

FRAGILE FAÇADE

BLIND BARRIERS BOOK ONE

A PROJECT SCION WORLD NOVEL

Sophie Davis

Fragile Façade (Blind Barriers Trilogy #1)

Second Edition Copyright © 2017 by Sophie Davis Enterprises

Published by Sophie Davis Enterprises at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share my book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchase for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

In memory of our precious buddy, Humphrey.

You would've made an excellent detective.

ALSO BY SOPHIE DAVIS

Blind Barriers Trilogy

Fragile Façade (Blind Barriers Trilogy #1)

Platinum Prey (Blind Barriers Trilogy #2)

Vacant Voices (Blind Barriers Trilogy #3)

The Talented Saga

Talented (Talented Saga #1)

Caged (Talented Saga #2)

Hunted (Talented Saga #3)

Captivated (A Talented Novella) (Talented Saga #3.5)

Created (Talented Saga #4)

 Exiled: Kenly's Story (Talented Saga #5)

 Marked (Talented Saga #6)

 Privileged (Talented Saga #7)

 Fated (Talented Saga #8)

Timewaves Series

The Syndicate (Timewaves Series #1)

Atlic (Timewaves Series #2)

Legends Untold (Timewaves Series #3)

"The secret of a great success...

is a crime that has never been found out,

because it was properly executed."

—HONORÉ DE BALZAC
Table of Contents

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

### Prologue

#### Lark

Lark. Lark. Lark. Lark. Lark. Lark.

My name is Lark. Of this I am certain.

Everything else? I'm unsure.

This place...I was never meant to be in this place. I had everything, everything anyone could ever want. I was the golden girl. Things like this don't happen to people like me.

I am stuck between now and then, between my past and what should've been my future. Invisible barriers imprison me, cut me off from yesterday and blind me to tomorrow. And there is no way out.

My life before feels like a dream, and now I've woken to a nightmarish reality. If my memories were to vanish, like me, would I even exist? It would be easy to forget everything that happened, everything I planned to be...should I let go?

I can't. I won't. If I forget, who will be left to remember?

That's what I'm supposed to do: let it all slip away. But I can't let go of what I've lost.

I was never meant to be in this place, this place meant for other people. Until I understand how I came to be here, I am merely a passenger. I cannot leave. I am stuck here, waiting for someone to understand me, to remember me, to find me.

My solitary hope is her. I think she could get it, this girl who has so much less than I ever did, but more than I ever will. Somehow, fate decided that I am the lock, and she holds the key. If I can make her understand that, maybe I will not fade and disappear. Maybe someone will find me.

Maybe he will find me.

I know you're there. Please, uncover what happened to me....

### One

#### Raven

Humidity curled the dark bangs covering my forehead. Sweat slicked the back of my neck and trickled down my spine like a slow-moving hot spring. I held my lacy tank away from my skin as I walked, hoping to keep it as dry as possible.

Two minutes later, I stood in front of a brick row home wedged between two identical façades. The front porch needed a paint job, but it was cleanly swept. I rang the doorbell labeled "3" and waited. Only the pounding of feet on wooden stairs let me know that it worked.

An impossibly tall, model-thin girl close to my age opened the door a moment later. A pang of envy struck me immediately; I'd never get away with that haircut. It was short, nearly shaved, and complimented her sharp features perfectly.

"Kim?" I guessed.

"Raven, I presume?" Kim asked, revealing a dimple on either side when she grinned.

"Yep." Her caramel eyes lit up as she nodded and pushed the door open.

"Apartment is up three flights." She called, already several steps up the dimly lit staircase with a questionable wooden handrail. "I hope you like the place. You'd be doing me a huge favor by subletting."

Over our brief email exchange about the apartment, Kim explained that she'd originally been turned down for the extra financial aid needed to spend the fall semester abroad in Paris. When the funding came through at the last hour, she'd already signed the lease for another year.

Her situation was a blessing for me. She was flexible on the price, and I offered her three months' rent in lieu of references and paystubs. We were one showing away from a done deal.

Kim took the stairs two at a time. I followed close behind, checking out the faded, floral wallpaper. So far, it was the opposite of what I envisioned when I dreamt about living in the city. There was no chic, only shabby.

_You're not in Pennsylvania anymore,_ I thought.

"You get used to the stairs after a couple of weeks," Kim promised on the third flight. "On the plus side, it's a great butt workout."

My glutes were already burning.

"You said in your email that you're new to the area," Kim started as we reached her landing. "Are you going to school?"

"Not yet. I'm going to work for a year first."

I'd dutifully applied to colleges for my parents' sake, but my heart had never been in it. College was in my future, just not my immediate future. The pressure of declaring a major that would dictate the course of my life was too much. Working and interacting with people outside of my hometown for a year or two would hopefully give me some real-world perspective. At least, that was my public justification for the sabbatical. Really, I'd just wanted to blow that Pennsylvania popsicle stand. My desire to see what was beyond my small town drove me to take on summer and after-school jobs instead of hanging out with my friends.

Kim pushed the apartment door open with one hand, the metal "3" swaying beneath a small peephole. "Welcome to your new home!" she said, making a sweeping gesture with her free arm.

My first impression was that the apartment was cozy. Extremely cozy. The kitchen was nothing more than an alcove to the left of the door, its appliances smaller than normal ones. Two high-backed stools at the pass-through counter separated the space from the living room. A faded floral loveseat and worn suede chair were arranged around the battered wooden coffee table next to the bay window. The television was mounted on the wall, the focal point of the living room.

"I'd love to leave the furniture, if that works for you?" Kim said, closing the door behind us. "Storage is expensive as hell."

"That would be perfect," I told her, though my voice lacked enthusiasm. I had no furniture, so I'd be eating ramen noodles on the scarred wooden floorboards without Kim's shabby pieces.

"The bedroom and bathroom are down that hallway," Kim said, pointing off to the left.

"Hallway" was a generous term for a space with exactly four floor tiles. On the plus side, the apartment would be easy to clean. I opened one of the two doors and found the smallest bathroom I'd ever seen. The shower was a stall, no tub, though the porcelain toilet and pedestal sink were bright-white and clean. A pretty blue rug covered the floor tiles but didn't quite hide the fact that several were cracked.

"I know it's not much," Kim said hesitantly, as if sensing my trepidation.

My dreams of a cute one-bedroom in Georgetown had been extinguished when I realized the cost of living in D.C. was astronomical compared to my rural hometown. This was my price range. In fact, it was the only place I could afford with a little extra cushion.

"No, no, it's great," I quickly assured her.

When I turned and met Kim's caramel eyes, they showed pure relief. I wondered how many others had turned down the apartment already.

"The bedroom is here," she said, pushing open the other door.

The room was surprisingly large, with enough space for a queen-sized bed, dresser, and a roll-top desk. Kim's laptop was open on the desk, surrounded by scattered papers and stubby oil pastel sticks. Other than those and the nearly full suitcase open on the bed, the space was clean and uncluttered.

"Art major," Kim said sheepishly when she noticed me eyeing the art supplies.

"Cool," I replied absently, checking out the closet. A few scattered articles of clothing remained on the built-in shelves, while the plastic clothes hangers were all empty. My meager wardrobe would make the closet appear cavernous, since I'd left most of my clothing at my parents' house. A new life meant starting over completely.

Rotating slowly, I acclimated to what would be my new bedroom. I decided that I liked it. It was nothing special, but there was a quaint, lived-in feel. It was easy to picture myself sitting at Kim's antique desk, reading the news on my laptop. Or lying atop the fluffy, checkered comforter, one foot resting on the opposite knee with my dog-eared copy of The Great Gatsby.

"So, what do you think?" Kim asked, her voice breaking into my thoughts.

"I'll take it," I said with a grin.

"Excellent. Phew!" She beamed back, exhaling a relieved sigh. "I was hoping this would work out, now I'll have time to visit my parents before heading abroad," Kim explained. "Would it be okay if I gave you the keys now? You can move in any time after tonight, I'm going to head out in the morning."

"Sounds good," I nodded, my stomach flipping with excitement. I'd just rented my very first apartment.

Kim walked back to the kitchen and gestured for me to sit at the counter.

"You want some coffee? Water? Sorry, that's all I have to offer." Kim frowned.

"Some water would be great," I said, thinking of the heat outside.

Kim pulled two plastic bottles from the fridge and handed me one. While she rifled through a drawer next to the stove, I sipped my water and traced the ring of condensation on the countertop. A copy of the Washington Post sat to the side, the first physical newspaper I'd seen in ages. A picture of a teenage girl, no older than I was, stared up from the frontpage. The headline read, "Jewelry Heiress' Disappearance Still Baffles Police."

Kim was still searching for the keys, so I reached for the paper absently while she continued to rummage around. The picture of the girl looked like a senior portrait from high school. Her blonde hair was perfectly parted down the center, shining even in the grainy newspaper photo. Her straight, white teeth peeked out from behind pink lips that were glistening with a light layer of gloss. A collared shirt, crisp and starched, had two buttons undone, revealing a small gold heart hanging from her slender neck.

I didn't need to read the article to know she was one of those girls: the privileged, offspring of equally beautiful, ridiculously wealthy parents. There had been girls like that in my high school, though their wealth was nowhere near that of a jewelry fortune. I'd never felt comfortable in their presence and always kept my guard up.

Still, there was something in the newspaper girl's wistful gaze that pulled at my heartstrings. Her smile was almost sad—it didn't come close to touching her big, blue eyes. Those eyes looked as though they held secrets she was too young to have. I knew that look. My hair was shorter and darker than hers, and my eyes were dark brown, while hers were cornflower blue. Nevertheless, my senior picture—the one prominently displayed on my parents' mantel—showed a girl with the same expression. Feigned happiness.

"Have you been following her disappearance?" Kim asked, noticing the paper in front of me and giving the article a tap. "Doesn't seem the type to go rogue. I mean, why would anyone give up all of that?"

I looked up in time to catch the end of Kim's exaggerated eye roll.

The question was rhetorical, but I felt the need to answer anyway. "I haven't read anything about it, but when something seems too good to be true...it probably is," I replied, shrugging.

"Take the Post if you want, I don't have time to read it." Kim ran one hand over her cropped hair. "Anyway, here are the keys. This one," she indicated a silver key, "goes to the main door downstairs. This," she pulled a gold key free, "goes to the deadbolt. And the third goes to the bottom lock on the front door."

"And you said cash was okay?" I asked, pulling an envelope from my front pocket with the carefully counted rent money and security deposit inside.

"Definitely. It'll be easier to exchange," Kim replied, swapping me the keys for the envelope.

My chest swelled with pride. The weight of the keyring felt good in my hand. Just like the car, this small step felt monumental. I'd made it out of my small town, a place no one ever left. My new beginning was really happening.

The Capital Hostel was only two miles from the apartment, but the bus's frequent stops and roundabout path made the return trip longer than necessary. I popped earbuds in and hit "play" on one of my chill playlists. My mind wandered back to the missing girl. Lark Kingsley's blue eyes were haunted. Her smile reminded me of a celebrity on the red carpet, like she'd practiced it in the mirror until only the most discerning eye could spot it as a fake. Resting my head against the window, I considered all the reasons the sole heiress to a diamond fortune might have to "go rogue", as Kim put it, until the bus reached my stop.

At the convenience store two blocks from the hostel, I bought a box of granola bars and another bottle of water. Instead of going back to my room, I took advantage of the sunshine and set up camp on a park bench in McPherson Square. I preferred the outdoors in general, but especially when the other option was the hostel's cinderblock walls, tiny square window, and metal bunkbeds. That place was downright institutional. The thought of spending the afternoon in there made my skin itch.

D.C. was insanely humid this time of year, the air heavy with oppressive moisture. The city was built on a swamp, so it wasn't that surprising. But the sky was a clear blue and the sun was shining. Every so often, a gentle breeze ruffled my hair and made the heat bearable.

Trading my music for the park's chatter, I caught snippets of conversations about government sequestration and possible shutdown. My shorts, tank top, and flip-flops were glaringly out of place among the suits worn by the political crowd on their lunch breaks, but I still felt sophisticated. This was a whole new world for me. One I couldn't wait to really become a part of.

Retrieving Kim's copy of the newspaper from my bag, I settled in with a granola bar and read more about the missing jewelry heiress. Along with the front, the story of Lark Kingsley's disappearance continued for three pages inside. According to her parents, the socialite had planned a celebratory trip with her friends before she was supposed to start at Columbia University—a week-long getaway to the British Virgin Islands. The Kingsleys' driver took Lark to JFK, but she never got on the plane.

Her friends claimed Lark called and said something came up, that she would catch a later flight to meet them in St. Barts. She never showed. One of her friends—a girl who wished to remain anonymous in her newspaper interview—said that Lark's behavior had been erratic of late, so failing to show up wasn't out of character. When asked why none of the girls called the Kingsleys from the Caribbean to let them know Lark never made it, the nameless friend said, "We didn't want to get her into trouble." An entire week passed before Lark's parents were aware their daughter vanished.

"They sound like great friends," I muttered sarcastically under my breath.

Lark's friends, family, teachers, and even the priest at her local church had been interviewed. Everyone described the missing girl as "smart," "well-liked," "popular," and "happy." As I stared at a photo montage of Lark Kingsley's life, I knew the first three might be true, but the latter was a façade. In one picture, she stood between two girls, her thin arms slung around their shoulders and that contrived grin on her beautiful face. All three wore white collared shirts, plaid skirts, and blazers with their school logo prominently displayed on the left breast.

Another showed Lark with two older people, and the photo caption confirmed they were her parents. Mr. Kingsley was nothing short of a silver fox, though the silver was mostly just around his temples. His face was tan and appropriately lined for a man his age, like he spent a lot of time on the family yacht. Mrs. Kingsley was gorgeous. Her shiny blonde hair sat in a perfect bun high on her head. Big, innocent eyes were a shade of blue that matched her daughter's. The Kingsleys were all dressed in formal wear: a classic tuxedo for the patriarch of the family and long gowns for the two ladies. A pearl necklace with the largest ruby I'd ever seen was fastened around Mrs. Kingsley's neck, and dime-sized pearls adorned her earlobes. In contrast, Lark's ears and throat were bare. Maybe she wasn't as keen as her mother to be a walking billboard for the family business.

The last picture screamed, "Prom." Lark faced a cookie-cutter prep-school boy. He was definitely good-looking but in a generic way. While Lark smiled for the camera, the boy grinned at her. No boy had ever looked at me quite like that.

As I ran my fingers over the page, the ink smudged onto my skin. The caption identified her prom date as Adam Ridell. His last name was vaguely familiar, though it took a moment to realize why—there was a Senator Ridell from New York. Given Lark's social circles, Adam might have been his son. Lark Kingsley looked like the type of girl who dated sons of senators.

The more I learned about the missing girl, the more I was intrigued. On paper, her life was perfect: money, looks, friends, a boyfriend. But Lark's haunted expression in every picture told me her life was much like an iceberg. What lay beneath the surface was always more interesting.

"Excuse me, miss?"

I glanced up from the paper to see a disheveled man standing before me. The worn fabric of an old military jacket tugged at my heart.

"Spare some change?" he asked, his voice pleasant. "So I can get something to eat?"

The man offered a gummy grin that didn't touch the sadness in his eyes.

"Of course. One sec."

I withdrew my wallet from the messenger bag and rifled through it. My heart sank when I realized that I only had a five left.

"I'm sorry, I don't have much with me," I said, handing him the bill. "How about a granola bar?"

Extending the open box to the homeless man, I met his clear eyes and smiled.

"God bless you," he said. With two of the bars in hand, he backed away.

I watched him go, wondering why the hell a veteran was reduced to begging for meals. Like so many others, he'd probably returned from war to find that he no longer felt at home in the country he'd fought for. Had PTSD taken him from a base to the homeless shelter? Whatever the reason, I hated that I had so little to offer.

### Two

#### Lark

"Californication" is the only way to wake up. At precisely six a.m., the first guitar chords played through Bluetooth speakers, softly at first to ease my transition into awareness.

The slow thrum of the music washed over me, and I rolled over in my king-sized bed. Blinking several times, I stared absently at the gauzy canopy cover of my four-poster. An unnecessary number of pillows cocooned me, and I burrowed into the warm, soft sheets. My eyelids began to close again.

On cue, the Chili Peppers' song grew louder. The tempo increased, and my eyes slid open again. When the second song on my morning playlist started, I finally sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed.

Moving a tad slower than usual, I trudged to my en suite bathroom. The periwinkle carpet practically swallowed my feet with each step. A huge yawn escaped my lips as I started the shower.

Why am I so tired? I wondered. After catching up on schoolwork the night before, I'd called it an early night. Though, as I thought it, I couldn't recall actually going to bed.

A chill ran through me, despite the plumes of steam filling the bathroom.

"Sirius, water temp up. Volume up too," I said aloud.

"Yes, Lark," the accented, mechanical voice replied. My smart devices were all synchronized to the non-existent British man. Mostly, I liked when he read off my "sh-edule".

By the time my shower was over, I'd fully joined the waking world. Singing along with the music, I sat at my antique vanity and began the morning ritual prescribed by my mother. First came the contacts, and I blinked until they settled.

Beep, beep.

"You have forty-five minutes, Lark," Sirius informed me.

Got to love technology, I thought wryly, putting a little extra pep in my step.

I stared at my reflection, tempted to skip the blow-drying portion of my routine.

This is Manhattan, Lark, not Los Angles, my mother's voice snapped inside my head.

