned his head, Blake’s gaze found mine and held on. Pinning me in place with those bright green eyes I’d read so much about. And just like that, all of the questions dissipated. The words ceased to exist. The depth of emotion swirling within those irises was overwhelming. In that moment, I was breathless and boneless and weightless. I’d heard people talk about out-of-body experiences and always wondered what they’d smoked to create the illusion. But standing in that hallway with Blake, I sort of understood the sensation.

A part of me felt as though I were watching the scene unfold from above.

Then, slowly, Blake smiled. I snapped out of the delusion and back into my body. The gesture was bittersweet, the expression overlaid with a deep sadness. Longing for his missing girlfriend shone in those emerald eyes. Pain touched every inch of his chiseled features, giving him a haunted look that made my heart break. For him. For her. And maybe a little for me, too.

Without a word, Blake Greyfield disappeared from view once more.

The elevator doors closed with a defining thunk.

And I was lost within the raging ocean of emotions warring within me. The tide pulled while the waves thrashed, and I surrendered to the sensations, feeling each as it washed over me in turn. There was despondency, but somehow relief. A wrenching heartache that I’d never felt before, but somehow joy. Anger and anxiety and just…everything. Some piece within the shadows of myself, one that I would never dare bring to light, felt elated that he’d come. That part, along with the rest of me, felt hope.

Which made less sense the more I fought my way out of the daze and back to the real world. Because I’d just let my best lead disappear. The one person who knew Lark, probably even better than she knew herself, just walked away. And I’d let him.

Good job, Raven, I thought, without the conviction I usually felt when mentally chiding myself. Some detective you are.

WHAT THE HELL is happening? What is going on? I don’t understand. Why am I here? How did I get back here? What happened?

What happened?

Was it all just a dream? Is it possible that my desire to leave actually caused me to hallucinate the whole thing? That would be…two days. Two days I hallucinated? What is real? I just woke up in my bed, back in my cell. My journal was on the nightstand, right where I always leave it.

I can see the Burberry tote hanging in my closet from where I sit. Hanging up on a peg, right where it’s been since I arrived. What the fuck is happening? I feel like I’m losing it. Was any of it real? Was he real?

Holy crap. It’s almost 3:30 in the afternoon. I never sleep this late. They never let me sleep this late, always send people check on me, to be sure I’m not whittling a spear out of my bedposts or anything else I should be doing. You’d think that—

Wait a second. If he’s real, he should be here right now. Two in the afternoon until two in the morning. That’s his shift to guard me and the other girls. If he exists, he should be here. I’m going to look.

****

He’s here. He’s real. And if he’s real, that probably means everything else was, too. So what the hell happened?

The last thing I remember, I was sitting in the warmth of that little coffee shop, relishing in the mere idea that I was free. I considered calling the police. But something kept stopping me. Something kept holding me back.

Did I really want to return to that life? I could’ve just gone to Blake. I wanted to go to him, not to anyone else. And if I called the police, they would return me to my parents. There would probably be one of those over-acted dramatic scenes that you see on the news when someone who was kidnapped is reunited with her family. But it would be different. Because my mother would be thinking more of what other people would think, how they would perceive her, than of me. I already knew how much it would hurt.

And yes, I wanted to see my father. Wanted to hug him and let him hold me, tell me that everything would be okay. That he would see to it personally. That he’d make anyone who hurt me pay. I wanted to be Daddy’s Little Girl, even if just one more time. Because it probably would be the last time.

But more than all of that, I wanted Blake. I wanted to see his face light up when he saw me, just like every single other time. It was an amazing feeling, seeing a person react to your mere presence in such a visceral way. That light in his eyes, that smile, it made me feel like I was special. That I was loved. I can picture it now, and it makes my heart hurt a little. What if no one ever looked at me like that again?

Was I in purgatory? Had they killed me, leaving me here as a ghost to haunt this terrible place and the people who’d abducted me and held me captive? I’ve watched enough horror movies to know that people who die in tragic or violent ways have their spirits trapped in the place where they met their demise. Trapped there until a heroine and her medium come along to set them free.

Except, I can’t be dead. Dead people don’t eat. They don’t interact with everyone around them. Even if this place was some kind of vortex that trapped the spirits of everyone who died within the walls—it’s so very American Horror Story, if that’s the case—I’d left. I’d interacted with the barista at the coffee shop. So clearly I wasn’t a ghost.

But I do feel like I’m living out one of the scenes from AHS. The one where the daughter runs outside, to the gate and out to the sidewalk. As soon as she sets foot off of the property, she ends up back in the kitchen. It wasn’t as soon as I left the grounds, so I don’t think that my life is imitating Ryan Murphy’s art. But something is definitely off. Wrong. Terrifying.

Seriously, how could I possibly be back here? It’s not like I drank my coffee, grabbed my bag, and came sauntering back. I didn’t stroll up to the walk and knock on the front door. The guards didn’t open it and just let me back in, as if nothing were amiss.

So what the hell happened?

“IT WAS HIM,” I said simply, my voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” Asher replied softly.

His words were hits with a hammer to the thin glass wall between myself and the world—it shattered and reality came crashing down around me. Suddenly, I was livid with Asher for letting Blake leave in the first place. And then, as I stood there with my back to him, I realized something.

“How? How did you know it was him?” I demanded warily.

Obviously, I’d cyber-stalked Blake. But how would Asher know what Lark’s boyfriend looked like?

“He told me,” Asher replied, in a clipped tone. “Said he received Lark’s package. Apparently there was a note in it, asking him to bring something to this address. He didn’t know why, or what the significance of it is, but wanted to do anything he could to help find her.”

Still unsure of Asher, I kept my back to him, so he couldn’t see the suspicion in my eyes.

Something seemed off with his explanation. How long was I in the bathroom? The conversation between Blake and Asher didn’t seem like it was long enough to include all of that. Then again, I only caught every third word. Because I was listening through the door. Like a total weirdo.

“What is it?” I asked, still a little numb from letting Blake leave without a thorough interrogation.

At least you know where to find him, I reassured myself. You can go question him whenever you want.

“What’s what?” Asher asked, sounding confused.

“The item he brought over,” I said, finally whirling around to face Asher and giving him my best ‘duh’ expression. “The one that might help us find Lark?”

“Oh, right. Um, it’s a key.”

“To what?” I asked.

Asher shook his head.

“No idea. Blake didn’t seem to understand its purpose either.”

Again, I wondered how the two guys had covered so much ground in so little time.

“Let me see it,” I insisted, tossing aside my manners. As if that weren’t clear enough, I held out my hand, palm up.

When Asher placed it there, I immediately felt the cold tinge of metal. Peering down, there was a golden, probably brass, skeleton key clutched in my hand. If it was only the key, I might’ve discounted its importance. It wasn’t exactly the first key I’d found on this journey, after all—this was well-traveled territory. I had more keys than I did things to unlock.

But this one was different. Very different. As the sight of it sparked a memory, I swiftly recognized its importance.

It was dangling from a long, thin leather rope.

A cord that was meant to be used as a necklace.

I lightly ran my finger over the metal, tracing the outline.

In one of her journal entries, Lark wrote about giving Blake a gift. She’d been nervous that he wouldn’t like it, but, of course, her worry was unfounded. Blake loved the necklace. In Lark’s scrawling handwriting, she’d talked about tucking the leather rope inside his shirt, so that the key would touch his heart. Blake had teased that it was the key to her heart.

Despite the cheesiness of the gift and their banter, I was pretty sure this key did unlock something of Lark’s. Not her heart. But something she’d worn close to that important organ. Something she’d written about commissioning from the jeweler at the same time as the key.

The butterfly pendant.

“I think I know what this key goes to,” I said, staring up at Asher. He was, not surprisingly, looking at me like I’d lost my mind.

“Really?” he asked doubtfully.

That’s when I remembered that I’d told Asher the butterfly pendant was mine.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Because I was holding the necklace when I woke up, I’d used the necklace as my excuse for that unfortunate sleepwalking incident. In hindsight, the lie was so flimsy that Asher probably didn’t believe it anyway. But I’d told him that I had suddenly remembered hiding the necklace in my car and needed to retrieve it immediately. In the middle of the night. While not wearing shoes.

You’re a horrible liar.

At this juncture, I had two options. Perpetuate the lie and make up some fake clue I’d supposedly stumbled across that was just waiting for this key. Or fess up.

In the end, I decided on a combination of the two.

“You know how you found me in my car that one night, really late?” I asked.

“With feet that looked like you’d just walked through a cornfield?” Asher replied dryly.

“Yep, that’s the one. So…I wasn’t totally honest with you at the time. That necklace, the one I showed you with the butterfly pendant? It’s not mine. It belongs to Lark.”

Asher’s eyes went wide and, for a moment, he was speechless.

“Raven, I…. Well, shit. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me the truth,” he said, more distressed about it than I thought he’d be. “You don’t ever need to lie to me. Ever. No matter what it’s about, you can tell me.”

“I know, I know. I should’ve told you the truth,” I said quickly, hoping to brush over that part. “It’s just that I was in bed, reading her journal, and I saw something in there about the necklace. She wrote about hiding it in a car. And I figured that maybe, maybe, the car she was talking about was mine. It seemed like it was worth checking, at least, since I did find her journal in there.

“So, yeah, I was so caught up in the whole thing that I just ran right outside. When I found it, I was just so…shocked. I mean, that was the first thing that belonged to Lark that I found, besides the journal. Which was why I lied. It was so freaking weird. And then you were banging on the window, and it caught me off guard. I was still in shock, and I’d just met you, and had no idea if you’d believe this crazy story. Even as I’m saying it out loud right now, it sounds crazy.”

Wow, way to ramble. He’s totally going to see through that excuse, I thought.

“I see,” was all Asher had to say. After a deep breath, he seemed to regroup. “And what does this key have to do with that butterfly pendant? I feel like I’m missing something.”

“It’s sort of complicated,” I began, thinking about what an understatement that was. “Lark had this key made for Blake by the same jeweler who made her the butterfly. At the same time.”

“Okay…,” Asher said slowly. “I’m sorry, Raven, but I still don’t understand how that means they go together.”

“Can you just trust me on this? I can’t explain it. It’s just something I feel. Somehow, in some way, this key and that butterfly are connected,” I replied, fully aware of how crazy I sounded.

Despite that, my conviction was strong—I knew I was right about them. Lark said she’d given Blake the key because she wanted him to know how special he was to her. But from what I knew of Lark Kingsley, that was only half the reason. She was secretive. And scared. And she’d been hiding things left and right from those closest to her. Every key she’d left behind had a corresponding lock. So, logically, that meant that the one she gave Blake did, too.

“Only one way to find out,” Asher said, taking my rambling diatribe in stride. “Where’s the butterfly?”

Relieved that he was, once again, onboard my crazy train, I grinned.

“Inside,” I replied.

Pushing past Asher, I hurried inside to retrieve the butterfly pendant from my messenger bag, where I’d been keeping it. The same excitement I felt before every big discovery bubbled within me as I practically skipped back to the plush couch in the living room where Asher waited. Sitting side-by-side, a respectable space between us, Asher held the key as I undid the strings on the velvet pouch that held the gold and opal creation. As always, I was caught off guard by the weight of the pendant. It was inordinately heavy.