The rebellious part of me wanted to ignore her nagging voice—what was so wrong with beachy waves? My energy was nowhere near the level I needed to endure my mother's arguments. With a sigh, I grabbed my round brush and set to work.

Beep, beep.

"You have twenty-five minutes until departure time, Lark," Sirius prompted as I finished.

"Thank you, Sirius," I told my virtual helper.

Phase three, I thought. A whole repertoire of anti-aging creams awaited.

Even by Manhattan society standards, the fountain of youth sitting on my vanity was extreme. Just like our family's move from Connecticut before my freshman year, mommy dearest believed it would give me an edge later in life. Like all things having to do with my mother, it was easier to submit than fight.

Beep, beep.

"You have fifteen minutes until departure time, Lark." Sirius' tone was becoming more insistent. Even he seemed nervous to cross my mother.

Luckily, unlike several of my friends' helicopter parents, Eleanor Kingsley believed in understated makeup during the daylight hours. A few swipes of cream foundation, volumizing mascara, and lip-enhancing gloss were sufficient.

Phase four complete.

Phase five was my outfit—easy peasy since my private school had a uniform. Aside from whether to wear a sweater over my white button-down, throw on a belt, or add a pair of tights, my decisions were limited.

Beep, beep.

"Five-minute warning, Lark."

Sliding on a pair of heels, I hastily grabbed a long, layered necklace and matching earrings from the jewelry chest in the center of my walk-in closet. Two spritzes of my favorite perfume later, I was ready to go.

"Lark, it is time for school," Sirius prompted.

"Thank you." Grabbing my phone and bag, I headed for the stairs.

"Have a wonderful day, Lark."

Smiling, I hurried down the stairs. When I reached the landing, I braced for what was coming. As always, Eleanor Kingsley sat alone at the informal breakfast table. She spared me a small frown—anything more might create a wrinkle—over the top of her iPad. "Honestly, darling, do you have to cause such a ruckus all the time? It sounded as though a herd of zebras was coming down the stairs just now."

"Good morning to you, too, Mother," I countered, reaching for a croissant from the side table. I felt her disapproving glare, and a backwards glance confirmed it. Replacing the buttery pastry, I grabbed an apple and turned to face her.

"Sorry, I can't chat," I said, not feeling sorry at all. "I'm running late."

My mother set her tablet, Women's Wear Daily on the screen, beside her own breakfast. If you could call a single egg white and four ounces of plain Greek yogurt "breakfast".

"Good morning, dear," she replied, her gaze sweeping from the crown of my head to the rounded toes of my black Manolos.

Finished with her cursory assessment, she focused on my eyes. "Lark, sweetie, are you tired? You look tired. Maybe you should go back upstairs and rest a little longer. You were out late last night, there is simply no way you slept eight hours."

Heaven forbid, I thought dryly. In my mother's mind, even a minute less sleep than recommended would counteract all the expensive potions and lotions.

"I'm fine, Mother. I'm not tired at all," I said, backing out of the room. "I have a quiz first period. I can't miss it."

"Some concealer will do wonders for those dark circles, but do try to nap later." She pursed her lips.

"Of course, Mother," I soothed as I backed through the open doorway. After wiggling my fingers in her direction, I darted down the hall.

For the three-block walk to Gracen Academy, I switched to a motivational playlist on my phone. Sure, it was dramatic, but sometimes I did need to steel myself before the daily jungle known as high school.

As usual, my friends were already in the courtyard when I arrived.

"Hey, there you are!" called my best friend, Annie Stanley, as I joined them.

"And Lark makes eight," Ilan Avery declared, our group's signal that everyone was present and accounted for. "We need your vote. Whistler or Klosters?"

"What's the question, exactly?" I asked, accepting a hug from Camilla Stories.

"Winter break," Ilan answered.

My expression gave me away, because Annie added, "We narrowed the choices last night without you, but we can't seem to agree on a location."

"Gut reaction. Don't think about it," Ilan demanded.

Flustered, I genuinely didn't care where the group went for the holiday. "Klosters?"

"Damn," Allister Marksum said, shaking his head in disappointment.

"Sorry." I shrugged.

He waved off my apology. Nonetheless, Allister's British accent rang stronger than normal, belying his annoyance. "We do have a tie, though."

"Maybe we need a ninth friend," I said, checking my watch to see if there was time to grab a morning latte.

Seven sets of eyes locked on me with varied expressions, and I felt a little like I was at the center of crosshairs.

"Okay, well I need a caffeine fix. I'm headed to the café. Anyone want anything?" I asked.

Taylor Vanderkam wrinkled her nose and pushed a pair of large black sunglasses atop her sleek hair—a sure sign she was serious. "Darla can go for you." Taylor motioned to a sophomore with big brown eyes and a hopeful expression.

I held up my hand in protest. "I have two legs, I'm perfectly capable of using them." I started down the steps, calling over my shoulder, "See you guys."

The Café's morning rush was in full-swing, with a line stretching into the hallway. Gracen's demands for extracurriculars on top of advanced course loads made for a lot of sleep-deprived teens.

At my old school in Greenwich, I'd breezed through with minimal effort. Gracen was different, though. Late nights cramming for practice tests in AP classes were as common as designer labels. Spots on model UN were as competitive as positions on the field hockey team—State Champs six years and counting. And charity work was just a given. There were exceptions, of course, but almost everyone in the school was Ivy-league-bound.

"Hey, Lark."

I turned as Jeff Maddow strolled up behind me in line. Students like Jeff were the other reason the café was packed. He preferred to start his day with a joint and almost always had a cloud of pot smoke surrounding him.

How could I have forgotten to put my earbuds in?

Jeff was nice and always good for a few laughs, but his Cannabis for Men cologne was a bit strong in the morning.

"Hey, Jeff. How are you?" I asked, fiddling with my phone.

He shrugged. "Eh, you know. It is what is. But hey, how are you?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, shifting from one high heel to the other.

"No judgments." Jeff held up his hands and grinned.

No judgments? I tried to recall the last time I'd seen Jeff outside of school. A few weeks? Maybe longer?

"Sometimes you just need to let go, live your truth," he continued. "Am I right?"

Jeff's comments rarely made any sense, so I almost dismissed it. Except....

"Are you talking about Ilan's party?" I asked.

Ilan's eighteenth birthday had gotten out of control, but that was hardly surprising with iced liquor luges and champagne fountains. Admittedly, the end of the night was a little fuzzy.

"Right, right." Jeff winked. "Ilan's Icelandic Interlude."

Marveling at Jeff's use of alliteration, particularly in his placid state, I almost missed my turn to order coffee.

"Double-shot latte, please," I told the barista. Before anyone else started a conversation, I popped in my headphones to wait for my drink.

Unable to put the strange exchange out of my mind, I glanced over at Jeff. The guy had his own hydroponic setup, but he was also ranked third in our class. Wondering how he did it, I trudged to first period.

I made it to Shakespearean Lit several minutes before the bell and took my seat in the back row. It was a weird quirk, but I didn't like people sitting behind me. Whenever I went out to eat, I always requested a corner table or booth. This infuriated my mother, since she liked me to be "seen".

"Klosters," Camilla announced, leaning across the aisle to show me a photo on her phone.

"Huh?"

She let out an exasperated sigh. "Klosters, for winter break." Thrusting the phone into my hand, she added, "Cute, right? It's all booked."

I scrolled through the pictures without really looking at any of them. "Adorable," I declared in a falsely cheery tone. "Are those new shoes?"

Cam loved when I commented on her attire, and it was the easiest way to switch topics. I already knew I wasn't going to spend the holiday skiing with my friends, so it made no difference where they went.

"You know it." Cam wiggled her foot and admired her shoes. "If you'd come to brunch on Sunday, you would've been there when I bought them." She fake-pouted, her red lips just a shade too dark for my taste.

"Sorry about that." I rolled my eyes. "You know my mother."

As vague as the statement was, it was sufficient. Cam did know my mother, so it was easy to use her as an excuse for missing our weekly girls' brunch.

"No need to apologize." Cam offered me a grin. "But you can make it up to me. You know, if you want."

Holding back an amused smile, I stared expectantly.

"Unless I'm mistaken, you still need a dress for Taylor's party, right?" she asked, narrowing her gaze. "It is this weekend, in case you've forgotten."

"I haven't forgotten," I lied effortlessly. "I don't have a dress yet. Tomorrow? You, me, and Bendel's?"

Though she wasn't the person I called when I needed a shoulder to cry on, Cam made an excellent shopping buddy. She was a blast to hang out with, always in a great mood, and had the sort of infectious energy that would turn a quiet night into a full-on adventure. Unlike my other friends, she also didn't interrogate me over my increasingly frequent absences from the social scene. My whereabouts during those times were one facet of my life that was just mine. Living under a giant magnifying glass had taught me to be selfish with my personal life.

"It's a date," Cam replied, beaming at me across the aisle.

I smiled back at my friend, guilt tightening my stomach. It was my senior year, and before I knew it the eight of us would be spread up and down the east coast. Our quality time together was limited.

My priorities have changed, I reminded myself.

"Wait, tomorrow?" A small wrinkle appeared between Cam's perfectly waxed brows. "Does that mean you're disappearing after school again today?"

Maybe even Cam had her limits when it came to my disappearing act.

"Perhaps," I said offhandedly as the bell rang. "Guess you'll have to wait and see."

Mr. Houser began droning on about the Bard's poetry, and my sheepish smile became a full-on grin as my thoughts turned to the afternoon I had planned.

Let's just hope I remember it in the morning.

### Three

#### Raven

Twenty-four hours after renting the apartment in Petworth, I cruised up Georgia Avenue in my beat-up Corolla. With all four windows down, the breeze ruffled my hair. My playlist was titled Belt It Out, and I happily complied.

This was an awesome day. In only minutes, I'd be moving my things into Kim's apartment. My apartment. Though it wasn't love-at-first-sight, I'd been warming to the idea of living there. The more I'd thought about it, the more I liked my new home. Stumbling across Kim's listing was a stroke of luck, really. Much like finding the car. Between the two, I was finally free to become my own person, develop my own interests, and make my own mistakes.

Once on Gibson Street, I managed to parallel park without hitting either of the cars bookending the spot. Putting the gear in Park, I did a victory dance in my seat before I hopped out. The trunk key took a couple of solid jiggles before it turned, and the lid popped open.

"Damn it," I swore under my breath.

The bags were all shifted from the city's stop-and-go traffic. The train case, which had been snugly tucked to one side, was now wedged in the opposite corner of the trunk with its contents strewn across the mat. I swore a second time; a brand-new bottle of body lotion had leaked shimmery, pale-yellow goo everywhere.

"This is going to be fun," I muttered.

My messenger bag went over a shoulder, then I grabbed the backpack and suitcase that were spared the lotion fallout. Closing the trunk, I played the jiggle game again to lock the car. Finally, my spirits lifting again, I turned to face my new building. The yard next door was overgrown and full of debris, but the rest of the street was tidy and well-groomed. A girl walking four dogs passed, and I pet a poodle when she pawed at my leg.

"Sorry," the dog walker said abashedly.

"Not a problem," I replied with a grin. Already, I liked the vibe of my new neighborhood.

When I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and pulled, it didn't budge. I yanked. It didn't inch. I tugged. It wasn't going to move. By this point, sweat was dripping into my eyes and down the length of my spine. I blew a breath upward, trying to dislodge the dark strands of hair clinging to my forehead, and hoisted the bag off the ground.

"Need a hand?" a voice called from somewhere behind me.

"No, thanks," I groaned back. My grasp on the bag was already perilous, so I didn't bother turning around. I took a few tentative steps onto the sidewalk and stopped to reposition. Between the three bags, I felt like a pack mule. And there were so many stairs ahead.

"Are you sure?" The voice was deep, amused, and definitely male. "I don't mind. You look like you could use the help."

"Nope, no need," I countered. "I've got it."

As I said this, my messenger bag slipped down to my elbow. Swinging like a pendulum, it smacked me in the back of my knee. Had that been the only thing I was carrying, I probably would've been able to catch myself. Unfortunately, the combined weight of the suitcase and backpack tipped me over. The next thing I knew, my face rushed to meet the sidewalk.

Strong fingers closed around my upper arms, sliding down the sweat-slicked skin before getting a firm hold. I was above average height for a girl, but he set me on my feet with minimal effort.

"Thanks," I muttered. Double the embarrassment heated my cheeks. He'd nearly seen me eat pavement, and I was a sweaty mess.

Go, Raven, I thought. Way to introduce yourself to the neighborhood.

Reluctantly, I turned and met his gaze. The guy was tall and tan, like he'd just returned from some exotic locale. His warm, brown eyes shone with amusement, though he spared me the humiliation of openly laughing. Without asking, he retrieved my suitcase from the sidewalk.

"Where you headed?" he asked.

"405 Gibson," I replied, pointing.

"You're renting Kim's place?"

"How did you know?" I asked, suspicion sparking.

"I live on the first floor," he explained with a smirk. "Not stalking you."

My embarrassment was reaching all new levels. "No, I.... I didn't mean.... You just caught me by surprise," I finished lamely.

"My name is Asher." He held out a strong hand to shake mine. Something about him set me at ease. "And I'm new-ish to the neighborhood, too."

"Oh?" I asked distractedly.

"Maybe three months doesn't qualify as 'new'? I don't know," Asher waffled. He shook his head "Regardless, I'm from up north. I'm starting at GW Law next month and moved here early to intern for a law firm. Kim was nice enough to play tour guide for me over the summer."

At least one of my neighbors is friendly, I thought with relief as he gestured me up the front steps.

Asher used his key to unlock the downstairs door and held it open for me. Self-consciously, I led the way up the staircase, cognizant of the fact that sweat was trickling down my legs. Not to mention, he was basically face-level with my butt.

Awkward. So awkward.

"The whole Paris thing coming together was really a coup for Kim," Asher continued. "She was really excited that you answered her ad, she was scrambling to find a renter."

"It worked out well for me, too." We'd finally reached the landing in the middle, only one flight to go.

"You never told me your name, by the way," Asher pointed out.

"Raven," I replied over my shoulder.

"Oh, like the bird."

"Uh-huh." After a lifetime with the name, I was used to the comparison.

At the door to apartment three, I fumbled with the key ring. The nondescript gold key fit poorly in the lock, so I launched into my key-wiggle move.

"Let me," Asher offered after my attempts failed. He took the key from me. "You need to press really hard while holding the knob, then turn both at the same time." He demonstrated the maneuver. Just like that, the door popped open. "Mine's the same way."

"Thanks."

"Where would you like your things?" Asher entered the tiny foyer behind me without waiting for an invitation.

"Um, just set them down there." I pointed to a spot next to the kitchen counter.

Asher set my suitcase down and stood, hands on hips, in the small kitchen. The sight was rather amusing; the small appliances looked almost miniature with Asher filling the space. His flip-flop-clad feet covered an entire square of the linoleum floor.

"Well, thanks again," I said, hoping he would get the hint.

Asher ran one hand through his sandy-blonde hair, causing several pieces to stick out at odd angles. Slowly, he spun in a small circle, taking in the apartment's interior.

"Kim left all of her stuff for you."

"Um, yeah. I'm new to the city and don't have any furniture or anything."

For some reason, the fact he'd obviously been in the apartment before bothered me.

"Are you starting school soon?" he asked.

"Just working for now," I dodged.

"Cool. Where?" Asher smiled, showing off his straight, white teeth.

The sight reminded me of middle school, when my crooked teeth had been wrenched with braces until perfectly straight. He'd definitely gone through the same torture.

"Not sure yet," I admitted reluctantly.

"There are a lot of cool bars and restaurants around here," Asher offered. "I bet a girl like you could make a lot of money bartending."

"A girl like me?" My hackles went up.

His cool, confident demeanor slipped for a moment. His cheeks colored, a barely visible red underneath his tan. "Sorry. It's just that cute girls usually make good tips."

"Oh." Now I was the one embarrassed. "I'm only eighteen, so bartending probably won't work out. Something will, though. It always does."

"Right...," Asher trailed off, jamming his hands into his shorts pockets. "Well, if you need anything, you know where to find me. It's apartment one, just knock."

"Cool. Thanks."

Once Asher left, I moved my bags to the bedroom. Without stopping to rest, I trekked back downstairs to clean up the mess my lotion made in the trunk. The toiletries from my train case were covered in the slimy substance and scattered.

"Great," I muttered, wiping my hands on my khaki shorts.

Using a plastic grocery bag to contain the mess, I collected the hair products and makeup. My new bottle of shine serum was noticeably absent once I'd gathered the strewn items.

"Please tell me I didn't forget you at the hostel...." The stuff wasn't exactly cheap, and the humidity in D.C. made it a necessity.

I crawled up on the bumper and into the trunk to reach the back corners. There was a two-inch gap at the back where the lining didn't quite reach the edge. Reaching my fingers into the space, I blindly felt for stray toiletries. My fingers brushed something smooth. It wasn't my shine serum, but it didn't feel like the spare tire either.

Curious, I scooted farther in and peeled back the corner of the carpeting. The inside of the trunk was dark, making it hard to see what lay beneath the lining. I fumbled clumsily, groping in the well beneath the carpet until my fingers made contact again. The mystery item came out with a yank. Wedged in the very back corner of the trunk, I'd found a small, leather book.

I sat up straight, knocking the back of my head against the trunk's lid in the process.

"Oww!" I exclaimed loudly, rubbing the sore spot with one hand.

The book was the size of a paperback, with a solid green cover. The leather was soft, like the interior of an expensive car. A gold clasp held the covers closed but didn't do much to prevent prying eyes; when I slid the small button from left to right, it popped open. On the first page, the word "Journal" was printed in large script that reminded me of calligraphy. Below that, "Property of" was printed, followed by a blank space for the owner to write her name.

I hesitated before flipping through the other pages. Reading another person's innermost thoughts was voyeuristic. A journal was personal and not for a stranger's eyes.

After several seconds of internal debate, I decided against reading the contents. I'd try to figure out who it belonged to later, but I wouldn't succumb to curiosity and read more than necessary. When I turned to climb out of the trunk, a heavy envelope dropped from between the pages of the unclasped diary. It was expensive stationery, thick and textured. The creamy exterior was blank and crisp.

I turned the envelope over in my hands. The flap on the back was tucked inside instead of sealed shut. For some reason, my heart began to beat faster. Without thinking, I opened the envelope and peered inside. A matching sheet of cream-colored paper was neatly folded in half with the open side down. The envelope was heavy—something more than words lay inside the fold. Before I could continue debating the moral issues, I pulled the paper out. A slim, white card and single key slipped from inside. The card was plastic and roughly the size of a credit card. Two words were emblazoned across the front in all caps: THE PINES.

"That your car?" a heavily accented voice asked. Startled, I jumped, once again bumping my head on the trunk lid.

"Excuse me?"

I looked up to see a woman standing on the sidewalk. A little boy clung to one hand, and a boxer tested the strength of his leather leash in the other.

"That your car?" the woman repeated, nodding her head toward the Corolla.

"Yes, ma'am, it is," I replied. I was sitting in the trunk, I would certainly hope it was my car. Or was that her point?

"You need to get a visitor's parking pass if you want to park it on the street for any length of time," she explained. "Parking enforcement is really strict around here, they ticket cars with out-of-state plates."

My shoulders relaxed. The woman was being nice, trying to help me out.

"Thank you," I said warmly. "I really appreciate it."

She nodded, then tugged the dog's leash and continued down the sidewalk.

Deciding that I was attracting too much attention sitting in the trunk of my car, I tucked the envelope back inside the journal and snapped it shut. I grabbed the bag of lotion-covered toiletries and used my elbow to close the trunk. With my hands full, the wiggle routine with the trunk lock was difficult. After several tries, I took it on faith that the car was indeed locked.

Unpacking took all of twenty minutes. I'd only brought the one suitcase with me, holding shorts, polos, tank tops, and my two favorite sundresses. By the time colder weather arrived, I planned to be making enough money to buy new jeans and sweaters. Once I was done hanging my clothes, I set my laptop on Kim's roll-top desk and connected the power cord.

Unsure what to do next, I paced the small apartment. The previous day had been all about house-hunting. With that done, I wasn't sure what my next move was. I needed a job, for sure, but I figured my best bet was to stroll through upscale neighborhoods and look for "Help Wanted" signs in restaurant windows. Since the temperature outside was in the upper 90s, I wasn't eager to start that search.

"What to do. What to do," I muttered to myself after several turns of the apartment.

All the quality time alone was unusual. At home, my true friends had been few and far between. Some days, I doubted that I had any at all. Nevertheless, there were always people around—teachers, peers, parents. Here, I was finally alone. I was free to be who I wanted and live how I wanted, without judgment. The problem was...I wasn't sure who I wanted to be or how I wanted to live.

A quick check of the kitchen cabinets told me that Kim either loved or hated tuna fish; cans of the stuff were stacked five deep in the cabinet closest to the fridge. Unfortunately, there was no mayo or bread. I still had two granola bars left, but I was pretty much granola-ed out.

Splurge, I told myself, order delivery from some local hot spot.

While I headed for the bedroom to look up local eateries, a thought popped into my head: Asher. He'd said to let him know if I needed anything. Restaurant suggestions were absolutely in the realm of neighborly advice. Maybe if he weren't too busy, Asher would even offer to join me.

I shook my head to clear the ridiculous notion. Sure, he'd said I was cute. But that was before he learned about my propensity for sweating and less-than-ambitious life plans. Asher probably already regretted carrying my bags in. He was about to be a law student, and the ink was barely dry on my high school diploma. College was something I aspired to, but not in my immediate future. He was preppy. I was...not preppy. Besides, he probably had a girlfriend.

"Raven?"

I darted out of my bedroom, and found Asher framed in the front doorway. He'd exchanged his old t-shirt for a navy polo.

"The door was cracked open," Asher explained sheepishly. "I knocked a couple of times, but I guess you didn't hear me."

"Guess not," I mumbled.

How did I miss his knock? How long had he been standing there? Did he watch me pace the living room?

"I was just gonna run out and pick up some food," he continued. "I figured you probably didn't make it to the grocery store yet. Do you like Ethiopian?"

Just the thought of the flat, grey bread made my stomach turn. Not to mention the wild spices that scorched my taste buds. But Asher's smile was hopeful. And kind of adorable.

I beamed back. "I love Ethiopian food."

### Four

#### Lark

After the energy it took to make it through the school day, both mental and physical, Downtown Downs provided a welcome wave of calm. The clean but scuffed tables, the overstuffed couches, the dark hardwood floors, and the ever-present struggling musicians provided exactly the atmosphere I was craving. Standing in the doorway, I scanned the crowded café and searched for an open spot to settle in. Amid a sea of students and hipsters enjoying their salads, sandwiches, and triple espressos, there was one face that stood out. Blake Greyfield's green gaze found my blue one, and a slow smile spread across his handsome features.

My phone buzzed inside my school bag.

Blake: Fancy seeing you here. This couch was made for two, care to join me?

Me: I don't know....

My boyfriend might not like that.

Blake: It'll be our little secret.

Suppressing a smirk, I made my way over to a plush loveseat in the back corner. Blake stood as I approached, his eyes following my every move.

"Hey, you," he said softly, the teasing tone of our text exchange no longer present.

"Hey," I replied, staring up into a face that I knew better than my own.

Even before his hand slid into mine, my heart fluttered in my chest. Thrill uncoiled in my stomach as Blake leaned in and brushed his lips across my cheek.

"I've missed you," he whispered into my ear.

As always, the moment of intimacy was not enough. I wanted more. I wanted to feel his arms around my waist, to feel his heartbeat beneath my palm, to feel his mouth on mine. But that much physical contact in public was reckless. Even the cheek kiss—hell, just being there with him—was a risk.

What if someone sees us? What if someone tells my parents?

"That's how I greet everyone," Blake joked, correctly guessing my sudden mood change. He tucked a piece of golden hair behind my ear. "We're good here, Lark," he promised, all traces of humor gone.

"I know." My smile dimmed a little, but I wasn't going to let worry ruin our date.

Blake tugged my hand gently and drew me down onto the small sofa, but released his hold once we were seated.

"How was school?" he asked, angling his body to face me. The question was benign, and the answer didn't really matter. The way Blake looked at me, as though he could see past the contacts and deep into my soul—that was all that mattered. It was what I lived for.

When I shrugged, our shoulders brushed. Another jolt of longing coursed through me. I wanted to burrow into his side and feel the warmth of Blake against me. Just his proximity sent all thoughts of decorum flying out the window, though I resisted.

"Not bad," I replied, focusing on his bright green eyes. "How was your day?"

"Soccer practice was rough. Coach made us run two miles at the beginning and suicides at the end. And I'm pretty sure I bombed my practice AP chemistry exam." He leaned in closer. "But everything is better now that you're here."

A silly grin curled my lips sky-high. It was a ridiculous schoolgirl reaction to the pretty words of a charming boy. I should've been embarrassed. I wasn't. With Blake, I could be myself. The real me, sans pretense. And the real me was just a girl excited to spend an afternoon with her boyfriend.

Blake ran a finger down my face, and for a second I thought he might give me a real kiss.

"How are my two favorite customers?" a voice said, interrupting the moment.

I smiled up at our waitress, both disappointed and relieved by her timing. "Hi, Shirley! Love the new haircut."

Shirley patted her freshly shorn and colored pixie hairdo and beamed. "Thank you, sweetheart. You're too kind."

"You look like a million bucks," I replied.

The waitress hesitated. "I feel like a million bucks. Someone left a gift card for Creations as a tip, and I used it today. Talk about a fancy salon—they serve champagne and finger sandwiches." She glanced down guiltily, as though ashamed for indulging. "I'm still not sure they meant to leave the gift card for me."

"I'm sure they did," I assured her. "Sometimes you just need to treat yourself, and you deserve a little pampering."

It was true. Shirley was probably close to seventy and still hustling around, fetching over-priced coffee and sandwiches for the over-privileged.

Shirley's face turned the same shade of red as her hair. "Enough about me. What can I get for you? The usual?"

"Something warm and delicious?" I asked hopefully.

She nodded slowly. "I know just the drink." Shirley turned to Blake. "And for you?"

"I'm going to be boring. A cup of mint tea would be great."

"One tasty surprise and a cup of mint tea," Shirley repeated. "Coming right up."

"Thank you," Blake and I chorused as she retreated to the coffee bar.

For a long moment, we sat in comfortable silence. Blake rubbed the back of my hand with his thumb, slow steady strokes that eased the tension in my body. Even though I knew I shouldn't, I let my head fall to his shoulder.

"Why didn't you tell Shirley you left the gift card?" he asked finally. "At least she wouldn't worry that it was meant for someone else."

I looked down, but Blake placed two fingers under my chin, gently forcing me to sit up and meet his gaze. "It was a nice gesture. I'm sure she'd like to thank you," he said softly.

"I don't know. I guess...I just don't want her to feel like she owes me." I shrugged. "It's better this way."

Blake shook his head, a smile on his lips. "You can't be everyone's guardian angel, Lark."

Rolling my eyes, I scoffed. "I'm hardly an angel." My thoughts continued, but I hesitated to verbalize them.

Blake will understand, I promised myself.

Before I made the decision, he drew me to his side. "I get it, Lark," he murmured into my hair. "Life isn't fair. Most people don't have the luxury of our lives." Blake squeezed, pulling me even closer. "Random acts of kindness go a long way, though. You're a solid squeeze."

In his arms, the world felt a little brighter. A little less grim. I wanted to stay in this moment forever. Except, we were in a coffeeshop, not our own little world. When Shirley returned with our drinks, mine was topped with a mound of whipped cream and chocolate shavings.

You're never too young to watch your weight, my mother's voice trilled inside my head. Smiling to myself, I reached for the mug and tried the mystery concoction.

"Shirley, you know me well," I said, the buttercream hot chocolate warming my insides. "This is amazing."

"I thought you might like it." She set a small plate of bite-sized cookies on the table. "These are compliments of the baker. You two enjoy, let me know if you need anything else." Shirley gave us one last broad smile, then turned her attention to the couple who'd just snagged a nearby table.

"So, do you have a lot of homework? Or do we have time to just chill?" Blake asked, toying with my hair. Resting his forehead against mine, Blake's emerald eyes pinned me in place. His kiss was soft, sweet, and so short that only someone actively watching us would have seen. He ran his fingertip from my temple to my cheekbone.

Goosebumps appeared on my arms. "We should probably start our homework...," I breathed.

A dark curl strayed onto his tan forehead. I pushed it back, admiring the flawless lines of his face. Before desire could shadow reason altogether, I pulled away.

"Want me to help you with chemistry?" I asked, reaching for my school bag. "I scored pretty high on my last practice test."

"I bet you did...," Blake began in a teasing tone.

Shaking my head, I gave him a glare that held no real heat. "Play time is over, buddy. Unless you want our future dates to be virtual? I'll be on lockdown if my dad even suspects that I'm not one hundred percent focused on school."

"Ooh, I'd finally get to see your bedroom," Blake joked, retrieving his own laptop and school books.

Laughing, I shook my head. "I do actually have something I need to finish before the weekend." My smile was coy. "Unless you'd rather take your friends to the Catskills on Saturday? I'm sure they'd love a romantic getaway to the mountains."

Blake feigned horror, his eyes rounding to the size of coasters. "Don't even joke. You know Mason is allergic to shellfish; the lobster dinner would kill him."

With a grin, Blake set his laptop on the table and opened a calculus book in his lap. My gaze lingered on his handsome face a beat longer, then I opened my laptop. My AP Lit teacher had sent each of us a different poem to be analyzed in a discussion paper, and I hadn't even had a chance to look at it yet.

My inbox was a nightmare, so I searched for the message using the teacher's name. When the results came up, I stifled a gasp. My fingers froze on the keyboard.

"Everything okay?" Blake asked, his brow furrowed.

No, everything is not okay! I wanted to scream. I was not okay.

Even though I opened up to Blake more than anyone else on the planet, some issues were still off limits.

For now. Eventually, he will have to know.

Donning the smile usually reserved for my parents, I turned to Blake. "Of course," I said easily. "Sorry. Just got my latest AP Lit grade, I didn't expect it."

The best lies are rooted in truth, I thought, staring at my computer screen. The email titled AP Literature Paper #2 Grade was the cause of my outburst.

Blake studied me, as though he knew something was off but couldn't quite figure it out. After a long pause, he finally patted my leg. "I'm sure you did well."

"Let's hope," I replied.

Blake returned to integrals and limits. I blinked at my laptop, just to be sure I wasn't hallucinating. In my peripheral vision, Blake chewed on his pencil as he concentrated on a math problem.

Do it now, while he's distracted. Inhaling deeply, I clicked on the email.

Lark Kingsley, AP Literature Paper #2

Grade: A-

AP Score: 4

Comments: Ms. Kingsley, you showed exceptional understanding for the metaphors present in the sample. Additionally, your grammar, spelling, and punctuation have grown immensely this year. Your analysis was both thorough and insightful. You are the only student in memory to draw parallels between the possum's place in the animal hierarchy and classism in America. Pinkard never discussed the meaning of this particular poem, but I too have always believed he was really talking about the deep divide in our society. Perhaps you would consider allowing me to share your paper with the other students?

Additional Notes: Thank you for submitting your paper before the deadline, it demonstrates a responsibility that is lacking in your generation.

Regards,

Mr. Martinez

Gracen Academy

The praise was effusive from Mr. Martinez, who had a reputation for being a hard-ass. Any other day, I would've been bouncing in my seat at a rave review from Martinez. Instead, lead settled in my gut. My thoughts raced so quickly they blurred together.

I didn't write the paper. I didn't upload the paper to Gracen's student portal. I definitely didn't think about the possum enough to conclude it was a metaphor for classism. I'd barely read the poem.

Someone wrote my paper for me? But who? And why?

"How'd you do?" Blake's voice drew me out of my panicked thoughts. At some point, the world around me had ceased to exist. My ears had gone deaf to the conversations happening around us. My eyes only saw my laptop screen, as though I'd fallen into a vacuum. Even my body...it felt sort of numb. Blake's hand was between my shoulder blades, gently massaging the knots in my muscles, but I barely felt it. It was the first time his touch had failed to evoke a thrill.

You need to get it together. Pretend like everything is okay.

Inhaling deeply, I turned to offer Blake a coy smile. "Not too shabby." Angling the screen toward him, I added, "I'd be happy with a four on the real exam." Remembering that Blake thought he'd bombed his Chemistry practice test, I quickly backpedaled my boasting. "This wasn't a timed exam or anything, and obviously the real one will be. Honestly, I can't even tell you how long it took me write this."

Refusing to meet his gaze, I continued rambling. "And this was just one poem. The real exam has more sections. Even getting a high score on the poetry section won't guarantee I'll get credit for the AP."

Thankfully, Blake misread the source of anxiety. "Hey, stop. You earned that grade. Just because you're clearly better at dissecting poetry than I am at covalent bonds, doesn't mean you need to feel bad. I'm proud of you. This is awesome." He tugged a piece of my hair. "You have a magnificent brain under all this beautiful blonde. Be happy."

With a wave of relief washing over me, I leaned into Blake. "Don't you tell me how to feel. They're my emotions, and I'll have them as I see fit, thank you very much."

His laughter was like balm for the anxiety coursing through my veins.

Blake gave me a mocking salute. "Yes, ma'am. "

Both fighting smiles, we turned back to our respective schoolwork. But something he'd said stuck in my mind: You earned that grade.

I didn't.

Several of my friends paid other students to do their work. They bought grades as easily as they bought everything else. Not me. Not ever. With an entire life that I didn't earn, grades were one of the only things I received on my own merits. Suddenly, that was no longer true. Someone took that from me, and I intended to find out who.

Though I wasn't a computer genius by any stretch of the imagination, I also wasn't helpless. The portal kept a record of our logins, so I started there. Or, rather, I tried to start there.

My password was no longer valid. After staring at the screen for several long moments, I chose the password recovery option. A message flashed on the screen to let me know a temporary code was sent to my phone.

Tapping my foot, I watched my phone's home screen and willed the information to arrive faster. Two minutes later, the phone vibrated with a text notification. I glanced in Blake's direction. He was running a hand through those dark curls, eyes fixed on his textbook, and hadn't noticed my distraction.

You got lucky with that one.

After entering the information from the text, I was in. On the page for AP Literature, I scanned my user history. My throat felt dry when I swallowed, and I fought to keep my expression neutral. The night before, at 2:38 a.m., the AP Lit essay was submitted to Mr. Martinez.

Closing my eyes, I counted to ten—a trick I'd picked up from watching Dad deal with difficult work situations. When I opened them, my reflection shone on the darkened laptop screen. The blue irises staring back at me were so bright, they verged on unnatural. Fitting, since everything suddenly felt unnatural.

The air felt too thick, my chest too tight, my head too heavy. This mystery was one helping too many on my overflowing plate. Maybe I was weak, but I just couldn't carry any more burdens.