Jitters started in my belly, thousands of flapping wings beating against my stomach lining. Was there really something in the butterfly? The contents had to be small, that was for sure. The pendant itself was only the size of my pinkie finger, if not slightly wider.

First spreading out the velvet cloth flat on the coffee table, I then placed the butterfly on top of it. I brushed my fingertip over the surface. The metal was cool and smooth, with no grooves or indents. Satisfied that there was nothing unusual with the front surface, I flipped the pendant over and examined the back side for the first time. After studying it closely for over a minute, I saw something.

Two interlocking circles, barely visible to the naked eye, were carved into the gold near the base. With the tip of my pinkie, I pressed down on them. The circles slid apart with a tiny click, exposing a small keyhole. The soft sound was like thunder in the silent apartment.

“I’ll be damned,” Asher whistled. “You were right. How’d you know?”

“I didn’t,” I sputtered. “I mean, not really anyway. Like I said, I just had a feeling the key and butterfly were made to fit together, since Lark had them made by the same guy. And because she and Blake each wore one, all the time. It’s sort of like…don’t make fun of me, I know it’s corny, but it’s sort of like the way they go together.”

My romanticism earned me a wry smile from Asher, but he refrained from commenting on it.

“Do you want to do the honors? Or should I?”

“I’ll do it,” I quickly answered, feeling as though it were my right.

Asher handed me Blake’s offering. Given the delicate nature of the pendant, I was careful to slowly ease the key into the hidden opening. It slid in without hesitation, but only a very little way. Evidently, the keyhole was quite shallow. Maybe because of what was inside?

What could that possibly be?

Out of nowhere, I began to have reservations.

I want to open the butterfly. I don’t want to open the butterfly.

I want to learn the truth. I don’t want to learn the truth.

I want to be an ostrich.

“Want me to do it, Raven?” Asher asked softly, cutting off my train of thought before it went completely off the rails.

“No. No, I got it,” I replied.

I did, right?

“Okay. Take your time. No hurry at all.”

I glared at Asher, before realizing that he was being nice, not condescending.

On edge, much? Just do it.

Finally, I took a deep breath and turned the key. Another soft click was followed by the bottom of the butterfly popping open, as if on a spring trigger. Tiny twin doors flipped out just barely, leaving the end of the pendant slightly ajar.

As my breath caught, I met Asher’s brown eyes. He nodded encouragingly.

Just do it!

Carefully, as if it was made of spun sugar, I picked up the heavy gold pendant and gave it a delicate, almost imperceptible, shake.

Since I expected something to fall out, I felt a wave of disappointment when nothing thudded onto the coffee table. No tiny scroll with the coordinates to ancient treasure. No slip of paper bearing some cryptic number. Not another key.

Nothing.

With a quizzical glance over at Asher, whose perplexed expression mirrored my own, I shook the pendant again, using just a touch more force.

Still nothing.

In case the item was stuck inside, I shook it insistently.

Nadda.

What the hell, Lark? You seriously went through all this trouble for nothing?

Unable to come to terms with such an intricate clue being a dead-end, I brought the pendant up to my face, to peer inside the darkness. The miniature hinged doors had popped open midway across the end when I’d turned the key, to expose the darkness inside the butterfly. Pressing as gently as possible, I eased the delicate gold flaps apart with my finger. They went all the way back, until the outside rested flush against the body of the butterfly.

What I’d taken to be empty space was actually the treasure itself: the dark end of a chrome-tipped flash drive.

The harmless little electronic device made my adrenaline spike, though I didn’t know why. One thing I did know was that this discovery held information. Real, concrete information. Instinctively, I felt sure that a note wasn’t waiting for me in its memory. It wasn’t an address or locker combination. None of those things would require an entire jump drive.

“Should we take a look?” Asher asked hesitantly.

He seemed nearly as awed by our find as I felt.

“Yeah…definitely. My computer’s right there,” I replied, nodding uselessly to the laptop in plain sight on the edge of the coffee table.

When I made no move towards the computer, Asher reached over and grabbed it. He gently pried the drive from my numb fingers and fit it into one of the USB ports on the back of the laptop. He chose the E directory and selected the lone file folder. A password box popped up on the screen.

My daze quickly dissipated and I came crashing back to earth with a groan.

“Of course! Of course the hidden drive within a necklace that was locked needs a password!” I declared with exasperation, throwing up my hands in defeat. “Nope, no way. That’s it! I give up. I’m done, done with all of this. I’m pretty sure this is simply an intricate plot to drive me insane. And it worked. Uncle!”

“Don’t be so quick to throw in the towel,” Asher chastised, hiding an impish grin as he grabbed my arm and gave it a little shake. Evidently he found my meltdown was amusing. “What’s that nine digit number you got from the Sudoku game?”

I brightened. Asher really was a very useful accomplice.

After finding the notepad where it was written, I rattled off the nine numbers in sequence. Asher input them.

Nothing happened.

For good measure, he tried again.

And nothing happened.

Well, shit.

“Maybe the reverse order?” I suggested weakly.

Asher shrugged. It was a gesture we did so often, it was a wonder we didn’t have giant shoulder muscles.

“Okay, shoot. Read ‘em off backwards.”

And again, nothing happened.

“Great,” I said, frustrated beyond belief. “Now I need to find another fucking password.”

Asher began to reach for my hands, hesitated briefly, and then went for it. His fingers wound around my wrists and he leaned into me. His face was serious and I started having déjà vu back to the other night. Then he—

Two lips across mine. Ten fingers down my spine. No space between us.

“Whistleblower!” I exclaimed.

“Huh?”

“Whistleblower! Try whistleblower. It’s the crossword clue I found way back.”

Asher grinned proudly. He squeezed my hands once before releasing them to return his attention to the laptop. His long fingers flew to the keyboard, typing in the single word with impressive speed. And apparently, accuracy. Because a heartbeat later, the computer’s media player appeared on the screen. Asher slid the volume bar to max and hit play.

BRIIING-TING-TING. Briiiiing-ting-ting.

The morning after my party I slept in, waking only when my text message alert was going off. My phone was lying next to my head, the frequent alerts penetrating my dreams sporadically, until this one finally woke me up. With a groan, I grabbed the annoying device and swiped the screen to life.

Eleven new messages. Ugh.

Scanning the blurbs on the message home screen, I saw several from Taylor, Cam and Ilan, all commenting on the party last night and what a good time they had. One was from Annie: Birthday brunch? Noon? Glancing over at the chrome clock on my nightstand, I saw that it was already 11:41. Whoops, that wasn’t happening.

I bypassed the rest of the messages from my Manhattan friends in favor of those from Blake. Four of the texts were from him; prolific as Blake was, he was rarely able to stay within the word limit for a single message. Warmth spread through me and I felt my lips curving into a smile as I read his words: Good morning, gorgeous. I love you. I dreamt about how beautiful you looked last night—you were radiant. Let me know if you have some time later and want to hang out, I’d really love to see you. But then I always love seeing you. Xoxo.

God I am lucky. I had a handsome, smart, funny guy who loved me and had no qualms about making it known. My guy friends, Alistair for instance, thought telling a girl that her boobs looked particularly large in her dress was a loving gesture. By comparison, Blake was like the hero from a harlequin romance. Only, my man was the real deal. Even outside of high school, beyond the time when boys turned into men, I felt certain I’d never find a love like his again. It was no wonder I was willing to do whatever it took to protect him and us from the cretins of the world.

I started to type a response to Blake, and then noticed one text was from a number that was not saved in my contacts. Odd. I didn’t give my number out to just anyone, and when I did meet a new friend and exchange information, I saved theirs as well.

The area code, 475, was in Connecticut, my old stomping grounds. Adam.

Seeing and spending time with him at my party had reminded me how much I loved Adam, in a totally platonic way, of course. But now, the morning after, when my thoughts were no longer fuzzy from champagne and liquor shots, I wasn’t sure how I felt about rekindling our friendship. Adam knew things about me that no one in my current world did. Things I even sometimes forgot, since it was another lifetime. Things I didn’t want to remember. Was mixing my past and present really such a good idea?

Do you want a future, Lark? If so, you have to face this. The voice of my therapist floated through my head unbidden. You must acknowledge what happened, understand the reasons why it happened, and process your emotions in order to heal. Continuing to hide the past is not healthy, and will cause it to manifest in frightening ways. Just as it did before.

Over half of my senior class at Gracen was in therapy, and openly discussed their sessions with one another. Cam and Taylor compared notes on a regular basis. Ilan used his to get of assignments he didn’t feel like doing. “My therapist says” are like magical words in our world that open a treasure trove of perks and possibilities.

“My therapist says that being forced to run the mile in under ten minutes adds unnecessary stress to my life, and that pressuring children to meet unrealistic expectations during our formative years only sets us up for failure down the road,” Ilan had told our gym teacher.

“Mr. Avery, are you or are you not on this school’s track team?”

“It’s different, sir. My therapist says that being a member of the team is a choice that I have freely made. I did not choose to take gym, it is a requirement for graduation.”

And like that, Ilan was allowed to skip the assignment.

Unlike my friends, I was extremely uncomfortable even admitting that I saw a therapist, let alone openly discussing our private sessions and using them to my advantage. I actually needed therapy, my parents hadn’t hired a professional to pick apart my brain solely because it was fashionable.

Opening my eyes, I focused on Adam’s message.

Hey, it’s Adam. Any chance you want to have lunch with me before I head back to Normalville?

Absolutely.

I sent the reply before I could convince myself that it wasn’t a good idea.

****

Ninety minutes later I walked up the steps to Chez Ripert, a quiet French restaurant on Central Park West. As the maître d’ slid the coat from my shoulders, I swept my gaze over the small space and saw that Adam had yet to arrive. Passing the coat off to a young guy standing inconspicuously off to the side, the host stepped back over to the mahogany podium.

“Kingsley?” the man asked, raising one overly-groomed eyebrow when he looked up from the reservation book.

I nodded and smiled pleasantly.

“Deborah,” he called to a girl standing behind him, pronouncing her name as if it rhymed with menorah. “Please see Miss Kingsley to table seven.”

“Of course,” she said politely. “This way, please.”

The blonde hostess led me across the small dining room, the slight sway in her step causing her black dress to swish back and forth. When she stopped and gestured to a table right next to the fireplace, I felt her appraising gaze as I took a seat. This was one of my mother’s usual haunts, which was probably why the maître d’ placed me at their most coveted table. The blonde was peering curiously at me, as if trying to decide whether she recognized me, and if so, from where.

“Thank you,” I said kindly, reaching for the menu in Deborah’s hands.

“Of course,” she replied, snapping out of her musing and handing it over. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Not right now, thank you. I’m waiting for someone,” I told her. “He should be here soon.”

With a nod and a promise to send Adam over when he arrived, the hostess left me alone with the menu and my thoughts. The heat from the fire drew my attention, and I became caught up in watching the flames dance. I zoned out, thoughts wandering down memory lane, to Adam and the real reason my family had left Connecticut.

“God, it’s good to see you.”

Adam’s voice broke through my reverie and brought me back to the crowded dining room.

“It’s only been twelve hours,” I said with a laugh, standing to greet him with a hug.