Maybe someone is just trying to help lighten your load. Have you considered that? Maybe you have your own guardian angel?

"I'm ready for a study break," Blake declared, tossing his pencil in the book on his lap.

When I turned to face him, my expression was composed. "Me, too," I agreed with a bright smile.

I leaned closer to Blake, until we were only inches apart. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and then he kissed me. Ignoring the mystery of my Lit paper, I lost myself in the moment.

Nothing else matters, not when you're with Blake.

### Five

##### Raven

The Ethiopian Restaurant was a twenty-minute walk from the apartment. Asher was a talkative guy, never allowing a lapse in conversation or awkward pause. My end of the exchange was mostly "uh-huh" and "that's cool".

My social skills were typically better, but my mind was preoccupied with the journal I'd found in my car's trunk. The Corolla was used, so the leatherbound book must've been left by its previous owner. Despite my resolve to not invade the journal owner's privacy, my fingers itched to do just that. My friend Catie was obsessive with her diary, and she'd been pushing me to record my new venture into the world in a log of my own. Would the mystery journal be full of someone's adventures? Maybe the pages were filled with stories of traversing the globe with only a backpack. Or perhaps it held sordid tales of scandal instead. The longer I thought about it, the wilder my imagination became. I wanted to know what deep, dark secrets this person wrote about.

"What do you think?" Asher was asking.

Blinking behind my oversized sunglasses, I racked my subconscious for a clue about what he'd been saying while I was daydreaming about another person's life.

"Tax law sounds boring, I know," Asher added.

"If it were me, I'd want to do international law," I said decisively. "Work for Amnesty International. Or maybe try war crimes at The Hague."

This admission surprised me for several reasons. Firstly, I'd never considered going into law, so I'd never thought about what type of law interested me. I also wasn't exactly politically inclined. The Hague was in the Netherlands, that much I knew for sure, though I'd never be able to point out the country on a world map.

"I've thought about that," Asher replied, smiling as he glanced over. The expression quickly faltered. "My dad does international and environmental law. Not the good kind, though."

"Is there a bad kind?"

For the first time on our walk, Asher was quiet.

Nice job, Raven, I thought. Insert foot in month.

"Yeah," he finally mumbled, "there is."

"Environmental law would be cool," I said quickly. "Alternative energy sources, preserving the world for future generations, all that good stuff."

A young couple whizzed by on their bicycles to our left, the boy shouting to the girl over his shoulder.

"Why do people roll only one pant leg up when they ride a bike?" I asked Asher, pointing to the guy.

Asher laughed, a deep, rich sound that reverberated through his entire body. I wondered what it would be like to lie on his chest, my ear pressed to his heart, while he laughed like that.

"What's so funny?" I asked, giggling to cover my confusion.

"I figured a do-gooder environmentalist like you would know," Asher joked.

"I never said I was a do-gooder," I protested, suddenly defensive.

Asher cleared his throat awkwardly. "The chain. People roll their pants so the chain doesn't rub."

"Oh." I wasn't sure what else to say.

"Here we are."

We were standing on the corner of U Street and 10th. A blue awning with "Dembe's" printed in white block letters hung overhead. Asher grabbed the door handle and motioned for me to go first. A bell tinkled as I crossed the threshold, signaling our arrival. The hostess stood behind a wooden podium playing with her iPhone. Her milky-white cheeks puffed with annoyance at our interruption.

"Two?" she asked, sounding bored.

"Yep," Asher replied. "Can we sit by the window?" He turned to me. "People watching is great here."

The hostess grabbed two menus from the podium and motioned for us to follow her. Asher placed his hand on the small of my back and applied the lightest of pressure as he guided me ahead of him. A chill ran down my spine. I liked how reassuring his touch was. He probably meant nothing by it, but I felt calm and safe for the first time since coming to the city. Too bad my back was slick with sweat from our walk in the evening heat. Hopefully, he couldn't feel it through the thick cotton of my polo.

The table was made of cheap, green plastic. Two matching chairs sat on either side, with surprisingly comfortable cushions. A fake white rose was plunked in a small bud vase next to the silver napkin dispenser. Oddly, the round bottom of the vase was full of water.

"I'll get your waiter." The hostess placed our menus on the table and resumed texting as she walked away.

"What's good?" I asked Asher.

Only a handful of the menu items had English descriptions beneath the entrée names.

"Depends," Asher shrugged. "Do you have a meat preference?"

"No beef tongues. Otherwise, I'm game for anything."

"Beef tongue is actually very good. Have you ever tried it?"

"Once," I admitted.

"Not a fan?"

"I couldn't get past the tongue part. That texture is disgusting."

"Fair enough." Asher chuckled and returned his attention to the menu. "How do you feel about lamb?"

I shrugged. "I could do lamb."

Our waiter appeared with two large glasses of ice water. After setting them in front of us, he pulled napkin-wrapped utensils from the small black apron around his waist and added those to the tabletop as well. "Something besides water?" the waiter asked.

Asher glanced up, inviting me to answer first.

"No, thank you," I replied.

"D.C. Brau," Asher said.

The waiter nodded, but didn't card Asher for the beer. I considered amending my drink order to a glass of wine. Of course, knowing my luck, the waiter would ask for my ID.

"Do you need more time with the menu?" the waiter asked.

Again, Asher looked to me for the answer. I shrugged in response.

"Do you trust me?" Asher asked.

The question caught me off guard. I'd known him for an hour. Trust wasn't something I gave out lightly; too many people in my life had let me down. Yet, he put me at ease. It was a start.

I met Asher's gaze and smiled. "Go for it."

Asher grinned. "We'll do the lamb wot and the doro wot fitfit," he said.

We handed our menus to the waiter, who took a second to write our order on an old-style guest check pad before tucking them underneath one arm.

"Did you get settled in?" Asher asked once the server disappeared.

"I guess," I replied with a shrug. "I didn't bring much, so there wasn't much to put away."

"You're from Pennsylvania?" It was a question, but one that he clearly thought he knew the answer to.

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. "What makes you think that?"

"You have PA plates on your car."

Admonishing myself for the reaction, I sipped my water to hide my chagrin.

"Sorry, the car is new," I said, setting the cup down. "Well, new to me. I bought it just before heading down here."

"Guess I know where to go when I need to mooch a ride," he joked.

"Only if you promise to be my tour guide," I countered.

"It would be my pleasure." Asher grinned and butterflies invaded my stomach.

The food wasn't bad. Better than I remembered Ethiopian cuisine being, anyway. Even the grey pancakes tasted better when shared with Asher.

On the walk home, we stopped by Frozen Dreams, a pay-by-the-pound frozen yogurt shop. Asher insisted on paying for my dessert—vanilla yogurt loaded down with chocolate chips, waffle cone bits, and gummy bears. Thankfully, he had a sweet tooth, too, and his sundae rivaled mine.

"You don't talk about yourself much," Asher noted as we sat in the high-backed bar stools at my kitchen counter.

Stuffed, I swirled the melting remains with the plastic spoon. "I'm not all that interesting," I replied with a shrug.

I wasn't being self-deprecating. Truly, my life wasn't very exciting. Moving to D.C. was the biggest adventure I'd ever been on.

"I seriously doubt that," Asher said, laughing. "That head of yours is probably full of secrets." He tugged a strand of my short, dark hair.

Instead of responding, I focused on the sugary soup my fro-yo had become. The remaining gummy bears bobbed their heads above the surface like tiny drowning men waiting to be rescued.

"Who do you know at The Pines?" Asher asked after several long, awkward moments.

My head whipped up. "What?"

Following Asher's gaze, I realized the diary was sitting on my kitchen counter with the key card poking from between the pages. I could've sworn I put it back in the envelope.

"The Pines," Asher repeated. He pulled the plastic card from the journal and held it up. "That place is really nice. Too rich for my blood."

"The Pines is here? In D.C.?"

"Yeah, it's newish. One of those state-of-the-art places: marble countertops, stainless steel appliances, bamboo floors, rooftop decks—the whole deal."

"Where is it?" I asked.

"Florida and W area. Not far from here. You could walk if you wanted."

I held out my hand, silently asking for the card back. "I found this, actually. I was going to return it tomorrow."

As soon as I said it, I knew I'd walk over first thing in the morning. Though the key's owner had probably ordered a new one already, she'd still want her journal returned.

"I don't have plans, if you want company?" Asher offered.

I almost said yes, but decided against it. "Thanks, but I don't want to put you out," I replied.

"If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

That I do, I thought with a smile. It was comforting to have a new friend in the city, particularly one who lived right downstairs.

By the time Asher left, I was exhausted. I also had a horrendous headache. Smacking my head twice on the trunk had probably given me a concussion. Stripping down to only my tank top and underwear, I climbed into bed with the journal.

Though I still thought reading it was intrusive, I wouldn't be able to return it without finding out the owner's identity. Also, I couldn't suppress my curiosity. My hands shook slightly when I opened the journal, anticipating all the secrets I might learn about the mystery girl. I hesitated for a beat before turning past the cover page.

The loopy scrawl gave me a small amount of satisfaction—the journal's owner was definitely female. There was a date in the top right corner of the first page, September 14, but no year. Two words stood out from the others, startling me so much that I dropped the journal. The leatherbound book landed on my stomach, cover still open.

The first entry was signed: Lark Kingsley. The missing girl from New York City. The one whose disappearance was national news.

Somehow, I had her diary.

### Six

###### Lark

"Lark! What on earth are you doing?" My mother's signature move—floating into a room with the grace of a ballerina—came to an abrupt halt when she saw the clothing strewn over my bedroom floor.

"Cleaning out my closet, Mother," I replied, hiding a smile.

"Why can't you just wait for the girl to decide?"

My mother had a "girl" for everything, and that was how she referred to them all. The one in question was the family stylist; she visited four times a year to sort through our clothing, remove pieces that couldn't be carried forward, and add each season's must-haves to our closets. When we'd first moved to Manhattan, having a family stylist had seemed fun. But after four years, the novelty had worn off, and it seemed wasteful. Not just paying someone to tell me what to wear, but buying a new wardrobe every three months. I loved shopping as much as the next girl, but I based my purchases on my own tastes, not what some designer decided deemed the next big "thing."

"I'm de-cluttering, Mother," I replied, after giving my mother adequate time to appraise the mess on the floor. "I can't find anything in here."

My answer wasn't exactly truthful, but I knew it would get her off my back.

"Fine. I'll have Jeanine pick this all up and send it to the indigents."

A laugh burst forth from me, though I didn't find her comment funny in the least.

"Seriously? Could you please not say things like that?"

My mother's eyes rounded in her most innocent expression. "Like what, dear? The truth?"

"One of these days, the wrong person is going to hear you," I snapped.

With a dismissive wave of her hand, my mother floated out of the room.

Turning back to my closet, I moved on to the formal-wear corner. The section was full of superfluous items, and I tossed gowns on the floor with a renewed vigor. It was considered unacceptable to wear a gown more than once, so most of the dresses could go. My gaze landed on the long black gown I'd worn to the Met Ball the previous year. Just the sight of it made me smile. With the memories it evoked, that dress was staying on the rack.

Stepping over the pile on the floor, I stroked the Met gown's soft fabric and lost myself in thoughts of that night. The night I'd met Blake for the first time....

"What is this crap?" Taylor whined, holding up her champagne flute. She examined it with a critical eye, like the brand would be spelled out in the bubbles. "Donations must be down."

Sipping from my own glass, I glanced around the room and started making up excuses for an early departure. But then, I spotted him. The instant his emerald eyes locked with mine, I forgot all the reasons I no longer wanted to be there. Taylor's drunken complaining, the soft classical music, and even the flirtatious banter of a nearby couple ceased to exist. Time stood still, like he and I were the leads in a romantic comedy. He didn't go to my school, I was sure of that. I was also sure I'd never seen him before. I'd have remembered those eyes.

Cam tugged on my arm. "Come on, I need something stronger than this if I'm going to listen to Taylor bitch all night."

Though I let her pull me away from our friends, my gaze kept flitting back to the one guy who stood out in a sea of matching tuxedos.

Go say hi. Talk to him.

I didn't dare. My parents were somewhere at the party. If my mother caught me talking to an unfamiliar guy—she surely knew everyone worth knowing—she'd interfere with the conversation and embarrass me in the process.

Nonetheless, his gaze was like a magnet that kept pulling my attention toward him. Even as I smiled for pictures, sipped pilfered champagne, and chatted with my friends, I felt his draw. Every time my companions' focus strayed from me, I stole glances at the gorgeous guy I could only talk to in my daydreams.

Just when I'd started to relax, thanks to the glass of scotch Ilan procured for me, I caught my mother staring at me disapprovingly. With one heavily jeweled hand, she beckoned me.

"Be right back," I groaned to my friends, not bothering to hide my irritation.

Annie offered me a sympathetic smile but didn't offer to accompany me. Like the rest of the Eight, she was trying to stay off her parents' radar that evening.

"Lark, darling," my mother greeted me, leaning in for an air kiss. While close, she whispered in a tone dripping with artificial sweetness, "You caught the light a moment ago and nearly blinded me. Visit the ladies' room, sweetie. Use your compact." She laughed as though we'd just shared a joke, and several of the other parents smiled.

You are so fake, I thought. Nodding curtly, I headed for a hallway in the corner that led to the restrooms. If she'd known her snide suggestion would change the course of my life, perhaps my mother would have held her tongue.

When I exited the ladies' room five minutes later, the guy with emerald eyes was waiting at the end of the hall. Leaning casually against a small table holding a vase of red roses, hands tucked into the front pockets of his slacks, he straightened when I emerged.

"Care to dance?" he called.

After blinking several times, the damn contacts began to swim in my eyes.

Is he talking to me? I wondered.

A quick survey of the empty hallway gave me confidence. Emboldened by the bubbly, and still miffed at my mother for calling me out, I didn't hesitate.

"Love to."

"Good," he responded with all the confidence in the world.

I smiled when he offered me an arm.

Blake led me to the dance floor just as a legendary singer took the stage. The opening notes of a ballad broke the crowd's silent anticipation. Blake stopped in the center of the floor and turned to face me. His grin was infectious, and I felt a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. He placed one hand gently on the small of my back and locked the other with mine. An unfamiliar chill traveled down my spine.

He's even more gorgeous up close, I thought. Leaning into him, I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me.

We didn't speak while we danced. That should've been weird, but the silence was comfortable, like we'd known each other for years instead of minutes. When the singer seamlessly transitioned into the next song, Blake didn't move away. So, neither did I. At one point, he pulled back slightly to meet my eyes, his smile replaced by a contemplative expression. The intensity simmering between us made my heart beat just a little faster.

The corners of his mouth slowly curved up. He pulled me gently back into his embrace, closer than before. We swayed for another song, my brain wondering who this guy was while the rest of me leaned against him contentedly. How could I possibly feel this comfortable with someone I'd barely spoken to? There were all of six words between us. Closing my eyes, I cast the thoughts aside and relished the sparks that came with his touch.

The rock legend left the stage to thunderous applause. When a popstar took his place, the mood changed instantly. With a questioning look, Blake gestured to the side of the polished oak dance floor. I nodded and let him lead me away. With his fingers interlaced with mine, everything else blurred into the background—the crowds of elegantly dressed socialites, the music pounding through the speakers, or the way my mother watched me curiously. Just as he was turning to me, gesturing to a vacant table, someone caught my other hand and yanked.

"Oh, thank the heavens!" Taylor shouted, pulling me to her. Without thinking, I dropped the guy's hand, instantly missing the warmth. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Allister is being a total cad. And Cam is drunk and crying over—oh, who cares. Let's dance!"

Taylor's sudden appearance shattered the illusion. Our world of two was gone, replaced by a crowd of people. Taylor dragged me back to the center of the dance floor, where Annie, Ilan and a group of Gracen's junior class were already bouncing to the beat. When I looked over my shoulder, Blake was gone. Searching the crowd, I saw no trace of his handsome features and bright green eyes.

He was here...right? He was real?

Was I so desperate for a break from my life that I'd conjured the guy in my head?

My skin still tingled where he'd held me. I could feel his warm fingers threaded through mine.

Real, I decided.

Not even my wildest fantasies made me feel so alive.

"Lark, your appointment is in thirty minutes. Shall I order you a car?" Sirius's question pulled me from the memory.

I was losing too much time in my mental wanderings. Frequently. Setting reminders and keeping detailed notes were the only things keeping me on track at all. Leaving a virtual trail of my life was risky, but it was a risk I'd have to take.

"Yes, please," I told my virtual helper. "Order one through the X-Pedite app," I added quickly, not wanting him to make the mistake of calling one of our family drivers.

"Pick up at Home Address?"

"No, use Address Two," I instructed. "Thank you, Sirius."

With one last, lingering touch of the black gown, I began shoving the clothes on my closet floor into tote bags. The haul was larger than I'd expected.

Good, I thought. I need the money.

To avoid both questions and security cameras, I used the service elevator and left through the back exit. The car was already waiting in the alley that ran behind our building. The driver hurried out of the car to help me with my bags.

"Want these in the back? Or with you?" he asked.

I glanced around nervously. "Um, the back is fine, thanks."

"You got it."

We loaded everything into the back of the black SUV, then climbed in.

"I have an address in Brooklyn? Park Slope? Is that correct?"

"Yep, that's right," I confirmed.

Once we started moving, I slumped against the leather upholstery and sighed in relief.

Phase one complete, I thought.

"Your boss must be loaded."

"Huh?"

In the rearview mirror, the driver met my gaze and nodded to the bags of clothing. According to the app on my phone, his name was Delon.

"Anyone who can afford to give away that much crap must have money to burn," he said.

"Oh, yeah. The family is pretty well off," I replied.

He thinks I'm a housekeeper. I had to suppress a giggle. At least my blending skills were improving, if nothing else.

The driver navigated the SUV into a line of traffic with the practiced skill of a professional. "I used to cover the door at a building like the one you work in."

"Why did you switch careers? Rude tenants?"

Delon laughed. "Believe it or not, I make three times as much driving. And I work half as much."

"Really?" I asked.

"Yeah. Crazy, huh? Plus, I get to make my own hours, so I never miss my little girl's games." He eased the car to a stop at a traffic light, and turned to smile at me over his broad shoulder. "Guess you're a little young to worry about that, huh?"

My shrug was noncommittal. "How old is your daughter?"

Delon steered the car onto the bridge. "Twelve. She plays basketball. She's good, too. And I'm not just saying that because she's my little girl. Carolena—that's her name—never misses a foul shot, and her three-point game is strong."

Talking to people outside the bubble of the Upper East Side made me feel more connected to the real world. I smiled wistfully. The pride in his voice when he spoke about his daughter was enviable.

Has my father ever been that proud of me? I wondered. My mother certainly never was. She never would be, either.

"I used to play, in college," the driver continued.

"Yeah? Were you any good?" I asked.

He chuckled. "Not as good as I thought I was. But hey, at least playing ball, I could eat whatever I wanted." He patted his stomach. "Now, one slice of my wife's blueberry pie, and I can't button my pants. And she makes the best blueberry pie."

Smiling at Delon, I tried to recall if my mother had ever baked anything in her life.

He pulled to a stop and turned on the flashers. "I can wait, if you like?" Delon offered.

"Thank you, but that's not necessary," I told him. Then, with an exaggerated eye roll, I added, "I have no idea how long this might take."

My phone was in my hand, and I pressed the button to complete the transaction, including a sizeable tip and five-star rating for the driver. Gathering my bags, I climbed out of the SUV and called, "Thanks for the ride, Delon. Have a good one."

Couture Closet was the secondhand store—the shop for those wanting a designer wardrobe on an upper-middleclass salary. It had a cool, modern ambiance with bright overhead recessed lighting, racks between wide walkways, and mannequins wearing everything from vintage Gautier to the latest Prada. Bypassing a display of handbags, I made my way to the rear of the store.

An alcove in the back was secluded from the rest of the shop. Sliding them down my shoulders one at a time, I heaved the bags of clothing onto the counter. A young girl who looked to be in her mid-twenties stood on the other side of the divide, her dark ponytail bouncing and shiny. Her eyes widened as she took in all the totes.

"Um, give me one sec, okay? I think Cynthia should probably be here for this," she said, already turning to the curtain divider behind her. "Cynth?" she called, holding one side of the velvet drapes open. "We need you out here."

An older woman with lines around her eyes emerged from the back, silver glasses perched upon her sharp nose. She took one look at me and quickly straightened her top, hands absently pushing stray hairs back into her chignon.

"Oh, you're back, dear! How wonderful! That pink Chanel bag was snatched up the same day I put it on display. I hope you have some more gems for me!"

Smiling warmly, I offered her my hand.

"It's wonderful to see you again, Cynthia. I'm so pleased someone liked that bag," I replied nonchalantly, setting the last tote on the countertop.

Cynthia took the cue and dispensed with small talk.

Good, I thought, eager to complete the transaction as quickly as possible.

"Let's see what you have, dear." She reached for one of the bags and began pulling out the garments. I could practically see the dollar signs in her eyes as she fingered a black leather moto jacket that I'd only worn once. "Is this...?"

She checked the tag for the brand. "It is." Cynthia laid the jacket aside, running her fingers over the soft leather before picking up a Temperley London dress. She beamed at me. "We are so happy to take these off your hands."

I bet you are, I thought. My pleasant smile was pasted on.

"Why don't you look around while I catalogue your items?"

"Um, sure. Just let me know when you're ready for me," I replied.

I wandered the aisles, hands trailing over sumptuous fabrics, and thought about where these clothes had been. Who'd owned them? Why'd they sell them? And who dropped $17,000 on that couture gown? The beading was beautiful, but the cut would only be flattering on a moose.

When the young brunette peeked her head around the corner, I'd already done two laps.

"We're ready for you...miss," she called.

I'd withheld my name on purpose, despite Cynthia's attempts to get it out of me.

Returning to the alcove, all my garments were spread across the counter. My gaze fixed on the cashmere sweater I'd worn on my third date with Blake.

Let it go, I told myself, fighting the urge to snatch it back.

"So, dear, this is all in impeccable condition," Cynthia declared. "How does this sound?" She pushed a small scrap of paper with a number written on it across the counter, watching my face to gauge my reaction.

Cynthia's smile dimmed, and it was clear she was worried that I might protest.

"Of course, we'll offer 20% more if you take the value in store credit," she quickly added, holding her breath to see if I'd take the bait.

She's as desperate as I am, I thought as Cynthia ran her hand over an Alexander McQueen dress coat, her eyes hungry with desire. Maybe more so.

The amount was decent—lower than the clothes were worth, but markedly higher than other stores would offer. Cynthia wanted my repeat business.

After drawing out my reply, I finally nodded my acceptance. "That's perfectly fine, Cynthia. I'd prefer the cash. Thank you."

A slight wrinkle appeared between her brows, but she quickly smoothed her expression. "Of course, dear. Give me just a minute and I will have your invoice." Her tone was neutral, but her disappointment was evident. She wanted me to turn around and spend the money in her store, but I didn't need secondhand Louboutins or last year's Chanel bag.

I needed cash.

Cynthia disappeared behind the curtain, and I wandered to a collection of vintage gowns to avoid talking to the salesgirl. She was admiring the soft cotton of my Lilly sundress with pink tigers lying on the countertop.

Antigua, I thought, recalling the one and only time I'd worn the dress.

"This is beautiful," the brunette called.

I gave her a smile over my shoulder. "It is," I agreed.

"If it's not too intrusive, may I ask why you are selling so much of your wardrobe?"

The question was intrusive. My haughtiest expression appeared, the one I'd learned from my mother. "It's just extra stuff," I told her.

The brunette opened her mouth to say something, but Cynthia thankfully emerged before she had a chance.

"Here you are, dear," Cynthia said, handing me a thick, white envelope. She stared curiously, as though contemplating all the reasons a girl like me might need so much money.

"Thank you, Cynthia," I said coolly, meeting her gaze.

"Would you like to count it?"

"I'm sure it's fine," I said, waving off her offer.

"It's nice doing business with you, dear." Cynthia hesitated. "Will we be seeing you again?"

"We'll see," I answered vaguely, turning to leave.

Tucking the envelope securely into my tan sling bag, I walked out of the store and back into the bright sunlight. My phone vibrated. I looked down at the screen.

Sender Unknown: Fraud Lane. Tacos r my fave.

Slipping my phone in my back pocket, I pulled a pair of oversized sunglasses from my bag and hailed a passing taxi.

### Seven

##### Raven

The Pines was a glass oasis amidst a sea of brick buildings. From the outside, it was apparent that every apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows with matching silver blinds that reflected the sunlight. The effect was blinding. I flipped my plastic sunglasses down to cover my eyes. Surprisingly, no doorman stood out front to greet me. This presented a problem.

While I was able to pass through the revolving door easily enough, the glass-walled vestibule that it dumped me into was as far as I could go. The door to the actual lobby was locked, and it seemed that no one was there to buzz me in. I was trapped in the small, glass box. A moment of unease threatened to turn into panic, until I noticed a black pad to the right of the interior doors, like ones on hotel doors. In the middle of the pad, below two lights, was a thin opening—just the right size for a key card.

Beautiful black, white, and red throw rugs were scattered across the sleek marble flooring of the main lobby. A sitting area was arranged to the right of the front doors; a black wraparound couch with twin armchairs surrounded a frosted-glass coffee table littered with the latest editions of The Washingtonian, The Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal, Time, and Newsweek. It reminded me of the reception room of the oral surgeon's office where I had my wisdom teeth removed.

"Can I help you, miss?" a nasally sounding voice asked.

A tall, thin man with a beak of a nose was watching me from behind a rounded desk. Rows of small cubbyholes lined the wall behind him.

"Yes, thank you," I said, offering what I hoped was a dazzling smile. "I'm looking for a resident of yours."

"A friend?" the receptionist asked in a haughty tone.

He gave me the once-over. A slight wrinkle of his long nose was the only visible reaction to my appearance. Apparently, my white capris and baby-blue tank top were not in accordance with The Pines' dress code.

I was so busy watching him watch me, I forgot he'd asked a question until his pencil-thin eyebrows arched in annoyance.

"Are you here to see a friend, miss?" he pressed.

A friend? Not in the traditional sense of the word. I'd only read the first few entries of her journal before exhaustion won out. It was clear the missing girl was troubled, yet I felt an unexpected kinship with her.

"Um, yeah. My friend–" Her name was on the tip of my tongue before I thought better of saying it. I cleared my throat and started over.

"Yes, sir. My friend lives in apartment 10A," I told him. The apartment number was written in black sharpie on a piece of masking tape fastened around the key ring.

I'd spoken the magic words. The receptionist's attitude took a 180-degree turn. His thin lips flipped from the disapproving frown to a brilliant, eager-to-please grin.

"Of course, miss. If it wouldn't be too much trouble, would you mind signing in?" He produced a log book from beneath the desk.

"Sure," I said uneasily.

"I apologize for the inconvenience, miss. The Pines requires all unaccompanied guests to sign in," he replied, sounding genuinely apologetic.

Under an indecipherable scrawl that could have been a doctor's signature, I printed "Raven Ferragamo" in neat, block letters. There were also spaces for the date, time, and reason for my visit.

"What's today's date?" I asked without looking up.

"August 29th, miss. The time is...," he paused for a beat, "10:22 a.m."

"Thank you."

I filled in the requisite answers, writing "personal" as the reason for my visit.

"The elevators are through the archway and to the left. You will need to use the key card, then select floor 10. Ms. Queensbridge's apartment is at the end of the hallway on the right. Would you like me to show you the way?"

"No," I said quickly, slightly confused. Was it someone else's apartment? Or was that an alias for Lark? Was she hiding out here?

"Thank you, though. I'm sure I can manage on my own," I added.

"Very well, miss. My name is Darrell if you need further assistance."

I thanked him a third time and headed toward the archway he'd indicated.

Once in the elevator, I momentarily regretted refusing his guidance. Darrell had said I needed to use the key card before selecting the tenth floor, but for the life of me I couldn't figure out where to insert it. There was no slot anywhere near the buttons. I tried pushing the button for the tenth floor, but nothing happened.

Feeling like a complete moron, I pushed the button that opened the doors to swallow my pride and ask Darrell for help. When the elevator slid open, he was already standing on the other side, hands clasped behind his back.

"Shall I show you how it works, miss?" Darrell asked.

His presence there was nothing short of creepy. I nodded mutely, and he boarded the elevator car. As the doors slid shut, I inched away from the receptionist until my back was against the wall. Darrell withdrew a key card just like Lark's and held it in front of a black box beneath the number pad. After several long, agonizing seconds a beep sounded and he pushed the ten, the button glowing green.

To my relief, Darrell pushed the "door open" button and exited the elevator car. He wasn't going to ride up with me, thankfully.

"If you need anything else, miss, there are courtesy phones on every floor. Just pick up the receiver and dial zero to reach me."

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," I replied.

Like the building, the elevator was brand-new. The ride to the penthouse was smooth and expedient. My emotions ping-ponged at a dizzying speed, and my headache from the night before was returning. To say I wasn't extremely interested in what Lark Kingsley was doing hiding out under an assumed name in Washington, D.C. would be a blatant lie. Would she really be there? I'd researched her family background a little before leaving that morning, and I was pretty interested to meet the heiress.

Her great-grandfather immigrated to the States at the turn of the twentieth century. Like so many other Italians, he'd come through Ellis Island with hopes of making a new life for the family. In Italy, he'd been a respected jewelry designer but fled in a hurry with only the possessions he could carry. Once in America, he'd resumed his craft, making a decent living. It was his daughter, Lark's grandmother, and her husband, Artorio Kingsley, who'd taken the family business to new and impressive heights in New York. European and Hollywood royalty alike wore the Kingsleys' elaborate, sparkling designs.

With revenue pouring in, Lark's grandparents then invested in the diamond mines they sourced from. When Lark's father inherited the business, he'd continued the tradition of creating exquisite and pricey pieces that the rich and famous clamored to get their hands on. He'd also expanded mine investments until the Kingsleys owned a vast majority of the world's diamonds.

The elevator arrived on the tenth floor, the ding startling me out of my reverie. The doors opened, but I stood rooted to the polished floor. What if Lark wasn't hiding out here anymore? What if she'd met foul play? What if, instead of finding the living embodiment of the girl I'd learned about over the past forty-eight hours, I found her corpse? Or what if this was just some random old lady's apartment?

The doors started to close. I thrust my arm between them to keep from being trapped in the mirrored cage.

"Paranoid much?" I mumbled to myself.

There were only two doors in the tenth-floor hallway, one at either end. Following Darrell's instructions, I turned right toward 10A. The hallway smelled like new carpet and a hint of wood polish. A long mirror was mounted above a small table across from 10A, and I stopped for a beat to check my reflection.

"Let's find out what happened to you, Lark," I muttered before turning to the door.

My initial knock was tentative and probably inaudible to someone on the other side. After counting to thirty, I repeated the act with more resolve. There was no sound of rushing feet or a voice calling from inside. With a quick glance at the empty hallway, I pressed my ear to the door. Silence.

Lark was clearly not there. Though I turned to leave, I didn't go anywhere. I'd walked all the way over there, and I did have the keys. I could just go in and put the journal, key card, and keys on the counter or something. Or, I could go back downstairs and leave all three with Darrell. Except he was too creepy to trust with Lark's journal.

Closing my eyes, I pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. My head pounded painfully. Was it really trespassing when I had the keys?

If the roles were reversed, I'd want my stuff returned.

Before I lost my nerve, I thrust the key in the lock and turned it. The sound of the deadbolt disengaging was impossibly loud. Glancing over my shoulder to ensure I was still alone, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

"Lark?" I called tentatively.

No response.

"Lark?" I called more loudly this time.

The door banged closed behind me, and I jumped. Heart racing a mile a minute, I laughed uneasily.

I totally should've brought Asher.

"Lark?"

My flip-flops smacked the small foyer's wooden floor as I walked slowly forward. The apartment had the same new-carpet smell as the hallway. The pale-blue walls were pristine, without a scratch in sight.

I walked past a dining table with matching chairs and into the kitchen. Copper pots and pans hung from a rack over a gas stove. Though the space was an amateur chef's dream, it obviously hadn't been used in quite some time. The marble countertops, though beautiful, were covered in a thick layer of dust.

My gaze landed on a small, woven basket near the sink. An envelope was propped against it. My heart seemed to stop altogether, and my breath hitched in my throat. I stared at the words written in familiar, looping cursive across the front.

Like a death row inmate making her final walk, I slowly crossed the white-tiled floor and reached for the envelope with trembling fingers. Instead of picking it up right away, I traced the two words on the front with my index finger.

Read Me.

### Eight

###### Lark

"The party has arrived!" Cam exclaimed, bursting into my bedroom without knocking.

A grin spread across my features as she and Annie sauntered in with garment bags. Jeanine trailed behind, carrying two duffle bags. I was working on a calculus take-home test but leapt to my feet to help the housekeeper with my friends' belongings.

"Homework? Really, Lark?" Cam demanded. "It's Saturday."

"I know," I groaned, rolling my eyes. "But something tells me I'm not going to feel up to doing this tomorrow, and it's due on Monday." As I hung my friends' monogrammed garment bags from hooks on my closet doors, Jeanine arranged their other bags on a nearby chair.

"Thanks, Jeanine," I said warmly.

"Of course, dear." She smiled indulgently. "Would you girls like some snacks while you're getting ready?"

"That's not ne—" I began, but Cam talked over me.

"Can we get a cheese plate?" she asked hopefully.

"Of course. Anything else?" Jeanine looked from Cam to Annie to me.

"We really don't need anything," I told her, shooting Cam a pointed look when she started to protest. The housekeeper should've already left for the day, but she'd stayed late at my mothers' request. My parents were going out and I was headed to Taylor's party, so Jeanine was there to help us all get ready.

"Let me know if you change your mind," Jeanine replied on her way out.

Despite my assurances, I knew she'd be back with Cam's request.

Even before Jeanine was out the door, Cam reached inside her enormous satchel and produced three oversized bottles of bubbly. Annie pulled three picnic-style champagne flutes from her purse with a wide grin.

And so it begins, I thought. Flipping through the playlists on my phone, I selected a pre-party mix.

This was our ritual—champagne and music at my house before any event.

"Have you talked to Tay?" Annie asked, handing me an empty glass. The only thing missing from our routine was Taylor. As the hostess for the evening, she was busy making sure everything was perfect for her 1920's-themed bash.

Cam popped the first bottle of champagne, making a face at Annie's question. I shook my head as Cam filled my glass, the pale liquid bubbling over the rim.

"Lucky you," she said. "Taylor is on a whole new level. She's totally freaked because the teacups aren't the right pattern or something."

Taylor took her party planning duties very seriously, and she strongly believed the small touches could make or break a night. We'd spent an entire lunch hour the week before debating whether the teacups should actually be chipped, as they were at the original speakeasies.

"Should we go early?" I asked. "See if she needs any help?"