“You know what I mean,” he replied, rolling his eyes. We both sat. “I thought last night was a dream, that maybe I’d wake up and find you gone ag—”

“Again?” I guessed, interrupting.

Adam’s cheeks flamed brighter than the fire. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” I said. “And don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

Lie number one. How many more are you going to tell him before lunch is over?

“Good. Me neither. Now, give me the Cliff’s Notes of your high school years. I want to hear everything, but let’s start with an overview.”

The waiter arrived just then, rattling off the specials in a bored tone. Adam and I both chose one of the chef’s special offerings instead of perusing the menu, and soon we were alone once again. I busied myself with arranging my napkin in my lap, buying me time to come up with an answer.

“So?” Adam prompted.

“Great friends, especially Annie—you met her last night. Lot of frivolous scandals and over-the-top parties, many in the name of charity. School is hard and a ton of work,” I rattled off. “Oh, and Blake, my secret boyfriend who has remained a secret because my parents will not approve of our relationship. We met almost a year ago, and have been hiding and making out in dark hallways ever since. That about sums it up.”

“Um, I definitely approve of the boyfriend. What’s not to love? Are you sure you’re not making a mountain out of a molehill? You’ve always been a worrier….”

Adam raised his eyebrows as he trailed off.

“Ugh, I wish. Seriously. The mentality is really different in Manhattan. Everyone is judged and categorized, and some factions are simply considered off-limits. If your wealth isn’t at least three generations old, if you live below 59th, if you don’t attend Gracen or Trinity or Dalton, if you’re not bound for the Ivies…basically if you’re not part of the top tenth of the one percent—you’re not acceptable.”

“Wow,” Adam replied with a low whistle. “It’s a wonder your friends even spoke to me.”

“You’re from Connecticut,” I said with a wave. “That’s different. Plus, you come from a long line of esteemed politicians. You’ll probably be president one day, so you’ll do.”

While we both laughed.

“And your parents?” Adam asked, turning serious. “What do they think of the caste system they now live within?”

“You know them,” I answered. “As long as my mother is being included, she loves excluding others. In her own way, she’s actually sort of flourished here. Being a Connecticut housewife wasn’t really her style—the scandals aren’t quite juicy enough on the other side of the river. And my father…I think that he’s sort of above it all. Work is his life, same as always. And as for his thoughts on who I should date, it’s the same as when I was thirteen: no one is good enough for me, and I should be focusing on my future anyway. To him, it doesn’t matter where a guy lives, who his family is, or where he’s going to school—no one is acceptable. Except maybe you.”

Giving Adam a wink at that last part, I realized that it actually might be true. My father had always loved Adam.

The thought of my father’s paternal protectiveness brought a smile to my face. When I was in the second grade, I’d run through the house one day after school, searching him out to proudly announce that I had a boyfriend. When Adam finally caught up and burst into the study, my dad demanded to know why the seven-year-old boy had let this happen. That was the first time that my father sat me down to teach me the golden rule of life: All boys lie. It had been a recurring theme my whole life.

As I recounted the story to Adam, he broke in several times to recount the shame he’d felt at letting another little boy claim me as his own. We were still cracking up over shared memories when our entrees arrived. After a brief silence while we ate, I turned the tables on him, metaphorically speaking.

“Your turn,” I proclaimed. “What has your life been like without me? Devoid of all happiness? Full of misery?”

“Terrible,” he replied, playing along. “Every day has been a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.”

“Ahh! You loved that book! Do you still carry it everywhere you go?” I teased.

“Maybe,” he said with a wink. “No, my life sounds a lot like yours, particularly the last part.”

“The secret boyfriend?”

“His name is Gabriel,” Adam said devilishly, waggling his eyebrows up and down.

“Shutup!” I cried in glee. Much to my chagrin, my excitement had drawn the stares of the diners seated around us.

Adam’s laughter at my reaction didn’t help matters. Making a conscious effort to elicit less attention, I leaned in and lowered my voice.

“Why didn’t you tell me last night?”

“I don’t know, there was a lot going on. Besides, I’m telling you now. His name is Gabriel and he’s gorgeous.”

“So why the secret?”

My question provoked an eye roll from Adam.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because my father is a Republican Senator.”

“Right, right,” I said blithely. “That makes sense. But I thought you said you came out to your parents?”

“Oh, I did. But, to them, there is a big difference between me saying I’m gay and me playing tonsil hockey with another guy. Dad has been cool about Gabriel hanging out at our house and all, but he won’t let me bring him along to functions as my date. I think he tells himself that Gabe and I are just super close friends. Mom, well, she just sort of pretends that being gay is a ‘phase’ and that, eventually, I’ll grow out of it. She actually said that. She calls this my ‘Gabriel Phase’.” Adam laughed derisively. “She keeps reminding me that there will be a ton of young, female internes working on the Hill, and I should ‘keep my options open’ when I move down to D.C. next year.”

I laughed. “Wow, so, what? She thinks you just haven’t met the ‘right’ girl yet?”

“Exactly.”

Even though I was careful to keep my tone light, my heart ached for Adam. The self-pity I sometimes felt when thinking about my relationship with Blake now seemed ridiculous and self-indulgent. Dating someone your parents didn’t approve of was nothing compared with being someone your parents didn’t approve of.

Adam’s thoughts must have been wandering the same path, because his gaze turned to the fire and lingered within the flames.

“I’m sorry,” I said softly after a minute of silence. “That must be really hard.”

In Adam’s signature fashion, he bounced back easily. That was something I’d always envied about him—Adam didn’t allow himself to stay shrouded in misery’s dark cloak, instead consciously focusing on all of the good.

“Sometimes.” Adam shrugged. “The worst part is, I’m not allowed to tell my friends. I get it, I guess. Dad is afraid they’ll tell their parents, who will tell their friends, and then it will be the lead story on the Colbert Report. So everyone at school just thinks Gabriel and I are a tad more bromantic than most. It gets super weird when our friends start talking about girls and I just nod and am like, ‘Totally, Charlene has a face like a dog, but it’s cool because she has big tits’.” Adam shook his head as if his genders fascination with breasts baffled him. “Besides, Gabriel is a dude, so when I tell him that his butt really fills out his pants nicely, he doesn’t ask if I’m calling him fat. And when my friend Jack complains about how his girlfriend makes him paint her toenails before she’ll give him a bl—um, do him a favor, all I can think is, being gay does have its perks. I mean, we’re both teenage guys, so our libidos are evenly matched.” Adam paused, embarrassed. “Was that an overshare?”

“No,” I laughed. “Not at all. I like hearing about your boyfriend, even the naughty details. He obviously makes you really happy.”

A goofy grin crossed Adam’s lips and he got this far off, wistful expression in his caramel eyes. “He does, he really does,” Adam said. “It’s awesome to tell someone about him, about us, all about us. It’s not like I can tell my parents about the amazing three hours Gabriel and I spent in his parents’ hot tub on Tuesday. Like I said, Mom and Dad are cool with the situation in theory, but not so much in practice. So, as long as you really aren’t going to pull another disappearing act, I think I’ve found my go-to girl for relationship talk.”

Guilt made my insides squirm. Though he was striving for a teasing tone with his last remark, I knew Adam well enough to know that he was serious. He’d brought up my sudden disappearance from his life twice now, in one conversation. Clearly, he was worried that our rekindled friendship was only temporary.

“Absolutely not. You’ll never get rid of me now. Besides, everyone thinks you’re my boyfriend, so you’re stuck with me.”

The last trace of sadness disappeared from Adam’s eyes and they lit up.

“I’ve actually been thinking about that since last night.”

“Yeah? You’ve been dwelling on my clandestine love life?”

“Not just yours,” Adam started, hesitating. “But it does seem like we could help each other out….”

As the pieces of the puzzle slid into place, I laughed nervously.

“You can’t be serious,” I answered.

Adam rushed on, outlining the countless reasons why we should tell everyone we were together. It did sort of make sense…

“I have to talk to Blake,” I finally said after he’d talked his throat dry and had to reach for his coffee mug.

“Of course, of course!” Adam said excitedly. “But I seriously think this could work.”

His enthusiasm was contagious and I couldn’t help but giggle.

“Of course you do. All of your schemes always work out,” I replied. “But what if your parents tell my parents the truth?”

“They won’t. Dad isn’t a gossip, and doesn’t want the truth getting out. And my mom will just be super excited that I am giving girls a try.”

The waiter came to clear our plates. Checking my watch first, I ordered another cup of coffee. Adam did the same.

“Got somewhere to be?” Adam asked me as a young busboy began expertly sweeping the crumbs from our table. Holding up one finger as a signal, I waited until he’d finished and the waiter returned with our coffee before answering.

“Actually, yes,” I said, suddenly nervous. “I’m, um…I have a meeting with my therapist at four.”

“Wow, your parents really have bought into the whole Manhattan child-rearing program,” Adam joked.

“Well, yeah. I mean, yes, almost all of my friends go to therapy as well. They’re considered professional parents here. But I’ve actually been seeing her since I first moved here, even before Mother became a lemming.

The only response Adam gave was to raise an eyebrow in question. I was forced to continue.

“I mean, um, I’ve actually been seeing someone since what happened at the end of eighth grade.”

“Oh…,” Adam replied, clearly at a loss for words. “You mean…that day in class?”

Nodding, I focused on the swirls of cream slowly dissipating on the surface of my coffee.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Adam said quickly, pausing before he continued to see if I’d object. When I didn’t say a word, he went on. “But…what did happen that day?”

“Honestly…,” I said softly. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

A frown immediately clouded his features.

“I mean, just tell me what happened from your point of view. What you saw. I genuinely don’t remember. The last thing I recall is sitting in class, and then I was at home, curled up on the couch, with both of my parents screaming at me. They…they kept asking what I was on. Like, drugs, you know? And I—”

“Wait, when did you start doing drugs?”

The alarm and hint of accusation in Adam’s voice stung.

“Never!” I said indignantly, before clarifying. “I mean, I’d smoked weed twice, but you were there both times—when Jon Cannon had that party in seventh grade, and then on Frank’s boat that day we skipped our afternoon classes. You knew me, we spent almost every moment together. I didn’t have a drug problem.”

“I didn’t think so,” Adam answer, clearly relieved. “But then…what happened?”

“Tell me what you remember.”

“I’ve gone over that day so many times. Nothing was out of the ordinary. It was just another boring day in school.”

“That’s what I remember, too,” I encouraged. “And then?”

“It was the week before summer vacation, and we were more focused on the end of school parties than our finals…”

“I was so excited about Jon’s, I thought he might like me,” I remembered with a smile. “What else?”

“I don’t know, Lark. I mean, it was the class after lunch, we were all sort of antsy and restless….and then you started crying.”

“Crying?” I asked. “I don’t remember that at all.”

“Yeah,” Adam continued. “You just started crying. It was quiet at first. I mean, almost silent, no one noticed. Mrs. Edelmen kept teaching, so she didn’t hear you either. But I saw you, and…you never cried…I mean, not since like first grade. It scared the crap out of me. You didn’t cry over boys, you didn’t cry out of stress, you didn’t cry when your mom was being an asshole…so of course I was really worried. I tried to ask you what was wrong….I had to say your name several times before you even looked over at me. It was like you didn’t hear me at all.”