Drinking from the bottle of champagne, Cam plopped on my bed and waved off the question. "Absolutely not. I need a nice buzz before I deal with her tonight."

"She's our friend," I reminded Cam pointedly.

"I know," she groaned, stretching out the words. "But ever since Landon dumped her, Tay has been extra."

Though Cam wasn't wrong, Taylor's recent breakup was all the more reason for us to be there. I was about to say so, when Annie changed the subject.

"Can I see your dress, Lark? Cam says it's rather scandalous."

"It's hanging on the back of the bathroom door," I told her. "But if you're expecting something outrageous, I think you're going to be disappointed."

The nude slip dress with tassels was perfect for the night's theme, though a little short. Luckily, every other girl at the party would be baring just as much leg.

"I love it!" Annie exclaimed loudly from across the room.

"Me, too," I answered, grinning.

"Who are you trying to impress?" Annie teased when she rejoined us. She perched on my vanity stool. My best friend's short, dark hair was already styled, but her porcelain skin was makeup-free. She began rifling through my collection of primers and foundations, winking at me in the mirror.

My expression must've shown my unease, because Annie's expression faltered.

"Yeah, spill, Lark," Cam demanded, giggling as she refilled my glass. "We all know you're hiding something. Or, rather... someone?"

Her tone implied that she wasn't just guessing I'd been M.I.A. because of a guy. My chest tightened, wondering how Cam found out about Blake.

Maybe I'm being paranoid, I thought. There was no way she knew...right? She's probably just hoping I'll slip up and admit I've been seeing someone.

"Sorry," Annie mouthed in the mirror.

"Can't a girl wear a pretty dress for herself?" I asked, widening my eyes in faux innocence.

Cocking a hip, Cam stared at me with pursed lips. "What's the big deal? Why won't you tell us? Who is he?"

"Come on, Cam," Annie said softly. "Leave her alone."

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

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

"Find out what?" I demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's okay," I told her softly. "Cam's just having fun. I swear she's not as drunk as she seems."

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

"Perfect ten!" she announced.

Wincing, I turned back to Jeanine. "I'll get her some crackers," I promised.

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

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

I offered my glass. "You can have mine."

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

Beep. Beep.

The music faded out, and Cam booed loudly.

"Text message from Mother," Sirius said.

"Read message, please," I replied.

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

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

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

"Sirius, time check," I called.

Beep. Beep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Larky-loo, come out, come out!"

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

"You guys look awesome," I said honestly.

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

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

As if on cue, Cam's cell lit up.

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

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

"Since when does Taylor care what Gris Michaelson wants?" I asked. "I vote 'no' to Midtown."

Annie and Cam exchanged looks.

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

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

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

Beep. Beep.

"Text message from Ilan Avery," Sirius announced, saving me.

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

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

Gesturing to the ceiling as though Ilan's message had just proved her point—and it sort of did—Cam spun on her heel and stomped out of the bathroom.

"Ignore her," Annie said softly. "She's just...well, she isn't wrong. But I get it, you aren't ready to talk about it yet. Whatever 'it' is."

"I'm sorry, Annie."

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

"I'm sorry," I repeated lamely.

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

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

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

"Annie?" I called as she headed for the bedroom.

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

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

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

"Okay, yeah." Annie looked at me over her shoulder. "You're going to come though, right?"

"I'll see you there," I promised.

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

Some people were too vital to ignore.

### Nine

###### Lark

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She must understand.

### Ten

#### Raven

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A stranger, then," I muttered. "Anyone who found it."

I reread Lark's letter a third time.

Secrets rule my world.

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

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

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

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

A confirmation number? I wondered.

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

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

With a heavy sigh, I put the phone down. I couldn't do it. Not yet, anyhow. Guilt nagged at the corner of my brain, arguing against my choice. Her parents were looking for her. Hell, the country was looking for her. The media treated the case like she was the lost heir to a nonexistent throne. My eyes skimmed the letter again as I hesitated.

I implore you, please don't turn your back on me. It took a lot to get this here, to get you here. I promise, you'll understand by the time we are done.

Lark Kingsley was begging for someone—me—to open her trove of secrets. Hopefully it wouldn't be Pandora's Box.

Somewhere between reading Lark's journal, discovering her apartment, and finding her letter, I felt a kinship that I couldn't explain. She'd specifically said the police wouldn't help, so that really only left me. Of course, her letter was so cryptic that I didn't know what she wanted me to do. Hopefully that would change.

My mind whirring with strange and disturbing thoughts, I left the apartment. The more I pondered Lark's words, the more convinced I became that her secret was huge. A hush-hush boyfriend wasn't the sort of thing that might lead to your demise. And Lark clearly knew something was going to happen to her. More than that, she'd made a contingency plan: a cryptic message left in an apartment Lark rented under an assumed name.

Even though my thoughts kept returning to Lark's problems, I needed to focus on one of my own—a job. My own time in D.C. would be short-lived if I didn't secure steady income. At the U Street metro station, I purchased a Smartrip card and loaded it with twenty dollars. I knew little about D.C., but I'd heard that Dupont Circle, Adam's Morgan, and Georgetown were three neighborhoods known for nightlife and restaurants. Since those were the most likely places I'd find a job, I searched the metro map hanging behind scratched, yellowed plastic. The first two areas were on the red line, so I followed the signs to those trains.

Once on the platform, I was pleasantly surprised to see an electronic sign indicating that the next red line train was arriving in one minute. Pretending this wasn't my first time on a subway, I glanced nonchalantly at the other people on the platform. An olive-skinned boy in his late-teens stood near the edge, wearing enormous headphones that made him look like he belonged in a recording studio. He seemed to think he was in the booth, too, wagging his hand back and forth while mouthing words. A well-dressed man in an impeccably cut suit and red power-tie was standing awkwardly under the arrival sign. He looked out of place and kept loosening his Windsor knot as though the fetid air was making it difficult to breathe. When he caught sight of me staring at him, the man stopped fidgeting and eyed me curiously. I gave him a half-smile, embarrassed he'd noticed me watching. He didn't smile back.

A shiver ran down my spine as the lights on the platform flashed, signaling the train's arrival. I edged forward, feeling the weight of the man's gaze. Air whooshed through the station, humid and stale, from the darkened tunnel. Strands of dark hair flew into my eyes as the train pulled to a stop. The doors slid apart, and I boarded the car directly in front of me. I'd just slid into a window seat in the mostly empty car when a mechanical voice said, "Doors closing." Before they did, the suit-wearing man thrust his arm between the doors and stepped aboard.

We weren't the only two on the car, yet he made me nervous. The way he kept looking at me was unsettling, and I itched to leave the metro. Keeping my head turned to the window, I focused on the dark concrete walls rushing past.

You're being paranoid, I told myself.

"Next stop, Chinatown," the mechanical voice said. I stood and hurried to the doors. From the corner of my eye, I saw the man watching me. He was still seated.

The train slid to a stop. When the doors opened, I slipped through them and onto the platform. The man didn't follow, but he watched me through the window until the train was gone again. For several long seconds, I stood on the platform and tried to shake off the creepy feeling that I was being followed.

You're losing it, I thought. Lark's fear must be contagious.

Once outside, the fresh air washed away my suspicious thoughts. The first restaurant I came across had darkened windows and an orange sign declaring it to be Zanga. The menu outside referred to the cuisine as "Asian fusion with a dash of fire."

A pretty brunette wearing all black stood behind a hostess podium near the entrance. "Table for one?" she asked, greeting me with a smile.

"Actually, I was wondering if you were hiring?" I replied, matching her pleasant smile.

The girl, "Brooklyn" according to her nametag, did a once-over. Her friendly expression didn't falter, but I was suddenly very conscious of the fact my outfit didn't go with the high-end décor of the space.

"Not currently, but we're always taking applications," she told me.

"Thanks anyway," I replied, knowing what that meant.

"Hey," she called after me.

One hand already on the door, I turned back.

"There's a place in Capitol Hill called Raine's," the hostess continued. "It's a wine bar. Nothing too fancy, but they get a decent after-work crowd, lots of staffers. My roommate is a bartender there, and she mentioned they were looking for help. She's working right now, if you want to swing by? Her name is Caitlyn, tell her Brooklyn sent you. She'll at least give you an interview."

"Wow, thanks," I told her. "That's really nice of you."

"I moved here last year for school," Brooklyn explained. "I totally understand where you're coming from. No one gave me the time of day when I was looking for jobs. This place," she made a spinning gesture with one finger, "only gave me a job after my financial aid advisor called in a favor."

Grinning, I thanked her again.

Instead of returning to the metro, I braved a city bus that purportedly ran from Chinatown to Capitol Hill. The trip across town was quicker than expected. When the bus pulled to a stop, the same mechanical voice from the metro called out, "Union Station."

Lark's pleading words flashed in my mind: Follow my lead. Walk in my shoes. Spend a DAY in my life.

Grabbing my bag, I dashed through the open doors at the back of the bus. For a moment, I stood on the sidewalk and stared across the street at the massive stone structure. Union Station, where Lark arrived on January 23rd. Spend a DAY in my life.

"Okay, Lark," I muttered, starting for the crosswalk.

It took a few minutes to navigate my way across Massachusetts Avenue, which was heavy with yellow cabs zipping and weaving between the other cars. Finally, I reached the entrance. With its archways and columns, it didn't look like a train depot I'd ever seen. The train station in Harrisburg, PA was little more than a dirty cement building with a handful of grimy plastic chairs inside. Union Station had a marble fountain in the center of a spacious, indoor courtyard. The ceiling was rounded and so high that voices echoed beneath.

"I'm here," I muttered. "What now?"

Standing in the beautiful atrium, I had no clue where to go next. Then I remembered the weird key, which was still in my pocket. Lark had included it with the letter and train ticket for a reason. It was somehow tied to Union Station.

I glanced around, hoping that the answer to the riddle would pop out. A wave of commuters poured through one of the archways at the back of the atrium. I moved aside, toward a cluster of tables around a coffee stand.

"Hey, I'm leaving if you want to sit here," called a guy in khakis and a t-shirt. He waved in my direction, and I looked around to make sure he was talking to me.

"Um, thanks," I said. He stood and gestured to the chair he'd just vacated.

Settling in, I pulled out Lark's letter and the train ticket from my bag. I glanced around nervously to make sure no one was watching me. The occupants of the surrounding tables were all either immersed in conversation or glued to their phones.

You're not doing anything wrong, I told myself. You have no reason to worry.

I set the letter and ticket side-by-side on the table. The writing at the bottom of the ticket had to be a clue: C908. Initially, I'd thought it was a confirmation number. As I stared at the four characters again, I wasn't so sure.

"Mind if I sit?" asked a female voice.

Immersed in my thoughts, I nearly fell off my chair.

"Sorry. It's just so crowded, and I've been on my feet all day." The girl shrugged sheepishly. "Promise I'll be quiet." Her smile was hopeful, her big brown eyes pleading.

Though I wanted to say no, I also didn't want to be rude.

"Yeah, sure." I gestured to the empty chair across from me with one hand and covered the letter and train ticket with my other.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you." She sank into the chair and sighed. "Twelve-hour shifts should be outlawed."

I mustered a small smile, and she held out a hand. "I'm Heather."

"Raven," I replied, accepting the handshake.

That was when I really looked at my tablemate. She wore a tailored blue suit with a collared shirt underneath. Heather sat with her long legs crossed, and when she reached down to rub her ankle, I saw the navy stilettoes on her feet.

"Do you work here?" I asked, careful to keep my tone even. Perhaps my polite deed would be rewarded.

Heather nodded and gave me a tired smile. "Yep, for Amtrak." She reached into her purse and pulled out a phone. Holding it up, she added, "Sorry, I promised to be quiet."

"It's totally fine," I said with a smile. I hesitated, uncertain how best to broach the subject of the key, and possibly even the train ticket. "I'm new in town and I don't really know many people in D.C., so it's nice to talk," I admitted.

Heather leaned forward and rested one elbow on the table, then place her chin her upturned palm. "Where are you from?"

"Nowhere, Pennsylvania," I replied.

"Cool, cool. What brought you down here?"

"Just needed a change," I answered with a shrug.

She nodded like she understood the feeling. My arm was still covering Lark's letter and the train ticket. You've got nothing to lose, I coached myself. Just ask.

I cleared my throat. "Can I ask you a question?"

Heather raised one eyebrow, which I took as an invitation.

Without a prepared story, I said the first thing that popped in my head. "I'm subletting an apartment, and the girl who lived there before left a lot of her stuff." I reached in my pocket and pulled out the key. "I found this wrapped up in a train ticket. Any chance you know what it goes to?"

The lie rolled off my tongue smoothly, surprising me.

Heather held out her hand. "May I?"

Fingers clutching the key, I hesitated.

She's a stranger..., I thought. But what's the worst that could happen? She can't make it far in those four inch heels.

Managing a small smile, I handed over the key. She turned it over in her palm, running a finger over the metal teeth, then Heather met my gaze. "It looks like one of the station's locker keys."

"Locker?" I repeated.

She held out the key, tensing when I quickly snatched it back.

"Inside the terminal, on the bottom level, there's a big room with lockers you can rent." Lips pursed, Heather tilted her head to the side. "But you'd need to know the locker number if you're after what's inside."

Nervous laughter bubbled up before I could stop it. Heather's tone wasn't suspicious, though her comment made me realize I should be more careful with my lies.

Heather's phone vibrated, making the table shake. She picked it up and smiled as she read the alert.

"My X-Ped is here," she said, standing and collecting her bag. "Thanks again for the seat, Raven. Good luck with your mission."

"Thanks."

Watching Heather's retreating form, I considered her words. When I glanced down at the train ticket, Lark's perfect penmanship practically jumping off the page: C908.

"It's a locker number," I whispered triumphantly. Nervous, excited energy buzzed through my veins.

Another wave of commuters swept through the archway. Like a salmon swimming upstream, I entered the Union Station terminal. Darting and weaving through the crowd, I held tightly to my messenger bag with one hand and clutched the key in the other. I nearly knocked over a little boy clinging to his mother's arm, and called out an apology over my shoulder.

The escalators were packed, so I opted for the stairs, taking them two at time. I reached the terminal's shopping area, but barely noticed the high-end stores as I rushed past. Boarding the next escalator down, I was forced to slow my pace.

"Someone's a little hasty," a male voice said as I tapped my foot impatiently.

A snappy retort on the tip of my tongue, I turned to the speaker. The guy was smirking, his dark eyes twinkling when our gazes locked. He was tall, well over six feet, and wore a Washington Nationals shirt.

"Sorry, I'm trying to make my train," I lied. "It leaves in five minutes."

"I got you," he replied, like I'd laid out a challenge. Wedging his way forward, the guy squeezed his muscular frame between me and the woman sharing my escalator step.

"'Scuse me, sorry," he said. With one look at those dark, soulful eyes, the woman blushed and moved aside to let him through. Sliding past, he caught my gaze again. "You want to make that train or not?"

He didn't wait for an answer, and I didn't think twice about following the stranger's lead. My new friend cleared the path ahead, calling out apologies to the other passengers.

We reached the landing and turned left toward the train terminal. With his long strides, I was practically sprinting to keep up. As the crowds grew thicker and more obstacles appeared—luggage, strollers, and confused tourists—he offered me his hand. I hesitated for the space of a heartbeat, too caught up in the thrill to consider how reckless it was to put my trust in a person whose name I didn't even know.

The guy grinned. "Almost there."

His large hand swallowing my smaller one, we dashed across the Amtrak ticketing area where passengers formed messy lines that stretched to the back wall. At one point, my knight in sportswear leapt over an errant suitcase with the grace of a hurdler. My jump was less athletic, only dumb luck landing me on my feet.

Finally, we reached the entrance to the train terminal. Nats guy came to an abrupt halt, and I careened into his back. He laughed. I stumbled but didn't fall.

"Did I deliver? Or did I deliver?" he asked, releasing my hand.

"Thank you," I wheezed, embarrassed that I was sucking air when he hadn't broken a sweat.

He gave me a mock salute. "Safe travels."

Committing fully to the lie, I thanked him again and darted into the terminal. When I glanced over my shoulder and saw he was gone, I took a moment to catch my breath. Between the mad dash through Union Station and the fact I was on the verge of unlocking Lark Kingsley's secrets, I didn't remain stationary for long.

An older woman in a uniform like Heather's strolled past, and I stepped in front of her. "Hi, sorry to bother you. Can you point me to the rental lockers?" I asked.

The worker smiled and gestured behind me. "Just keep going, all the way down the walkway. The lockers are across from Platform 24, you'll see them."

"Thank you, thank you," I replied. My grip on the key in my hand was so tight, the teeth bit into my skin.

"Of course, dear. Have a nice day."

My feet were already in motion. "You, too!" I called over my shoulder.

Like she'd said, the sign over the entranceway of a wide hall was impossible to miss, with "Rental Lockers" written in large block letters.

Are you really doing this? I wondered, my steps faltering as I passed beneath the sign. My emotions stewed. My excitement was tinged with guilt. Lark was missing, and I was over the moon with my amateur sleuthing. The thrill was tangled around a pit of anxiety that felt leaden in my gut.

You've come this far, don't chicken out now, I told myself sternly.

The key was still clutched in my closed fist. When I squeezed it tighter, the jolt of pain helped me focus. The train ticket was tucked in my messenger bag, but the alphanumeric digits were burned into my memory.

Taking a deep breath that filled my lungs to capacity, I moved down the hallway and searched for C908.