“And?” I asked breathlessly, not recalling even a moment of what Adam was describing.

“You didn’t say anything. It was like…you looked at Mrs. Edelmen, and then just began sobbing. And babbling. I couldn’t understand a word you were saying. You sounded, you sounded….”

Adam trailed off, evidently searching for the right word and coming up empty.

“I sounded like what?” I demanded.

Still he hesitated, locking eyes with me before shrugging.

“You sounded like a baby. But not. Maybe like a little girl? But not like you when you were little. I mean, you were always well-spoken. You never talked like that. But I don’t know how else to describe it.”

“That’s insane,” I blurted, quickly regretting my choice of words. “I mean, you know…that’s ridiculous.”

“I know,” Adam said quietly.

Shaking my head, to clear the picture, I pressed on, needing to know the truth. This was something that had haunted me for almost four years, and now the answers sat in front of me. There was no way that I was going to let my fear stop me from retrieving them.

“What happened after that?”

“At first, Mrs. Edelmen called to you from the front of the room. She asked you what was wrong. When you didn’t answer, she offered to let you leave. But you weren’t responding to what she was saying. It was like you were trying to tell her something, but couldn’t find the words…you seemed almost adamant. Anyway, she walked over to your desk to talk to you, to console you. You still weren’t engaged in the conversation with her, but you kept tugging on her sleeve. Eventually, she just told the rest of us to go to the library. I tried to stay with you, insisted on staying with you. But then…

“It was really scary, Lark. You were the most together person I knew. You’d been prim and proper in public forever, almost like your mother had beaten it in to you. And when you weren’t around adults, you were silly and funny and…. But never like that. I’d never seen you like that. You wouldn’t talk to me, you wouldn’t answer…so I left. I went outside and sat on the swings, waiting for you to come find me. Or…I don’t know. But after a while your parents showed up. I saw you leave. Your dad was carrying you.”

“He was carrying me?” I asked doubtfully. “I was thirteen.”

“Yeah,” Adam said, shaking his head as if to shake away the memory.

“So that’s it?” I asked, hoping desperately that there wasn’t any more.

“Other than you disappearing immediately and absolutely, yeah. I must’ve called your phone a million times that night. When I finally fell asleep, I slept with the phone on the pillow next to me. Every once in a while I woke up with a start and called you again. It would just ring and ring, until I’d get your voicemail, over and over. The same thing the next day. And the day after. Until, it stopped ringing. When I tried calling the next week, it said the number had been disconnected. Even my parents weren’t sure what had happened. They tried calling yours, but they never gave me any explanation. After a while, they said you’d moved away and that was that.”

“That must have been terrible for you,” I sympathized.

“It was,” he said, his eyes glistening. “But it wasn’t about me, I was worried about you. For all I knew, your parents stuck you in a funny farm and threw away the key.”

“Almost,” I replied quietly. “They thought I was on drugs, and talked about sending me to rehab. Of course, it came out that I wasn’t, but not until they put me through hell. In the end, I was diagnosed with exhaustion and that was that.”

“Like when celebrities lose it?” Adam asked doubtfully.

“I know. None of it makes any sense.”

It had never made sense to me. Not the meltdown in school, my parents’ accusations of drug use, the memory loss, or what came after.

“So that was it?” Adam spoke delicately.

“Yeah. My parents cut me off from you, from everyone else back there. They said it was for my own good, that I needed a fresh start. But really, I think they wanted to pretend it had never happened.”

“And you let them?” Adam’s eyes flashed with both hurt and anger.

“They told me that you’d never called. That your parents contacted them and said you didn’t want to see me. Or talk to me. I thought…I thought you hated me.”

With that, the most painful part of the ordeal for me, a lump formed in my throat that was impossible to swallow around.

“Lark! How the hell could you think that?” Adam said fiercely. “You were my best friend. I loved you. I would’ve stuck with you through anything. If you’d let me. I still will.”

My parents had done a lot of shitty things in their time—really shitty, in fact. None of it had ever been directed towards me, though. At least, as far as I knew. But coming between Adam and me, simply because they were embarrassed by my breakdown? So not okay. They’d taken away my best friend and confidant at a time when I needed him most. All to maintain their reputations.

And now, I couldn’t help but wonder…how far would they go? And how could I use that to my advantage?

EVEN ON THE fifteen-inch laptop monitor, the head of Kingsley Diamonds projected power and importance. Phillip Kingsley onscreen was younger than his current, real life counterpart. He’d aged well, though, and looked almost better now than he had ten or fifteen years ago, ala George Clooney.

Most of the other men on the Kingsley Diamond board of directors were old and stodgy, and eye-gougingly boring when they spoke. Their voices never inflected beyond flat, apathetic tones. Of course, it didn’t help that they used words and phrases that required translation for me to make sense of, along with the fact their discussion topics were already enough to put me to sleep. All-in-all, I had no idea what the hell they were saying, what they were saying it about, or why Lark would’ve taken such pains to ensure the safety of the videos.

Naturally, Asher understood it all. He was able to follow the discussions, and assumed the role of instructor. Unfortunately, understanding what was being said did not make it any more interesting. Or relevant to Lark, as far as I could tell.

“There has to be something important on here,” Asher insisted, when I began listing off all of the things more entertaining than watching old men talk about import/export taxes and customs officials.

Seriously, that was all they were droning on about. For like three meetings, they’d debated switching shipping routes because some port in a country I’d never heard of wanted more money because some lady named Kimberley was being a bitch. Truthfully—though I’d never admit it to Asher—I found all of the background drama pretty entertaining. It was the crap about cost-benefit analyses, goodwill, and opportunity costs that made me want to pull my hair out. It was no wonder I was confused by most of it—what did donating old clothes have to do with selling diamonds?

“Not necessarily, to us. It could be that whatever is on here is only important to Lark,” I corrected him. “And I don’t think we’re going to figure that out tonight. We’ve been doing this for hours, and barely scratched the surface of all of this footage.”

My voice had a nasally whine to it that was annoying even to me.

Deep down, I knew that whatever Lark wanted me to see on those videos was likely very important. It had to be, considering all of her safeguards. So, where did my reticence come from? My resistance to watching even another minute, let alone another eight hours?

I had no earthly idea. All I could think was that I was just really overwhelmed. It had been a crazy-long day, and my attention-span was rapidly waning.

My mind kept drifting back to the mystery man. The intruder. That guy had answers. He had to have answers. Definitely more than the video files Lark hid inside of a custom-made pendant. He might not know Lark’s whereabouts precisely, but he knew something. I felt it down to my marrow.

“First off,” Asher began, pulling me out of my thoughts. He trailed off as he got situated, repositioning himself so his body was angled away from the laptop and towards me. If I had to venture a guess, I’d say a lecture was in my immediate future.

Great, I thought. And zoned out.

We were still sitting side-by-side on the couch in Lark’s living room, and Asher’s knee brushed mine when he turned. Maybe it was because we’d talked earlier that day about how wrong kissing each other was. Maybe it was because we’d acted on the sexual tension that had been steadily building between us, and it quashed the curiosity. Maybe it was because I felt numb after the day I’d had. Or maybe it was for any one of a myriad of other reasons. Regardless of the rationale, I was relieved, albeit a little surprised, when the skin-to-skin contact didn’t turn my insides to warm liquid or send shivers down my spine. I felt…nothing.

Okay, perhaps not exactly nothing. But the ‘something’ I felt was nothing like before. The difference between those feelings was a static electricity spark compared to the jolt from sticking a fork in a light socket. Definitely not even close.

With a barely-suppressed giggle, I considered how ass-backwards the situation was. If I’d known that all it would take to get Asher out of my system was a kiss, I would’ve locked lips with him that very first day we met. That wouldn’t have been weird at all, right? Picturing myself cornering Asher, after he’d helped to carry my bags up, and throwing him down on the sofa caused my giggle to turn to full-on laughter.

Alarmed by the sudden shift in moods, 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.

Even though I knew that any feelings I had for Asher had left Romancetown in favor of Friendville, he didn’t. It would only get more awkward if I was sending him signals saying one thing when I was feeling another.

“And you can save the lecture,” I continued, dialing back into the discussion. “I’m well aware that the endless hours of excessive droning on that flash drive are important. Lark went through a lot of trouble to make sure it didn’t fall into the wrong hands. I am 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 redundantly.

“What’s wrong, Raven?” 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.”

“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?”

“Raven—”

“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, be serious,” Asher groaned.

With a sigh of protest, I put on a serious face.

“I’m sorry. I’m exhausted. But I also feel really 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 just 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 between, the words ringing in my head like an echo. Since he said nothing, it seemed safe to assume that Asher was contemplating the end of my rant, probably agreeing with what I said.

Finally, he spoke.

“Is there anything that I can say this point that will make you feel better? Or should I just keep quiet?”

In spite of my instantly-sour mood, I laughed.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “I’m just kind of out of sorts.”

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

Nodding, I offered my downstairs neighbor a weak smile.

“Okay.”

For the second time, Asher and I held a coed sleepover at the Pines. Once again, he slept 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. It seemed likely that the whole mystery-guy-with-a-key thing was going to contradict his cautious nature. But no, it apparently didn’t bother him all that much.

Sleep came easy that night, easier than it had in a while. It felt like Christmas Eve night when I was little: the sooner I went to bed, the sooner I’d awake to find presents under the tree. In this case, the ‘presents’ were the identity of the mystery guest.

If I left milk and cookies on the counter would it lead me to Lark? The silly thought lifted the corners of my mouth into a grin as I drifted off to dream land.

After what seemed like only minutes, golden light woke me the next day. Immediately, I reached for my cell, taking a moment to fumble with it before I was able 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.

Holding absolutely still, I held my breath and listened. For what, I didn’t know exactly. Silence met my ears, nothing more. And then, I realized that was it: the silence. That’s what was off. Asher was there, so muffled voices from the television, quiet footsteps, or even cabinets opening and closing in the kitchen as he searched for something edible—those sounds were what I should’ve heard.

Is he still asleep? I wondered.

If so, he probably needed the rest. Searching for Lark was exhausting, and Asher was pulling double duty, attending classes by day and playing detective with me at night.

Creeping out of the guestroom, careful to make as little noise as possible in the hallway, I made my way to Lark’s room. Using her bed felt awkward, but her bathroom was a different story. After I showered, I brushed my teeth and borrowed another outfit from Lark’s closet. While I combed through my wet tangles of hair, the apartment still felt empty, like a ghost town.

“Asher?” I called his name as I walked down the hallway, towards 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. The wide-toothed comb was halfway down the length of my hair when my eyes landed on the 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 laptop was on the coffee table in the closed position, clues and my notes scattered around it.

“Weird,” I muttered.

My cell phone was still in the guestroom, but there weren’t any new texts or missed calls when I woke. Surely if Asher left during my shower, he would’ve knocked on the door. Or left a note, at the very least. Doing a quick scan of the random pieces of paper on the coffee table told me that all the handwriting was my own. 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 where it was still laying. 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, though. Switching on my speakerphone, I dialed *86, and entered my password.

“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 usually 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 just 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.