The locker Lark chose was situated near the back of the long hallway in an area with little foot traffic. Though I could hear other people, no one ventured down my row. Good, I thought. I had no clue what I would find inside the locker, so it was probably best to be alone when I opened it.

After several false starts, I found the courage to slide the key into the lock. My anxiety reached a fever-pitch. My head began to pound, deafening all other noises.

Just turn the damn key, I told myself. The locked clicked, and I counted to three before pulling the door open. My entire body was trembling, like my subconscious was worried that Lark's head might roll out of the metal box.

Of course, that didn't happen. In fact, nothing fell from the locker. Giggling nervously, I peered at the two white envelopes sitting inside, one considerably thicker than the other. Using my fingernail, I broke the seal of the thinner one first. Inside was a small stack of cashier's checks, each made out to The Pines.

Great, she wants me to pay her rent, I thought. After the cryptic gibberish about spending a day in her life and understanding, the whole point was finding her rent checks.

Worst scavenger hunt ever, I thought, annoyed that I'd wasted my day on something so ridiculous.

The second envelope was heavy as hell. Expecting more cashier's checks for Lark's bills, I tore it open.

"Fudge me," I gasped.

The envelope held an impossibly thick stack of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.

### Eleven

###### Lark

The first morning of winter break, I woke with a smile on my face. I had three weeks off—no classes, no homework, and few commitments. In thirty-six hours, my parents would be taking a redeye to Italy to spend the holidays at the Lake Cuomo home of William McAvoy, Kingsley Diamonds' COO and Dad's best friend. Though I was meeting them there, my flight wasn't for ten days.

Eight and a half days of freedom, I thought, stretching in my big bed.

That was when I noticed something was...off. I didn't feel soft sheets against my skin, and my pillow felt itchy. I shot up and glanced around.

I'm in my own bed. Good sign, I thought.

Throwing back the comforter, I looked down and froze. Dark jeans and a black sweater? That wasn't right. Last night, I'd gone to the Heart Society's Wonderland Gala with the rest of the Eight and our parents. I'd worn an ice-blue lace gown that had been created for me by an up-and-coming designer.

Where's the dress? I wondered, scanning my room for the blue lace. My bedroom was spotless, except for a pair of black boots kicked off in the middle of the floor.

Did I go out afterward? I shook my head.

I clearly remembered leaving the Gala with Annie, Cam, and Taylor. The Vanderkam's driver brought us back to my place, where we'd made a mess in the kitchen with hot chocolate and marshmallows.

After that? I asked myself.

It took a moment, but I remembered all four of us laying in my bed and recapping the event. We'd all giggled when Cam admitted to making out with a waiter wearing an elf costume behind a display of giant ornaments, then....

You were drunk. Very drunk. You probably just passed out, I told myself.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I headed for the bathroom. A shower would help the forming hangover headache. As I passed the shoes on my floor, I noticed the scuffed soles. I'd picked up the black, leather riding boots the previous weekend while shopping with Cam, yet the emblem stamped into the sole was nearly gone.

The shower did help some, but the throbbing in my temples and the back of my skull continued. You just need some caffeine, I lectured myself. This is the price for having too much fun.

After pulling on a Columbia University hoodie—a gift from my dad—I wound my hair into a bun and headed downstairs. I paused in the doorway to the dining room, taking in my mother and father sitting together, the Times split between them. She was wearing velvet skinny pants, a silk top, and a houndstooth jacket with leather detailing, while my father's version of casual was khaki pants and a sweater.

Glancing down, I grimaced. The yoga pants and sweatshirt weren't going to go over well with my mother. As I contemplated changing, my dad looked up from the business section and smiled.

"Good morning, sweetheart," he called warmly.

"Good morning, guys," I said, rounding the table to place a peck on each of their cheeks.

My mother appraised my outfit. I held my breath, waiting for her first snide comment of the day. Surprisingly, it never came. In fact, her bright blue eyes looked almost hopeful as she asked, "Hello, darling. Will you be joining us today?"

I grabbed a bagel from the bread basket on the side table, wrapped it in a napkin, and joined my parents.

"Sure," I said, offering Mom a small smile.

"Brunch with your parents instead of your friends? To what do we owe the pleasure?" my father teased, setting the paper aside.

I shrugged. "Not in the mood."

"Seraphine," my mother called. Seraphine was her version of Sirius. Dad's phone also had one, Samuel, and all three were programmed to work with the apartment's smart systems.

"Yes, Mrs. Kingsley? How may I be of assistance?" Seraphine asked.

Pursing my lips, I suppressed an eye roll at the formality.

"Locate Jeanine and inform her that we need another place setting in the breakfast room," my mother instructed, eyeing the napkin that still held my untouched bagel.

"Jeanine is currently in the kitchen, ma'am. I will relay your message. Is there anything else?"

I thought Jeanine had the day off....

"Dismissed," my mother said absently, already bored with the conversation. She turned to me, and asked, "Did you have a nice time last night?"

"Yeah. It was fun," I replied automatically.

Quiet as a cat burglar, Jeanine entered the breakfast room with the place setting. Arranging the bone china plate, polished silverware, mug, and crystal juice glass, she worked around me with the expert skill of a woman who'd spent most of her life in domestic service.

"Thank you, Jeanine," I said with a broad smile.

She patted my head and ran a hand over my hair, like she did when I was little.

"You're welcome, my dear." Jeanine gestured to the side table, where enough food to feed an entire football team was spread out. "If you'd like something else, just let me know."

"Thank you, Jeanine. That will be all," my mother said, her tone just shy of annoyed.

"I'm good with the bagel." I grinned at Jeanine, trying to make up for my mother's rudeness. "But thank you."

"What did you order?" my mother asked as though there hadn't been a break in conversation.

Slowly, I unfolded my napkin and set it in my lap, then made a great show of spreading schmear on the bagel. Reaching for the water pitcher, I filled my glass to the brim. Finally, when it became obvious I was stalling, I met my mother's gaze.

"Order?" I asked.

"Yes, at dinner, dear."

I suddenly felt too hot, and had to pull up the sleeves on my sweatshirt. What was she talking about? We'd eaten together at home before the Gala.

"He did take you to dinner, did he not?" my mother pressed, a slight frown creasing her brow. "Honestly, darling, have I taught you nothing? A proper date includes dinner."

Date?

My dad set down his newspaper, suddenly very interested in the conversation.

"A date?" he asked, his lips pursed in disapproval. "Just because you received early admission to Columbia—"

"That is precisely why she should be dating," my mother interjected. "College is settled."

"It wasn't a date," I blurted. "It was just...."

Just what?

"We had a nice time, but it wasn't a date," I finished lamely.

"Who is the lucky boy?" my father asked with narrowed eyes.

I faltered.

Eleanor Kingsley smiled, her eyes sparkling. "Adam," she answered.

Adam?

"Adam Ridell?" Dad asked.

Mom nodded. "Isn't that lovely?"

Inwardly, I breathed a sigh of relief. Adam Ridell was the son of Senator Ridell, a longtime friend of Dad's. We hadn't seen each other in years, not since we left Connecticut. Not since....

"Enough about me," I said brightly. "What about you guys? Did you have a nice time last night?"

"Oh, it was fine." My mother waved a hand dismissively. "Not quite up to Bitsy's standards, if I am being honest."

My mother's response left me speechless, confirming my nightmarish suspicions. It wasn't Sunday morning. The Vanderkam's annual holiday party was on Sunday evening, and it had already happened.

A whole day?

"I thought it was tasteful," my father countered.

"You mean pedestrian?" My mother shot a withering glare over the rim of her mug.

"Those people waste more money than anyone else on this island," he objected. "And that's saying something."

"Those people are our friends. Bitsy's parties aren't wasteful, they're magnificent," my mother replied, not bothering to hide her irritation.

When she launched into yet another story about yet another fabulous soirée, I knew it was safe to let my mind wander.

Where did I go instead of the Vanderkam's party? Who did I meet?

"Those were the days, when life was still exciting," my mother finished after several minutes of babbling to no one. "Last night was an absolute bore, hardly worth the effort of leaving the house."

Right, like you'd miss a party the Times covered, I thought wryly, glancing at her section of the newspaper.

Sure enough, the Style section featured a photograph of my parents with Bitsy and Kincaid Vanderkam on the front page.

"May I see that?" I asked, pointing to the paper as an idea sparked in my mind.

My mother beamed, just as I knew she would. In the picture, she wore an elegant black sheath that highlighted her slim physique, while my father was in his traditional formal attire. Though she was on top of every trend that came down the runway, he always opted for classic, refusing to let my mother dress him.

"You look lovely," I offered. "Though your necklace isn't shining like it typically does."

My mother snatched the newspaper from my hands. She held it so close to her face, her nose was in danger of poking a hole through the picture.

"You're right," she declared, looking crestfallen. "You can hardly see it in the picture."

The necklace in question was the showpiece of my father's jewelry empire: the Kingsley Diamond.

"Would you like me to take it to be cleaned?" I asked in a commiserating tone. "Camilla and I are going shopping, I can drop it off beforehand."

I crossed my fingers beneath the table.

"Nonsense," my father replied. Though it seemed his attention was engrossed in the latest stock new, he was still listening to my mother babble over nonsense. His gaze landed squarely on me. "You don't need to be running errands, Jeanine can take it."

"You want to trust the maid with the rarest gem in Manhattan?" My mother's faux whisper was audible to anyone with ears. She waved one hand and turned back to me. "Are you sure sweetheart? It would be such a help, I have so much to do today."

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Even my father couldn't hide his smile. Jeanine was the one with a busy day ahead of her, not my mother. All of the packing and arrangements would be handled, my mother simply had to get in the car to the airport.

"No problem," I answered, stifling a grin. This time, it wasn't because of Eleanor Kingsley's self-importance; I was feeling the excitement of a plan coming together. "I'll just change and grab my bag."

"She is in the closet safe," my mother said, like it was totally normal to use a pronoun when referring to a piece of jewelry. "The card for her servicer is on my desk," she added.

"Got it," I called, already halfway up the stairs.

Is it really this easy? I wondered, all concern for my missing twenty-four hours gone. My mother wasn't hiring a bonded courier to transport the necklace? Let's not wait and see. Though securing the necklace now forced me to alter my timeline, the opportunity was too perfect to pass up.

Bypassing my bedroom and the four guest rooms, I sped up as I entered the hallway to the master suite. I was on a mission. Nothing and no one would distract me.

Mom kept an office of sorts off the bedroom. Since she didn't work, it was really just a formal sitting room to serve high tea and show off her collection of antiques. The roll-top desk was a prized piece from the Swedish palace.

She's nothing if not organized, I thought, locating the card easily in a cubbyhole.

After tucking it inside the pocket of my hoodie, I headed to the walk-in closet. The doors open automatically when I neared. The recessed lighting turned on as well, growing steadily brighter. I ignored the wardrobe that could've been on racks backstage at fashion week and went straight for the center island.

At first glance, it looked like a typical accessories console found in any closet on the Upper East Side. Scarves and gloves were tucked inside shallow drawers that slid open with a single tap. My mother's watch and sunglass collections were visible through a pane of thick glass with more touch sensors. Then there were the locked cabinets, where she stored pieces of jewelry worth more than an investment banker's annual salary.

Fingers sliding along the smooth surface, I felt for a sensor pad beneath the top pane of glass. With my fingerprints confirmed, a concealed compartment on the side of the console flipped open to reveal a flat screen with a touch keyboard. As I entered the combination's sixteenth character, a long case slid out several feet. Jewelry boxes lined the hidden drawer in a variety of shapes and sizes and colors. There didn't appear to be any order to the contents, but looks were deceiving.

Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and let muscle memory take over. My fingers flew from one section to the next as a list of commands ran through my head: Five, right two, down one; eight, left one, down four; eighteen, left six, up three, right two....

Even before the soft click met my ears, I knew the puzzle pieces were in their correct positions. I turned and opened my eyes. A thick panel on the back wall of the closet pivoted, and eight rows of designer shoes disappeared. In their place was a safe.

"Hello, gorgeous," I said into the charged silence. I moved to stand in front of it.

Reverently, I ran my fingertips over the work of art. Fireproof, waterproof, airtight, light-tight, with temperature and pressure regulation, it wasn't merely a safe; it was a fortress.

You'd think they have the cure for cancer inside of here, I thought. Widening my gaze and staring straight ahead, I placed my palm flat on the front panel. The dual-authentication system verified my identity, but the biometric lock was just the first level of security. I entered yet another passcode, using recessed keys on the underside of the safe, then spoke a sentence to be analyzed for voiceprint and stress.

Finally, the front panel slid aside. A single glass case lit from within was revealed. Displayed inside was a pearl and diamond necklace. The center stone, an enormous red diamond, shone in the lights designed to maximize brilliance. It was the Kingsley Diamond: the largest red diamond to ever exist. Directly from the Kingsley mines, the discovery of the diamond had catapulted the family business to world renown.

It really is beautiful, I thought, staring down at the stone. Dread and fear filled my gut as my throat tightened.

"I hate you," I whispered to it.

### Twelve

###### Raven

"How'd it go at The Pines?" Asher asked around a mouthful of unagi.

Stalling for time, I stuffed a shrimp tempura roll in my mouth. We were having takeout sushi for dinner at his apartment on a makeshift coffee table—a stack of unused pizza boxes he'd bought from Jumbo Slice Pizza with a glass pane on top.

"You know," I began after swallowing, "Ikea has super cheap furniture. I bet you could've bought a real coffee table for less than what you paid for the boxes."

Asher laughed good-naturedly, and I knew the distraction had worked. He launched into an explanation about his mom's love of modern art and how much she loved his homemade furniture, allowing my mind to wander.

While he talked, I considered confiding in him about the cryptic letter I'd found in Lark's apartment and my subsequent trip to Union Station. But when I crafted the conversation in my head, it sounded ridiculous. He'd think I was certifiable if I told him I'd wasted the day traipsing around a train station, following clues—if they were even truly clues—that some girl I didn't even know left behind. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that I was in over my head.

Who did I think I was? Veronica Mars?

"–and classes start next week," Asher was saying when I tuned back into the conversation.

"So soon," I mused, nodding my head and selecting another roll with my chopsticks.

"Maybe you could go suit shopping with me?" he suggested.

Suit shopping? Apparently, I'd missed more of the conversation than I realized.

"Sure," I answered with a shrug. "I'd say I have to check my schedule, but I'm pretty sure it's wide open."

"No luck with the job search?"

Shaking my head, I looked down at the plate in front of me and pushed a roll through soy sauce. After finding Lark's train locker, I'd been too worked up to follow up on my only job lead. Instead, I'd gone straight to my apartment with the two envelopes. For a long time, I'd sat on my bed and stared at the stack of hundred dollar bills. It looked like so much money.

When I'd finally removed the thick strip of paper binding the bills to count them, I found writing underneath. It was the same looping scrawl from the journal.

Two lips across mine

Ten fingers down my spine

No space between us

Poetry was not my forte, and I had no idea what it meant. The poem was yet another clue, I was certain of that. I just hoped it led me closer to Lark, closer to the secrets that caused her disappearance.

"No luck because you didn't look for a job today?" Asher guessed, his question interrupting my thoughts.

I wrinkled my nose and met his gaze across the table. His brown eyes held no judgment.

"I went in a few restaurants, but no one was hiring," I said defensively, flicking a loose grain of rice at him with my chopstick. The rice was sticky and only flew an inch before falling to the pizza box table top.

"Maybe the senator needs another aide," Asher ventured. 'I can always ask at the interview."

"Interview?" Belatedly, I realized he'd probably already told me about it. Was that why he needed to go suit shopping?

Thankfully, Asher misinterpreted the question in my tone.

"I mean, like I said, it's a done deal," he started. "I guess you're right; it's not really an interview, just a formality. Everyone wants to do my dad a favor, you know?"

Actually, I didn't know. My family was in an entirely different stratosphere than Asher's. No one owed them favors, no one worked to remain in their good graces. The closest comparison was PTA women buttering up my mom before bake sales so she'd make her "World Famous" blueberry pie. I was pretty sure it wasn't even "State Famous," but whatever.

"What do you think?" Asher pressed.

"You don't have to do that," I said quickly. "Thank you for the offer, but I don't think I'm suited for politics. I'll figure something out."

The offer was sweet, but working for a senator seemed a little serious for me. Asher shrugged and stole a rainbow roll from my plate.

"What's the deal with this senator? Why does he owe your dad favors?" I asked.

Asher hesitated. It was the second time the mention of his father caused Asher's constant verbal stream to run dry. I feared I'd overstepped my bounds, even though he'd raised the topic.

"You know what they say," Asher shrugged and averted his eyes, "politics make strange bedfellows."

Okay....

I'd never heard the saying, nor did I know what it meant. It drew bizarre thoughts of an older version of Asher cuddled up in bed with our current president. Though I almost laughed out loud, one look at Asher's uncharacteristically serious expression stifled the urge.

Asher was one of those people who had to fill a silence. It was like the quiet unnerved him or something. Conversely, I had no problem with lapses in conversation. It gave me time to think. Given his tendency to babble, it wasn't surprising when Asher began explaining about his father, even though the subject clearly bothered him.

"Dad's an environmental lawyer. I think I told you that?"

I nodded in confirmation.

"Well, he specializes in U.S. import and export laws. He's really sought-after for that." Asher's tone indicated he didn't think it was a good thing. His gaze fixed on the floor as he continued, "Dad prides himself on being the go-to guy for circumventing the Environmental Protection Agency's requirements."

"He's like a smuggler?" I asked, curiosity piqued.