Asher forgotten, I was out the door, down the elevator, and entering the main lobby faster than a running back doing his 40 yard dash time trial. Thirty seconds after hearing the message I was approaching Darrell’s post, wet hair and all.

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

“Sorry I missed your call.” As explanation, I pointed to my wet hair. “I was in the shower.”

“So I see,” Darrell replied, crinkling his nose as if my entrance had brought with it an unpleasant odor. Or maybe the thought of me in the shower was repugnant.

“So, is now still a good time to see those tapes?” I asked, changing the subject before the situation became any more awkward.

“It is, Miss. 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 p.m. on the day 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. That’s wonderful, really.”

I really was 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 for you in the office,” the desk guard continued. “Whenever you’re ready.”

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

Darrell gestured me around the desk, inviting me into his space. Giddy with anticipation, I followed him through the door and into the office. Considering the way I usually felt when just about to take a big step in the investigation, it struck me as somewhat odd that I wasn’t the least bit nervous about what or, more accurately, who I might see.

Not even two minutes after sitting down with Darrell in the office, I realized that I should’ve been incredibly nervous about watching the videos. I’d thought that learning the identity of the mystery guy was important, that it would be a game-changer.

And it certainly was.

Of the three potential suspects Darrell had identified, only one was wearing a baseball cap, just as Deidre had claimed, though 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 building through the backdoor.

What the f—

“I’M READY, I want to do it,” I said, voice trembling more than I’d have liked.

“Good afternoon, Miss Kingsley,” Rebecca said, looking somewhat taken aback. “Come on in.”

“Thanks,” I replied, already on my feet and moving through the door she held open. “But really, I’m ready to try it today.”

Entering Rebecca’s office, I went straight to the blue tweed couch in the corner and plopped down on the thick cushions. When I glanced up, I saw her grey eyes cutting over to me as she passed and took her seat in the matching chair across from me. Was that intrigue or fear that I saw? Hope or fear? By the time she finished adjusting her pencil skirt and looked straight at me, it, whatever ‘it’ was, was gone. Her face settled into that practiced face of interest free of judgment.

“Hypnosis, I mean,” I hurried on. “You’ve been saying for a while that you think I would benefit from it, that it might help me remember things that I don’t have a cognizant grasp of. I’m ready to try it.”

When she ran her fingers through her shoulder-length amber waves, the cushion-cut diamond ring Rebecca wore on her right hand twinkled in the light from the lamp on the table beside her. Dread overtook me in that moment, but I pushed it down. There was too much I needed to know.

“I don’t know, Lark, you seem a little antsy. Maybe not today, hmm? Maybe we can try—“

“No,” I interrupted. My decisive tone caught her attention. “I’m fine, really. Just excited. Or, well I don’t know, something like that.”

“Lark, you have been seeing me for over three years now, and I have never heard you use ‘excited’ when discussing your feelings about coming here. I suggested hypnotherapy months ago. Why is it that you would like to try it today? What is it that’s different about today?” Rebecca asked in her standard measured tone.

It took effort not to roll my eyes at her blatant head shrinking language. If I had a dollar for every time my therapist asked me ‘Why is it?’ or ‘What is it’ or—my personal favorite—‘How does that make you feel?’ I’d be richer than my father. And that was saying something.

After my “episode” and the resulting fallout, I’d thought I put anything of this nature behind me. But when my family moved to Manhattan several weeks later, my mother quickly got in on the longstanding Upper East Side parenting trend and sent me off to Dr. Rebecca Fullbrook.

After three years of therapy sessions, and listening to my friends discuss their own, I knew how to manipulate the shrink. As I fed Rebecca the right answers, the replies that I knew would satisfy her, I looked around her office high atop one of the most coveted office buildings in Manhattan. The antique desk on the far side of the room, the Tiffany lamp atop the carved mahogany table next to her, and every other inch of the understated but clearly expensive room spoke volumes about the worth of Dr. Fullbrook’s services to the progeny of the most powerful people in this city. My mother had chosen an excellent parent proxy.

“Talking to Adam just gave me that push I needed,” I concluded. “I have a lot of unresolved questions when it comes to him and that period in my life. A lot of my issues with my parents stem from their reaction…from what they did to me.”

“For you,” Rebecca replied automatically. “They did what they thought was best for you. Put yourself in their shoes—they were worried about you, Lark. They did what was best.”

“Right,” I said carefully. “I just think I might be able to better grasp their reasoning and their actions if I had a clear picture of what happened.”

Just like I knew it would, my ‘mature and well-reasoned’ reply caused Rebecca to nod her head in agreement. Finally.

“Just one thing,” I added, knowing how delicately I needed to handle this to avoid causing suspicion. “Now that I’m eighteen—”

“Oh, of course, I am so sorry, Lark. I forgot—happy birthday!” Rebecca reached across the space dividing us—what was considered a do-not-cross zone, usually—and squeezed my hand with her cold fingers. “How was your party?”

“It was great,” I said quickly, hurrying to shut down the possibility of a subject change. “But now that I’m eighteen, you ca…I mean, you won’t be discussing anything with my parents, correct?”

“Lark, I have explained this to you. The discussions I’ve held with your parents were only to give them an overview of how you’re doing, nothing more. And I never share anything specifically that we’ve talked about. The only reason I would ever have told them anything more is if I thought you were a danger to yourself or others. Or if a serious condition was evident. Now, however, no, I will not go to them for even those reasons. You are considered an adult now for many intents and purposes, including this one. Now, everything we discuss is only between you and me, always.”

“No biggie,” I said breezily, as if I hadn’t just made a point to ask. “I was just wondering. Now, how do we do this?”

“Just lay back,” Rebecca said, smiling at my eagerness. She was mistaking the reason behind it, but there was no way I was going to correct her.

Sliding off my baby pink ballet flats, I shifted so my feet were on the opposite end of the couch, my head resting against one of the downy soft throw pillows. Rebecca stood and crossed over to the gleaming cherry hutch beside her desk, the pair obviously a matching set. When she opened one of the cabinets and produced a video camera, an alarm went off inside my head, a voice furiously whispering that this was a bad idea.

“Wait, why…,” I paused to steady my voice, continuing in what I hoped came across as an off-handed query. “What’s the camera for?”

“Oh, it’s nothing to worry about,” Rebecca answered, her back still to me as she set up a tripod. “Some clients find that they don’t remember what we discuss during the session, and it’s easier for them to be able to watch it later. Sometimes—this won’t be the case with you, since we’re not dealing with anything too serious—but sometimes things that come out during hypnosis are difficult for the client to grasp. They may need to hear it coming from their own lips, rather than take my word for it.”

Staring at a spot on the back of Rebecca’s navy cashmere cardigan, I processed the new development and her words, wondering if this was still a good idea. When she turned to face me again, I kept my gaze on her stomach for a beat too long, carefully arranging my features before I met her eyes.

“Oh, Lark, there’s nothing to worry about here. I tape all of my hypnosis sessions. In this case, you simply may not remember, and may wish to view the tape, that’s all. I know the idea of not being in complete control of yourself may be frightening but…”

Rebecca carried on with her platitudes, but other thoughts consumed my mind. Even with all of the possibilities, all of the potential outcomes, I still knew that this was something I wanted to do. Maybe even needed to.

“It’s fine,” I said, waving off her explanations. “Let’s do this.”

“Close your eyes,” Rebecca said. “Take deep breaths, in through your nose, out through your mouth.”

“Now focus on your toes,” she said. “Continue your breathing and focus on your toes. I have to tell Linda we’re going to run late, but focus on you, on your toes relaxing, losing all tension, and then your feet.”

Though I heard her speaking softly to her receptionist on the intercom, telling Linda she could head home for the day, Rebecca’s voice barely registered as I followed her instructions.

“Your feet will start to feel heavy,” she continued, coming back to the armchair. “Let that heaviness travel up to your legs, your calves relaxing, slowly losing all tension. Now your thighs, heavy, relaxed, let go…”

For several long minutes I followed her directions until my entire body, even my hair, felt like lead. The sensation caused my mind to feel lighter, free, but at the same time distant somehow. As if my thoughts and body were no longer attached, and my consciousness tied to neither of them.

“How do you feel?” Rebecca’s words were soft and soothing, travelling into my mind almost as if a thought of my own.

“Unsure.”

I heard my voice replying, but there was no cognizant intention to go with it. A part of me bucked at the sensation, fighting against the loss of control. Strangely, it was as if I could see the actual thought, the words hovering in my view: This is a bad idea.

“You’re safe, Lark,” Rebecca soothed. “You’re safe in your surroundings. Relax, deeper, let everything go…this is a safe space, let go….”

The soft voice continued with its gentle instruction and the words fell upon me like a soft, warm blanket. I found myself automatically complying and, as if I’d physically swiped them away with my hand, the words of warning disappeared from my view.

There was no longer a need to focus or to think. I simply was.

“Go back, Lark. Let your mind fall back. To when you lived in Connecticut.”

“Uh huh.” The second syllable was drawn out, almost as if a child was responding to Rebecca.

“How old are you?”

“Six and a half.”

“Where are you, sweetheart?”

“It’s a secret,” my voice replied in an exaggerated whisper.

“Why’s that?” Rebecca whispered back.

“’Cause it’s my special hiding place.”

“It’s okay sweetheart, I can keep a secret.”

“Hmm, I dunno. If I tell you, you can’t tell anyone else, ‘kay?”

“Of course.”

“It’s the couch in Daddy’s office, but don’t tell anyone. I like to sit here with my books.”

“Who are you hiding from?”

“Mommy. And Nanny, too.”

“Why are you hiding?”

“Mommy is yelling at Nanny. I hate when Mommy yells. Especially at Nanny. Nanny is always nice to me, she never says no when I want to play with my dollies.”

“Can you hear what they’re saying?”

A quiet giggle escaped my lips.

“Mommy says Nanny is joking. Nanny tells such funny jokes.”

“Is your mom laughing?”

“No,” I replied sadly. “Mommy never laughs at my jokes, either.”

Suddenly my face scrunched up.

“Why didn’t nanny take my temperature? I didn’t get to stay home from school or have soup and watch cartoons, either.”

“Why would you do those things?”

“I get special days when I don’t feel well.”

“Are you sick?”

“I don’t feel sick. But Nanny is telling Mommy that I have to go to the doctor again. That’s why they’re having a row. That’s what an argument is called where Nanny is from,” my young voice went from sounding exasperated to proud.

“Do you go to the doctor a lot?”

“No, Nanny did take me to the doctor yesterday, though. Mommy came, too, but I didn’t like that. She wouldn’t let me have a lollipop. I always get a lollipop when I go see the doctor. Mommy says they will rot my teeth and make me f…”

My prattling paused while I evidently listened to the conversation in the next room. Without warning, sadness washed over me like a wave.

“Mommy says Nanny can’t stay here anymore. She says…” my voice trembled, wavering on the edge of tears. “She says she has to leave. I love Nanny, I don’t want her to go.”

Tears streamed down my face. Even though there was a sense of detachment from my physical body, I could feel the wetness on my cheeks.

“Shhh, it’s okay, Lark,” Rebecca lulled. “Go forward now, move on, let the years pass.”

The tears ceased and I felt my head nod as I followed her instructions.

“How old are you now, Lark?”

“Eleven,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. This wasn’t the same exaggerated whisper of a child. The word was exhaled with my breath.

“What do you see?” Rebecca quietly asked.

“It’s dark.”

“What are you doing?”

“Hiding.”

“Who are you hiding from now?”

“Everyone.”

“Can you tell me where you are?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know, or don’t want to tell me?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s around you?”

“You can’t talk to me now.”

“Why not?”

Rebecca’s question was rewarded with silence.

“Okay Lark, move on now. Move forward through the years. You’re in eighth grade now.”

“Uh huh,” my voice answered, my tone no longer hushed.

“Where are you?”

“In my room.”

There was a touch of melancholy in the words.

“What’s around you?”

“My birthday presents. They’re all sitting on my comforter.”

“What are you doing?”

“Sitting on my bed. I’m supposed to be writing Thank You notes, but I’m thinking about Adam instead.”

“And what are you thinking?”

“I’m wishing he didn’t like boys. I’m wondering if it will change.”

“Why’s that?”

“A part of me still wants him to be my first serious boyfriend.”

“Go forward a few months, Lark. To the last time you saw Adam in Connecticut.”

“It’s the last week of school,” I heard myself say, my voice stronger and full of confidence.

“Are you in class?”

“Yep. Social studies. Mrs. Edelmen is going over the last stuff that will be on the exam. Bo-ring.”

“And what are you doing?”

“Passing back the note Adam just sent me about our end of the year party. It’s going to be so awesome, everyone who’s anyone is coming. I can’t wait until school is over, our moms are taking us to try all the food from the caterers and pick what we want them to serve. We’re going to have waiters passing around the food and soda, and no parents. Chris Larson’s older brother is going to get us a bottle of vodka.”

“What happened next?”

“Chris just passed me a note. He wants to know if I’ll be his girlfriend. We kissed at my birthday party during truth or dare.”

“What are you thinking about Lark?”

“He is really cute. And his older brother drives us places. It could be a really fun summer if I say yes.”

“No, I mean…are you thinking about anything else?”

“A little about Jon. I thought he liked me, but maybe he doesn’t. Chris is funny. I like that, too. And he hasn’t hooked up with a bunch of girls, so I think I’m going to say yes.”

“What else is happening around you, Lark?”

“Mrs. Edelmen is walking up and down the rows between our desks. I have to hide the notes from Adam and Chris under my notebook or she’s going to take them. That would be so humiliating.”

“What is she saying, Lark?”

“That this lecture will be on the exam.”

“Do you hear anything besides your teacher talking?”

“No,” I replied with a huff.

“What is the lecture about? Tell me what Mrs. Edelmen is saying.”

“Global politics. Like I said, so boring. She’s explaining about the people who fight against their governments. How they make people join them using violence…. They…they take over regions and buy weapons, so they can grow and take over more….Insurgents, she calls them…”

My voice trailed off, followed by a long pause. A lump was forming in my throat, making it hard to breathe.

“What else?” Rebecca gently urged.

“They…the kids…she said…no. She said…how can…ohh, the boy, the boy, the boy…no…not him! The terrible things…he just…no…there’s so much blood…the way they….”

“Lark, it’s time to wake up now,” Rebecca’s voice sounded far away at first. But as she continued, the words were spoken loudly in a clear, firm voice that sounded as if it were drawing near. “Open your eyes.”

At first, my body and mind still weren’t connected. It took several tries to rejoin the two and lift my lids. When I finally did, my vision swam in front of me. My eyelashes felt heavy, weighed down. Swiping my hand over my face, it came away damp.

“Whoa,” I said, sitting up to quickly. Using both hands, I wiped the tears from my eyes, and then ran my fingers through my hair. “That was so weird.”

Looking over at Rebecca, I was startled by the expression on her face. She looked shaken and…was that fear?

“Yes,” she replied, visibly struggling to pull herself together, and put her professional demeanor in place. “It certainly was.”

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, 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 even try to hide my reaction from Darrell. Instead, I ran with it. Explaining that, yes, I knew the guy on the tape. That he was another cousin of mine. Elaborating on the ruse, I rambled on about our family tree and how hoodie/hat guy, Ms. Quattrocchi, and I all fit together.

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. Somewhere, buried really deep inside of me, I think I knew that there was at least one reasonable explanation for the situation. But, bottom line, Asher lied.

A lot.

I mean, was he 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. Besides, it didn’t really fit. Lark knew, or at least suspected, something was going to happen to her, long before she vanished. That was evidenced by all the clues, the elaborate preparations that began nearly a year before she vanished from JFK. 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 as it vibrated against the marble countertop nearly caused me to jump out of my skin.

Back in Lark’s apartment, I paced the kitchen while I planned next move. Snatching up the phone, I looked at the display and froze. Asher’s name flashed up at me. Warning bells began to toll inside my head. My first thought was to let the call go to voicemail. What was I going to say to him? My award-worthy performance for Darrell aside, I wasn’t a good enough actress to pretend as though nothing was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

Everything was very wrong.

Calm down and breathe, I told myself.

The phone buzzed again in my hand.

Answer it. Get this over with now.

Taking a deep breath, I put on a smile, hoping the expression would come through in my voice, and hit the answer button.

“Hey, Asher,” I said. “Way to leave without so much as a note. I was worried.”

Impressed by how calm and collected I sounded, I smiled for real.

Asher, on the other hand, sounded hurried and strained when he spoke.

“Listen, Raven, we need to talk,” he said, without preamble.

Yes, yes we do, I thought.

“That’s funny, I was thinking exactly the same thing,” I replied evenly.

“I know you’re supposed to meet with Darrell soon to look at those tapes, but I’m stuck on campus right now and can’t get away. Do you mind waiting until tonight, so we can go together? I’d really like to be there.”

I bet you do.

“Sure. What time will you be free? I’d like to give Darrell a heads up.”

“Um, I have a study group until two. I can meet you at the Pines around three?”

I cut my eyes to the clock on the microwave: 11:22 a.m. Roughly three and a half hours to devise a plan.

“Sounds good. You said you have a study group? Where are you guys meeting?”

“Downtown. There’s a little coffee shop at 21st and K.”

The answer was so quick, without the slightest hesitation, that it had to be true. Whether Asher was actually meeting with a study group, though—that was an entirely different story.

“Cool. What time are you guys meeting?”

“One o’clock…. Why the twenty questions? You never ask about my classes and stuff.”

Though Asher chuckled—you know, because teasing usually required mirth—the sound was definitely brittle and forced.

If this exchange took place even twenty-four hours ago, his dig about my lack of interest in his classes would’ve made me feel guilty. Asher was right about that; I rarely asked about his life outside of me. But it wasn’t because I was being rude, and he knew that. Maybe he even took advantage of it.

The search for Lark consumed every moment of my day. It was all I ever thought about. Now I realized how short-sighted I’d been. Looking for Lark’s clues had blinded me to the ones Asher was leaving behind. Of course, as all of these things occurred to me, I began to realize just how many there were.

Like his erratic class schedule, and Jessica, the girl from the tea shop.

At the time, I’d though Asher’s behavior towards her odd. He’d been standoffish, rude even, to someone who was supposed to be a classmate. Now I understood why. He wasn’t uninterested in making friends at school. Nothing about her had been grating to his nerves. Asher was worried about saying the wrong thing. She talked about assignments, classes and professors. He gave clipped one-word answers. Had she persisted, she might’ve inadvertently exposed that he wasn’t in law school. No wonder he was in such a bloody hurry.

And the tape. He had been so adamant that I not watch it. Even went so far as to invent some random FBI friend of his father’s.

What about his father…was he even in politics? Or was that just a convenient lie since we were in Washington, DC? It definitely made him seem like more of a stand-up guy, that his father was someone important.

“Raven?”

“Huh? Yeah, I’m here. Sorry, I was lost in my head,” I said, realizing that I’d grown silent.

Luckily I was in shock, so my voice didn’t quiver with fury. I probably should’ve been scared, but my rage towards Asher was overwhelmingly trumping that instinct.

“And I’m sorry I don’t ask about your classes more, I’ve been really selfish,” I added. “I know how important school is and you’re right, I really should ask you about it more often. I’ll be better about it, I promise. Starting today, in fact. You can tell me all about your study group when I see you later.”

Even over the phone, I felt Asher grow uneasy. I could just imagine him squirming on the other end of the line. Though maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part.

“You don’t need to apologize. Finding Lark is your number one priority right now, I get it. It should be.”

“Thanks for being so understanding, Asher. I couldn’t do all of this without you.”

“So, three, at the Pines?”

“See you then,” I said, about to hang up when I realized he’d never gotten around to the reason he’d called. “Oh, wait—what did you want to talk about?”

Asher hesitated. There was a low hum of conversation in the background. I pressed my ear against the phone. Was that a radio? Was Asher in a car?

“It can wait until later,” he finally said.

“You sure?” I asked. Part of me wanted to know why he’d been so serious, what he’d needed to know.

“Yep.”

“Cool. See you at three.”

With that I hung up. The rest of me didn’t give a crap about hearing any more of his lies.

Now what? I thought.

There was a lot to figure out in the next three hours. Somehow, I had to decide how to handle things with Asher. Did I come right out and confront him? Tell him that I’d seen the tapes, and knew he’d been the one Deidre saw entering Lark’s apartment? What other option did I have? The authorities? Maybe it was time to turn over the evidence I’d collected to the professionals. Then they could handle Asher. Whoever he was.

Sorrow suddenly overcame the anger and I was adrift, lost in a sea of uncertainty.

The one person I trusted. The only person I could count on.

The most brilliant deception is a mask of friendship hiding a foe in plain sight. And Asher had played the part with exceptional skill. But it was all just a carefully built façade that I’d never thought to question. He’d been lying to me for weeks. I couldn’t even begin to guess the extent of his betrayal.

Was anything true? Was every word he uttered a lie?

There’s one way to find out, I decided.

Asher was scheduled to meet his supposed study group in just over an hour. Although I had serious doubts about what he was actually doing at the coffee shop on 21st and K St., I was fairly sure he’d be there. The best lies are built with bricks of truth. And his response had been immediate, no hesitation. If I hurried, I could be there when Asher and whomever he was meeting arrived. Incognito, of course.

Quickly collecting my computer from the coffee table, I shoved it into my messenger bag. As it slid into the laptop compartment without snagging, I realized that something was missing.

The flash drive. It was no longer plugged into one of the USB ports.

“You little asshole,” I muttered, knowing exactly who was responsible for the theft.

Angry and distracted, I slid my feet into a pair of flip-flops and retrieved my car keys from the table near the door. A creamy white envelope caught my attention. Had it been there before? I wondered. No, definitely not. It was too large to go unnoticed for long.

The front of the envelope was blank, the flap on the back hanging loose. I glanced around the apartment, as if the sender would materialize in the small foyer. No such luck. Reaching inside, I felt for the contents: several thick pages of stationary.

More curious than nervous, I unfolded the top sheet and scanned the document. It was a letter, written in a loopy scrawl that I knew well. Just in case I was somehow making this all up, I read the signature at the bottom.

Lark Kingsley.

But that wasn’t what made my fingers go numb, what caused the single sheet to fall from my trembling hands.

My name at the top.

The letter was addressed to me. Raven.

Gulping for air, I took several steps backwards, as if the letter had teeth it wanted to sink into my leg.

Where did the letter come from? Who left it? Lark? Asher? Blake?

No. No, no, no. I cannot deal with this right now. One problem at a time. Asher. He’s going to be there soon. He’s the most immediate concern.

But…what if he wasn’t?

What if this letter, a letter from Lark to me, meant she was alive? Possibly even in the District.

Asher has been lying to you, regardless, I thought.

Right, and confronting him is probably stupid and dangerous, I countered my own argument.

Kneeling down to retrieve it, I picked up the letter with two fingers and shoved it into my bag. I needed to get out of the apartment. I needed to clear my head. Things were happening too fast. It was all too much. I needed a pause button on my life so I could take a minute and digest everything.

But that wasn’t an option. Not if I wanted to find out who Asher was meeting.

Get it together, Raven.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Okay.

I was okay.

I’d go to the coffee shop. Read the letter from Lark while waiting for Asher and his friend to show up. Two birds, one stone.

Besides the letter itself, there were still three pages inside the envelope. Without bothering to check what they were, I dropped the envelope into my messenger bag and headed out the door.

Parking downtown in the middle of the day was a nightmare. After circling the block three times, I sucked it up and paid twenty-five dollars to valet my car. Otherwise, I was going to be late for my stalking date. And I really wanted—no, I needed—to be hidden in the corner before Asher arrived.

Going the classic spy route, I took a pair of oversized sunglasses that obscured half of my face. Unfortunately, it didn’t occur to me until I was already there that wearing shades inside was going to draw attention, instead of acting as a disguise. Luckily, there was a man selling Nationals paraphernalia on K Street. Jogging over to the little stand, I handed him a ten in exchange for a baseball cap.

Not exactly the best camouflage, but it was something.

Since Asher didn’t give me the name of the coffee shop, I was flying blind there. Luckily, there were only three choices, and two were chains: Starbucks and Cosi. The third was a place called, Don’t Sleep the Day Away. Gamble though it was, I went with the mom-and-pop shop. Not only because Asher had offhandedly mentioned several times that he preferred patronizing non-corporate establishments—truth? lie?—but also because it was the only one that was physically on the corner of 21st and K St. Given that neither of those were actual guarantees, I made a deal with myself to change locations if Asher didn’t arrive by 1:15 p.m.

I checked the time on my cell: 12:48 p.m. Twelve minutes. Though I was worried he might show up early, I didn’t want to be kicked out of the restaurant for not ordering anything, so I risked grabbing a cup of coffee. Thankfully, the line was relatively short, only three deep, and I had my mocha in hand in less than five minutes. My luck continued when I spotted a vacant two-person table in the back corner by a hallway to the bathrooms. From there, I had the perfect view of the entire place. Plus, no one could sneak up behind me.

Rushing over to the empty table, I sat down and set up my laptop. It was the perfect item to duck down and hide my face behind, since many other café patrons were doing the same. Yep, I was blending. Meanwhile, I’d been scanning the crowded coffee shop for signs of Asher ever since I’d set foot inside. Still no sign of him.

Lark’s letter was calling to me from inside the messenger bag, but I ignored the summons. One thing at a time, I told myself. Truthfully, I was worried that I’d get so caught up in reading it—Lark’s first words to me, specifically—that Asher and the Dalai Lama could show up and I wouldn’t notice.

The clock in the corner of my computer screen read 1:01 p.m. Asher was late. Or maybe I was wrong about the place. Or maybe Asher had lied about the meeting altogether. Or maybe….

Give it ten minutes.

At 1:04, the front door opened. My involuntary gasp drew a strange look from the guy at the next table. The newest patron, a guy with dark curly hair and gold aviators, paused briefly inside the doorway. He pushed the sunglasses up onto his head, revealing piercing bright green eyes.

Blake Greyfield gave the room a once-over.

Slinking down in my chair, I concentrated all of my energy on making myself as small as possible.

W.T.F.

Could that possibly be a coincidence? What were the odds on that?

Slim.

Blake ordered a cup of coffee, and then found an empty table in the middle of the café. He didn’t get out a book or computer. Lark’s boyfriend sat perfectly still, muscles rigid and tensed. Though his hands were wrapped around a mug of steaming liquid, he didn’t take a single sip.

Was Asher coming here, somehow knowing that Blake would be here, to confront him?

About what?

Blake was sitting in such a way that only his chiseled profile was visible from my vantage point. All the same, I could tell he was deeply entrenched in watching the door—that single point consumed all of his focus. So, I watched him watch the door, just as interested in the arrival of whoever he was waiting for as Blake was.

My eyes darted between Blake, the clock on my computer, and the front door. I repeated the circuit over and over again, until I was dizzy from the effort. And still I kept an eye on all three.

And then, at precisely 1:12, my downstairs neighbor strode into the coffee shop.

Blake Greyfield stood.

He waved Asher over to his table.

No uncertainty remained. This was a planned meeting.

With a quick nod of his head, the typical greeting behind two men, my faux friend wove his way through the sea of tables to join Blake. I didn’t bother to pretend that I wasn’t openly gawking. In total, utter, and complete shock, I couldn’t bring myself to care—maybe I even hoped—that one of them might notice me.

Asher sat, withdrew something small from the pocket of his khaki shorts, and placed it on the table. I strained to see the object, but too many obstacles were in the way. Neither guy looked in my direction. They began speaking, in tones too low for me to hear five tables away.

It was like my feet had a mind of their own. They were underneath me, one moving in front of the other at a steady pace, carrying my body towards Blake and Asher before I even registered the idea. Suddenly, I was standing beside their table, pulling out a chair, when Blake finally realized they were no longer alone.

Those brilliant emerald eyes shone from beneath inky black lashes and, for a moment, I was lost in their depths. Emotions I didn’t understand swirled inside of me, making my chest ache. Tears prick my eyes.

“R-R-Raven?” Asher stuttered.

My head snapped to the left when he spoke. The spell that had temporarily come over me dissolved.

“Hello, Asher,” I said, my voice as cold and hard as ice.

Dismissing him, I turned to face Lark’s boyfriend again. The hard edges of the ice instantly melted as I spoke to him.

“It’s Blake, right?”

Blake Greyfield stared, seemingly unable to speak.

Folding my hands on the table, I glanced back and forth between the two guys.

“So,” I said. “Who wants to tell me what the fuck is going on?”

I DON’T UNDERSTAND. Nothing makes any sense. I feel like the whole world is conspiring against me. I left. I made it out. How is it possible that one minute I was sitting in a coffee shop, gleefully writing about my newfound freedom, and the next I woke up back in this bed, back in this dreaded hellhole? As if I’d never left.

The calm. The forced pleasantness. The pretending, always pretending. I couldn’t physically take it. So I went to David. I confronted him. I demanded answers, demanded to know the truth. And I’m terrified by what he said. Terrified that I’ll forget what he said. Because I know it’s important. Incomprehensible, senseless, but important.

I’m going to write it all here so I’ll remember.

Let me start at the beginning….

I ran to David’s office. Sprinted past the alarmed people who were poised to take me down. Fuck them. I didn’t stop, I went straight to the top. Straight to David.

I yelled. After months and months of keeping my cool, never once raising my voice, never once flipping my shit, I lost it. Every fiber of my being screamed for him to hear me. To answer me. To stop dodging the questions and finally give me what I deserve: the truth.

For months I’ve craved those answers like a junkie craves their next fix. The bits and starts and vague comments in response to my pleas were just as cruel as waving a baggie in front of me, keeping the sweet relief in my sight but out of my reach.

A girl can only take so much.

As I lost it, I knew I was losing it. I felt my control slipping through my fingers, and so I opened my fist and surrendered to the release. For the hundredth time, I asked why I was here. But gone was the polite girl and her gracious inquiries. Long pent-up desperation bled from my words, splattering us both in rage and despair.

You know why, he said, infuriatingly clam.

I don’t! I bellowed. I don’t! I don’t know!

Lark, be honest with yourself. You know why, he said, his calm demeanor never wavering.

That calm was like a needle upon which the balloon of my emotions sat…I could still myself to prevent an explosion. Or I could push back. Shove back with all my fury and all my might, until every ounce of emotion that I’d held bottled up during my time in captivity burst forth like lava from an active volcano.

Would I be able to pick up the pieces if that happened? Would pulling myself back together even be possible? The thought terrified me. Once the darkness swallowed me, I doubted if I’d ever be able to claw my way back to the light.

Seething, I said the thing I wasn’t supposed to say. Mentioned the unmentionable. Turned the volume to an ear-splitting roar on the whisper that haunted my every minute here.

My. Parents. Cannot. Keep. Me. Here.

I practically spat the words at David, every syllable carrying the weight of the truth that no one acknowledged but everyone understood. It wouldn’t be so hard, just opening their mouths and letting the truth slip through. Deep down in the depths of my soul, I knew it would set me free. I just needed to hear David say it.

When I decided to fling that figurative door open, to finally dash through, I never expected for it to be slammed shut behind me. To be faced with another door. Equally locked and sealed and impenetrable.

You’re not here because of your parents, Lark.

His reply was simple and matter-of-fact, and I saw the truth in his watery eyes. He met my gaze full-on, dared me to find a hint of deception. But I didn’t. Because there wasn’t any.

Falling. I was falling. Instead of being elevated to freedom, I landed in another circle of hell, below the one where I’d believed my parents were responsible for my captivity. New depths of desperation swirled around me, pulling me deeper and threatening to swallow me whole.

With tears streaming down my face, I whispered the question again, for the hundred-and-first time.

Why am I here? Who brought me here?

David answered my question with one of his own.

You don’t remember?

The last thing I remembered from before, from my life before, was the butterfly. The necklace. The files. After months of indecision I’d decided to put my plan into action. Sitting at my desk, I transferred the files to the necklace, to keep them close always. To carry the weight of the truth, the reality of everything I had and everything I was, around my neck every day. Whether it was for this penance, or to protect the answers, I wasn’t sure.

For all intents and appearances, I’d been a normal, carefree girl sitting at her desk, perhaps searching excitedly for things to do on her upcoming vacation. A girl only months out of high school, and weeks away from the life her parents had carefully planned. A girl with a bright future, full of promise and prosperity.

Only I knew the truth: I was a girl a few short weeks away from the life I’d carefully planned. From the freedom I’d methodically arranged. From slipping the noose my parents had tied.

The fact I’d been dealing with something much darker, much heavier, wouldn’t have been apparent to any onlooker. I was so careful, never allowing the façade crack, let alone crumble. But I’d been holding my breath for months, waiting for McAvoy to slip into my room at night and smother the truth and my life all at once. If something happened to me, I needed a way for the world to know. A way to ensure they’d see, even if someone silenced me forever.

That was why I had the butterfly.

With the weight of the world, the weight of the truth, and the weight of the love I’d lost, just moments from crashing down on me, moments from burying me within the rubble, I met David’s eyes.

One hundred and two.

Why am I here? Who brought me here?

Was that hesitation I saw? A falter in his seemingly steel resolve?

Fixing my eyes with his, David took a deep breath. The long, slow exhale that followed was shaky, as if he was expelling a tremendous burden along with all of that air.

Lila, he said plainly. It was Lila.

The boulders hovered just above my head, each one representing all of the things I’d lost—my future, my love, my innocence, my world. All of that weight had been waiting with bated breath for David’s answer.

All of that weight thundered down upon me.

The world turned black, and I was lost.

THE DOOR TO his boss’s office was cracked open about an inch. He knew he should knock, it was protocol, after all, but his nerves drove him to rudeness. In a panic, he shoved the door open with nothing more than the flipping and flopping of his shoes to signal his arrival.

“We have a problem,” he blurted, not waiting for his boss to acknowledge him before rushing on. “I don’t know if I’m the right person to handle this anymore. I think…I think, um…. It seems that the situation is worse than we thought.”

The older man—who was not only his boss, but also head of the entire classification—glanced up from where he was eating breakfast at his desk. Bushy eyebrows crawled up the man’s forehead as he was startled by the interruption first thing in the morning. No one interrupted him. Ever. Particularly not with an outburst. The one hardboiled egg and dry wheat toast were mostly consumed already, much to the relief of his employee.

“Please, sit. Explain.”

The employer’s muddy brown eyes assessed the younger man’s rumpled appearance. Having caught sight of his reflection in the car’s rearview mirror, he knew what his boss saw. Strands of his sandy blonde hair stuck out every which way. A fine, red webbing surrounded his brown irises from too little sleep and too much caffeine. He hadn’t bothered changing his clothes before leaving, and the flip flops and khaki shorts were a far cry from the attire he usually sported in this setting. Even his fingernails, chewed bloody on the four-hour drive, indicated a man on the edge.

“I don’t even know where to start,” the younger man said.

His boss wiped the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin, then leaned back in the leather office chair and crossed one leg over the other. Threading thick fingers from both hands together, he placed them on the small paunch of his stomach. Clearly, the diet wasn’t working yet.

“The beginning would be preferable,” his boss said.

The newcomer took a deep breath and tried to gather his thoughts. In his head, he’d scripted this very conversation twenty times on the drive north. Now that he was there, sitting in the very office where he’d pleaded for this assignment months ago, he was at a loss for words.

“First off—did you know about the apartment?” he asked.

“I told you when we spoke last week that I did not. Though, admittedly, I did assume that she probably had a place in the city. It was rented in Lila’s name, did you say?” his boss replied.

“Yeah. There’s also a safety deposit box that I believe is in Lila’s name. She found it a couple of days ago.”

“And that is where she found the package addressed to Mr. Greyfield?”

The employee nodded in affirmation.

“I see. And she mailed the package?”

Another nod.

“Have you found out what was inside of that package?”

“No, sir. Not exactly. But Blake went to the apartment last night, which is—”

“You didn’t call me immediately?” his boss interrupted. “Did she see him?”

“No, I…I mean, yes. Well, no, I didn’t know when to call you. Yes, she did see him. But only very briefly,” he said, looking like a scolded puppy. “And they did not speak.”

“I see.”

The two syllables were a stall-tactic that his boss frequently employed, so he waited the older man out. He was already aware of his boss’s intense displeasure with this development. Not that the younger man could blame him, or that he himself felt any differently about it. Blake’s appearance at Lark’s apartment had been unexpected. Blake was a wild card that they couldn’t control. Which had the potential to be dangerous. Neither he nor his boss had planned to involve the boyfriend. At least, not yet.

“Forgive me, but I fail to see an issue that warranted you driving all the way up here. Particularly since that means you left Raven unsupervised,” his boss rebuked in a stern tone.

“Sorry, sir. I’m getting to that.”

He inhaled deeply, just as his boss had always taught him to do when dealing with a particularly stressful situation, followed by a long, slow exhale. Only after this exercise did the young man continue.

“When Blake stopped by last night, it was to drop off a key. As it turns out, that key unlocks a secret compartment on a butterfly necklace that I didn’t even know about.”

His boss’s watery eyes widened, smoothing the wrinkles at the edges. He made a move-it-along gesture with one of his hands, clearly impatient for his employee to get to the point.

“Inside the secret compartment was a flash drive. And on the flash drive are a ton of video files. These include recordings of Kingsley Diamond’s board meetings, and conference calls between Mr. Kingsley and his second-in-command—a man named William McAvoy.”

The employee reached into the front pocket of his shorts and withdrew both the gold and opal butterfly pendant and the corresponding key. After inserting and turning the latter, the younger man gently pushed back the twin hinged doors concealing the end of the jump drive. Then he then leaned forward and placed both items on the desk.

“I think you’re going to want to see this for yourself, David,” the employee said.

His boss didn’t move. Instead, he simply stared at the flash drive, as if it contained the answers to all the most daunting questions in the world. In a way, it might’ve.

“Did she watch this?” David demanded. “Did you?”

“She only saw the beginning, which is mostly innocuous meetings. After she went to bed, I watched the whole thing.”

“I see.” David paused. The wheels in his mind spun as he considered his next move. “And is what we’re looking for on that drive?”

“I believe so,” the employee hedged, not wanting to be wrong.

“Really?” David asked, his dark eyes gleaming eagerly as he leaned forward.

The younger man paused, considering the gravity of his next words. The stakes were tremendously high. As was the cost of a mistake. Many lives hung on the answer to this question. Probably even more than they’d initially calculated.

After careful consideration, he hedged his response appropriately.

“I believe so,” he repeated. “But obviously you will need to make that decision yourself. It’s your opinion that matters.”

“Remarkable,” David breathed. “Do you have any idea what this means? This is unprecedented….”

He trailed off, lost in the implications of this discovery.

The younger man began to feel uncomfortable. Would all humanity be stripped from his assignment? Unsure, he waited patiently until his boss spoke again.

“Does she know you have it?”

He shrugged.

“I don’t know, sir. She was asleep when I took it. I’m not sure when she will discover that it’s missing.”

Remembering himself, David leaned back in his chair and easily assumed his composed façade once more. After over a minute of silent deliberation, he came to a decision.

“I will make a copy of the files and send the original back to D.C. with you. If the recordings are as significant as you believe, then I don’t want our girl left alone. Do not let her out of your sight. Especially with Mr. Greyfield coming around,” David said. After thinking for several moments more, he continued.

“You must talk to him, you know? Mr. Greyfield. See how he feels about this situation. Divulge only as much as you have to. If he’s onboard, it might be a good time to bring him into the fold. He could be quite valuable to our cause. If not, you’ll just have to see that he stays far away from Raven.”

“She’s going to want to watch the rest of the videos. What should I do?”

Sighing, David looked up at the ceiling. It was something he always did when pondering particularly delicate situations.

“In time, certainly. But…,” he trailed off, then resumed his ceiling-gazing.

“Sir, if I may suggest something?”

His boss arched one eyebrow.

“Certainly,” he said, seeming almost amused that his employee would have an idea.

“The video of particular interest to us is only one of many. Perhaps you’d want to view it now? If you agree with me about it, we can simply remove it from the data drive before returning it to her. Then, when the time is right, you can choose when and where it is revealed to her.”

Since it was nearly impossible to elicit an observable response from his boss, the young man was particularly proud when—for the second time that day—he was able to do so. David shot him a look of pride before nodding in approval. Then the older man wheeled his chair off to the side, and gestured to the laptop sitting on his desk.

The employee hurried around to the other side of the massive mahogany desk—a line he’d never before crossed—and set about queuing up the video in question. After pressing play, he stepped back, watching the horror unfold on the screen for the second time in twelve hours.

Throughout the sixteen minute clip, he glanced over at David every so often to gauge his employer’s opinion. Meanwhile, even though he’d seen it before, he again felt utter disgust rise within him, accompanied by sheer appall, while it played. Unlike the other time he saw it, though, he began to appreciate the extent of what it meant for Lark Kingsley. And his heart shattered into a million pieces.

Conversely, despite the appalling content, David’s reaction was imperceptible. Which should’ve been impossible.

When the video ended, David continued to stare at the screen while his employee crossed back to his proper side of the desk and took a seat once more. After several minutes, when David still had not moved or said a word, the younger man cleared his throat. This served to bring his boss back to the present.

“That…that’s it,” David said, equally astonished and exhilarated. “This is…this is incredible.

The younger man found David’s choice of words abhorring. While he understood why his boss would feel that way, he did not share the sentiment.

“Is there anything else on here of the same…nature?” David asked.

“No,” the employee answered. “Some elusion to the subject, but nothing at all like…that.”

“Very well,” his boss said, suddenly spurred into action.

Opening a desk drawer, the older man withdrew a USB drive of his own and plugged it in to the laptop along with the other one. He then proceeded to copy all of the files over, before deleting the single video from the gold-ensconced jump drive. As he watched, the younger man felt a deep sense of relief that he had—without the knowledge of his employer—already made his own duplicate of the drive in its entirety before arriving.

Finished, his boss slid the gold and opal butterfly pendant back across the desk.

“If you can, try to stall for a couple of days,” David instructed. “That will give me some time to watch the rest of them myself and determine just how to move forward.”

“Yes, of course,” his employee responded automatically.

“Also, if you happen to see Lila, find out what she knows about the videos,” David requested. “Since Lark hid the flash drive so well, I’d wager that the contents somehow play into the little scavenger hunt.”

“I will be sure to ask her,” he promised.

“Lastly, don’t forget to call Mr. Greyfield on your way back to D.C. to set up a meeting. Call me after you’ve spoken with him.”

“Yes, sir,” the younger man said, recognizing the dismissive tone for what it was.

Standing up, he retreated back to the door he’d entered through. His hand was on the doorknob when David called after him.

“And, Mr. Asher?”

The young man turned when his boss called to him.

“Yes?”

“Keep Raven close. She’s our only chance.”

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As usual, there are so many people we want to thank. Barb Gordon, for her never-ending support and patience. For always listening to us and indulging our latest, greatest idea with a smile. For spreading the word about our books to anyone who will listen, particularly when we are in a social media blackout while finishing a book. Nadege Richards for making our books beautiful, even on a moment’s notice. Jaclyn Mara, who we only just met at BEA this past May, but who has become a vital part of the Sophie Davis Book family. The Street Team, because you guys rock! Our parents, your love and support means the world to us. The wonderful people at a certain streaming video conglomerate for refusing to play the horror movies we pay for, and forcing us to work instead. And the two little girls in the little pink house who started us down this novel-writing path so many years ago and didn’t even know it.

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading Platinum Prey!

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Table of Contents

- Other Books by Sophie
- Lark-Journal Entry One
- I-Lark
- II-Raven
- III-Lark
- IV-Raven
- V-Lark
- VI-Raven
- VII-Lark
- VIII-Raven
- IX-Lark
- Lark-Journal Entry Two
- X-Lark
- XI-Raven
- XII-Lark
- XIII-Raven
- XIV-Lark
- XV-Raven
- XVI-Lark
- XVII-Raven
- Lark
- XVIII-Raven
- Lark-Journal Entry Three
- XIX-Raven
- Lark-Journal Entry Four
- XX-Raven
- XXI-Lark
- XXII-Raven
- XXIII-Lark
- XXIV-Raven
- Lark-Journal Entry Five
- Epilogue
- Social Media Links
- Acknowledgements