"No, he moves the products through legal channels," Asher said quickly. "It's just...Dad stretches the rules a bit. A lot of his practices are...."

"Shady?" I supplied.

Asher offered me a small smile. "Yeah, that's one word for it."

"I take it you don't agree with his methods?" I guessed. The frown of disgust told me Asher didn't, but he shrugged it off.

"I just want to do something worthwhile," he said earnestly. "You know, help people. That's super cheesy, right?"

I shook my head. "Not cheesy at all. It's very altruistic of you."

He chuckled. "That's me, St. Asher."

Smiling, I reached for a piece of unagi from his plate. Though I'd never eaten eel before, I was all about trying new things lately. The sauce was sweet, delicious, and completely masked the fishy taste I expected.

"Good, huh?" Asher prodded.

My mouth was full, so I nodded and tried to smile without letting sticky rice escape. Asher studied me for an awkward moment, his eyes piercing mine.

"You're pretty altruistic yourself," he said finally.

I managed to swallow before a bark of laughter escaped.

"That's ridiculous," I replied. "I mean, I want to be a good person, of course. But I haven't volunteered, ever. I also don't have two dimes to give to charity." I met his big brown eyes levelly. "Honestly, I'm pretty self-absorbed."

Asher shook his head. "No, you're not. A lot of people wouldn't have bothered returning the stuff you found."

Heat rushed to my cheeks. "About that...."

His eyebrow twitched. Asher didn't comment, leaving me to fill the silence this time. I contemplated telling him about Lark, the journal, and my unpaid job as a freelance detective.

You barely know this guy, I thought.

Still, I felt like I could trust Asher. The admissions were on the tip of my tongue but remained there. I needed to say something, so I went with a half-truth.

"I did go to The Pines," I admitted. "I tried to return the keycard, but no one was home." I shrugged. "I'll try again in a day or two."

"Just let me know if you want company," Asher said. Thankfully, he shifted to a more benign topic. "Oh, there's this brunch place I've wanting to check out. Want to be my brunch buddy this weekend?"

A date? I wondered.

My body stiffened, but I covered it with a shrug. "Sure, why not?"

I left Asher's apartment after dinner, the day's Washington Post in hand. He'd circled several classified ads for me, which was both extremely nice and slightly pushy. I'd thanked him all the same.

Back in my bedroom, I set the newspaper on Kim's desk and settled in. Though I fully intended to peruse the circled ads, I never got that far. It wasn't a splashy headline and enormous picture, but Lark's disappearance was still a front-page story. A short blurb there led to a longer article in the society section. A girl named Annie had given an in-depth interview, and the Post printed portions of the transcript.

"Annie," I muttered aloud, rolling the name over in my mind.

Lark had mentioned Annie in the journal and she considered the girl her closest friend.

"Let's see what you have to say," I whispered, delving into the discussion.

Interviewer: You and the other girls weren't worried when Lark didn't meet you at the airport for your flight to St. Bart's?

Annie: Not at first, no.

Interviewer: Why not?

Annie: Well, she called to say something came up. She said she'd be there a couple days later.

Interviewer: What came up?

Annie: Lark didn't say.

Interviewer: Did you ask?

Annie: Not exactly.

Interviewer: "Not exactly"?

Annie: Lark had been flaking on plans constantly. It was just another one of those times. I...I didn't ask what she was doing.

Interviewer: When you say that she "had been flaking on plans," was this typical behavior for Ms. Kingsley? Was she always so unreliable?

Annie: Lark wasn't unreliable. That's not the right word. She always showed up when it counted. Ditching parties and silly functions doesn't make someone unreliable. It was just weird.... She used to be a big part of the social scene.

Interviewer: When did that change? When did Lark start to withdraw?

Annie: I don't know exactly. Maybe around the beginning of our senior year. It was little things at first: a party here, an afterschool kickback there. She was still around a lot. But then.... Toward the end of the year, by graduation, she was like a gho—she'd almost gone full-blown loner. I mean, she was still nominated for Prom Court, but she didn't win.

Interviewer: Did you know why Lark was pulling away from you and the rest of her friends, Annie? Did you ever ask Lark what was going on in her life?

Annie: I tried to talk to her about it. She just sort of...blew it off, I guess.

Interviewer: Do you have any thoughts on how Lark was spending her time?

Annie: I thought maybe she had a boyfriend. You know, someone her parents wouldn't approve of.

Interviewer: You do know the FBI has found nothing that indicated a secret relationship, correct?

Annie: Yes, I am aware of that.

Interviewer: Okay, let's back up. When Lark called you to say she was missing your flight to the Virgin Islands, how did you respond?

Annie: Not well, I am ashamed to admit. We.... We had a big fight.

Interviewer: A fight? Did you and Lark fight often?

Annie: Of course not. We were best friends.

Interviewer: What about the other girls, Taylor Vanderkam and Camilla Stories? Did they also fight with Lark about her delayed arrival?

Annie: No. They both said they were expecting it, so they weren't upset or surprised.

Interviewer: But you were? Upset and surprised, I mean?

Annie: Upset, yes. Surprised, no.

Interviewer: When did you last see Lark in person?

Annie: Three days before I left for St. Barts.

Interviewer: What happened when Lark failed to arrive in the Caribbean a few days later?

Annie: I tried to call her, but it went straight to voicemail.

Interviewer: Why didn't you call Lark's parents?

Annie: We talked about calling the Kingsleys. Several times. But...we thought if we called her parents, she'd end up in trouble with them. We didn't ever think anything might have happened to her....

Interviewer: Do you regret that decision now?

Annie: Of course!

Interviewer: What happened when you returned to New York?

Annie: I tried calling Lark again—it had to be the twentieth time. Again, it went straight to voicemail, which was full. I told my mom and asked her what I should do. She said we needed to tell the Kingsleys immediately. She's good friends with both of Lark's parents, they run in the same social circles.

Interviewer: So, your mother, Arabella Stanley, told the Kingsleys about their daughter's disappearance?

Annie: Well, no, not exactly. Mom tried to call Mrs. Kingsley several times that night, but she never responded. The next morning, Mom still hadn't reached Lark's mother. She started to worry that maybe something bad happened to the entire family, so Mom called Mr. Prescott. He's an FBI agent who used to work private security for our family. He started investigating right away.

Interviewer: As it turned out, Phillip and Eleanor Kingsley were out of the country, correct? And that is why your mother was unable to reach them? That is why they were unaware that their daughter hadn't returned from the Virgin Islands?

Annie: Yes, that's right. Mr. Prescott learned that the Kingsleys' jet filed a flight plan earlier in the week to a remote part of Canada. They returned to New York that night. Mom and I went with Mr. Prescott to meet them at the airfield. That's when we told Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley about Lark.

Interviewer: Annie, what do you think happened to Lark Kingsley?

Annie: I...I don't know. I just know that Lark wouldn't willingly leave without telling anyone, not for this long. I mean, she was supposed to start Columbia with me. We were going to be roommates, we'd picked out our classes together. We had plans. Lark had plans. I just...I don't believe Lark vanished of her own free will.

Interviewer: You are aware that, to date, there has not been a ransom demand?

Annie: Yes.

Interviewer: Do you believe Lark is still alive?

Annie: Yes. I...yes, of course.

Interviewer: If she could hear you, what would you want to say to her?

Annie: I love you like a sister, Lark. I miss you. We all miss you. I'm so sorry about our fight. It was my fault. I never should've said the things I did. Stay strong, Lark, we will find you.

Tears stung my eyes as I read Annie's parting words to her best friend. Even in print, I could feel how much Annie missed Lark, how guilty she felt about their fight. Though she didn't say it directly, Annie obviously thought she'd played a small role in Lark's disappearance. Like she could've prevented it.

Poor Annie. This must be so hard for her.

A phone number for an FBI tip line was at the bottom of the interview with a plea for information. I stared at it for a long time.

It's the right thing to do.

I couldn't. Not yet. If I gave the feds the journal and told them all I'd uncovered, would they follow the clues? Would they unearth the dangerous secrets that led to Lark's disappearance? Or would they decide that she was simply another run away?

After all, Lark had set up a new life in D.C. Even though she clearly wasn't living the new life—her dusty apartment evidenced that—just the fact alone might be enough to call off the search.

Settling in the queen-sized bed, I arranged Lark's journal, the letter from her apartment, the poem, and the cashier's checks in front of me. The cash was hidden under the mattress, its mere presence making me nervous.

"Come on, Lark," I muttered. "What am I supposed to see?"

Of course, no one answered. I picked up the letter and read it again.

Spend a DAY in my life.

I'd done that, right? The train ticket had led me to Union Station, where I found the checks, poem, and cash.

My gaze stopped on the pile of cashiers' checks. Much as I hated being anyone's gopher, I did plan to return to The Pines and pay Lark's rent for her. If she was still alive and just hadn't reached D.C. yet, she'd need somewhere to live when she returned.

The poem is the real clue, I thought, picking up the slip of paper with the three lines of the text.

Two lips across mine

Ten fingers run down my spine

No space between us

Yeah, still don't get it, Lark.

My head ached from too much thinking and too little water. The day had been humid, and I'd spent most of it sweating my ass off. I grabbed a glass from the cabinet by the sink, filled it with cold water from the Brita, and took it to bed along with The Great Gatsby. Maybe giving my brain a rest would help reset my thought process. After some sleep, I could attack the mystery with fresh eyes.

Only, when I settled in under the covers, I grabbed the journal instead. Instead of a bedtime tale about the lavish life of Daisy Buchanan and her not-so secret affair with Jay Gatsby, I fell asleep reading about Lark Kingsley and her very secret affair with Blake Greyfield.

### Thirteen

###### Lark

"So much better than flying," Blake murmured. Stretching his long legs out, he covered my hand with his.

"So much faster than flying, too," I said, glancing pointedly at my watch. We'd only met up at Grand Central Station ninety minutes ago, and yet we were breezing through Baltimore City already. "Let's hope the rest of the weekend goes as smoothly."

Blake leaned over and brushed his lips across my forehead. "It will," he promised.

I stared into his green eyes. "You think?"

"I know." He kissed me softly before climbing to his feet. "I'm going to use the bathroom. Want anything from the food car?"

I shook my head. "No, thanks. We'll be there soon."

Blake strolled up the center aisle of the train car. I watched him go. When he passed through the doors, I reached into the bag at my feet and removed a folded piece of paper. The messages I left him were short, often silly, and meant to make him smile. I never signed the notes, but he always called or texted as soon as he found one. Lately, I'd been writing down quotes, and he responded with the name of the source. This one was sort of a trick, since it was attributed to anonymous. I knew Blake would love it all the same:

I look at you and see the rest of my life in front of my eyes.

After another quick glance over my shoulder, just in case, I slid the note into Blake's orientation folder from Georgetown University. Imagining him finding it when checking his itinerary or consulting the campus map, I couldn't help but smile.

It's true, I thought, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the window—a lovesick girl with her heart in her eyes. That girl couldn't bear the thought of Blake going off to Georgetown next year while she stayed in New York and attended Columbia. He was too important to her. She needed him. My gaze grew determined, and I grinned at my reflection.

Good thing that girl is about to make sure we never know the agony of separation.

"Deep thoughts for so early in the morning," Blake teased, returning to his seat beside me. He held a china plate with the largest cupcake I'd ever seen, a single chocolate swizzle stick stuck in the center. "Sugar for your thoughts?"

I smiled up at him. "Is that mint frosting?"

Blake handed me one of the two forks he held. "Happy Anniversary, Lark."

Instead of taking the fork, I dipped one finger in swirl of green on top of the cupcake. Before he could stop me, I smeared it across his cheek. He caught my wrist and brought the finger to his mouth. When he finally kissed me, Blake tasted like chocolate mint heaven.

I started to pull away, but we were the only two in an alcove meant for six. It wouldn't be long before our vacation from real life came to an end, so I planned to make the most of my weekend of freedom.

Before things moved on from a PG–13 rating, chimes dinged overhead. An automated voice announced, "Now approaching Union Station, Washington, D.C."

We broke apart, both a little breathless.

"Happy Anniversary, Blake," I replied.

As the train pulled to a smooth stop, we gathered our belongings and disembarked. Union Station was crowded, but I barely noticed anything other than our joined hands. We were out in the world, no need to hide anymore.

Soon, I promised myself. Soon this will be normal. Soon you won't have to hold your breath and hope that a little hand-holding won't end in a war on the home front.

Blake led me through the station and outside into the sunshine. Though I started toward the taxi line, Blake tugged my hand to keep me moving.

"Are we walking to the hotel?" I asked uneasily. Between the two of us, we had a few bags.

He chuckled softly and shook his head, gesturing to the line of black town cars idling several yards ahead.

"I thought you told your father not to bother with the car," I probed. "You wanted to learn to get around on public transportation?"

"I did," he agreed.

"So...?"

Blake pulled me to the edge of the sidewalk and out of the pedestrian traffic crowds.

"This weekend is special," he said, kissing my nose. "I want to have fun, not spend half our time trying to figure out metro maps."

"You hired the car service?" I asked, surprised.

The Greyfields had enough money for Blake to use a car and driver regularly, but he preferred to walk or ride the subway. The gesture was solely for my benefit.

"You didn't have to—"

"I know," he assured me. "Like I said, I don't want to waste a minute of our weekend together." Gesturing gallantly toward a man holding a sign with "Greyfield" in neat block letters, Blake added, "Your chariot awaits."

The tall, thin driver smiled as we approached.

"Good morning, folks. Are you Blake?"

"Yes, sir. How are you doing today? Blake Greyfield." Blake set our bags down and held out his free hand. The driver looked slightly taken aback, but accepted the handshake. "And this is Lark," Blake added.

Though I smiled and gave a little wave, I didn't offer my full name. Even outside of Manhattan, the name Kingsley was synonymous with diamonds. I didn't want to draw any extra attention to myself on our covert weekend or provide gossip to the town car drivers.

"Nice to meet you both. I'm Calvin Goode, but my friends call me Cal. You're welcome to do the same, if you like. May I put your bags in the trunk?" He retrieved out overnight cases from the ground before we could answer.

"That'd be great, Cal. Thank you," Blake answered.

Traffic was light for a Saturday morning, especially compared to Manhattan. That wasn't the only difference, either. Trees lined many of the streets, with circles of grass and small parks sprinkled everywhere. The buildings were short, a stark contrast to the mammoth skyscrapers of New York that obscured the sun and cast dark shadows over the bustling metropolis. Compared to our island of tightly packed steel and granite, D.C. felt wide open and bright. I felt as though I could breathe, and the weight on my shoulders wasn't so heavy.

Much too soon, we arrived at the W Hotel. Blake checked his watch as Cal unloaded our bags from the trunk and handed them over to a waiting porter. Blake looked uneasy, glancing nervously at the light traffic.

"Take the car. I don't want you to be late for your lunch," I told him, anticipating Blake's thoughts.

"No, no, you keep it in case you want to go somewhere."

I patted his arm and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, letting my mouth linger an extra beat. "Take it. Seriously. For once, I have nowhere to be."

"Sir," a hotel porter interjected. "We'll be more than happy to order the lady a car or hail a cab if she needs one."

Blake turned his face and our lips met briefly.

"I'll be back as soon as the tour is over," he promised as we broke apart. He nodded to the porter. "Thank you," Blake told the other man, climbing back into the town car.

With a small wave, I called, "Have fun. See you tonight."

I waited until the car was out of sight before entering the hotel lobby. The porter—Mark, according to his name tag—followed close behind with the luggage. While I checked in, Mark loaded the bags onto a cart.

Keys to the penthouse suite in hand, I grabbed my laptop bag and slipped Mark a few folded bills.

"Would you mind taking the luggage to the room?" I asked.

"Of course, miss." The porter nodded politely. "And thank you."

Sliding on a pair of sunglasses, I headed back through the lobby and into the cold January morning. Georgetown had given Blake an itinerary for the weekend. I'd made my own.

My first stop was a cute café called The Coffee Stop. I ordered a latte and found an empty stool with a view of the street.

With our trip in mind, I'd contacted several realtors using a dummy email account. Three had already responded, and I had appointments later in the day to view rentals in DuPont Circle, Adams Morgan, and Chinatown. Since I still had two hours to kill before the first apartment showing, I was hoping other realtors replied to my emails. When I logged into the dummy account, the only unread email was from Jeff Maddow. My heart sped up as I read it.

Subject: Requested Info.

Hey, L,

Got that information you wanted. Starting with the first day of senior year, your portal password has been changed twenty-two times. Exempting the four dates you gave me leaves eighteen. Here's where it gets weird. Every single time, the password was changed to the same thing: K!ng5t0wN1867. All of the changes were made from the same IP address, and I tracked it to a café called Downtown Downs.

If you want my opinion, it seems like someone is screwing with you. Maybe that's my conspiracy theorist coming out, though. Hit me up if you need more info.

-J.

I stared at my laptop screen, rereading the email several times to make sense of it all. The password changes had been bothering me for months. When Gracen's IT department had been less than forthcoming with the details, I gave up on the mystery. Then, the first week after winter break, I'd gone into the Portal to submit a calculus take-home exam only to learn that someone had already completed it.

Finally, I'd sought out Jeff, the tech wunderkind. I didn't doubt the information he'd sent was correct. Still, I could hardly believe the words I was reading.

Downtown Downs? The place Blake and I went to avoid the prying eyes of my classmates and my mother's crowd?

Do I have a stalker?

It was the only conclusion that made sense. Jeff's suggestion that someone was screwing with me was also probably correct. But why? The whole situation was nuts.

My phone buzzed on the countertop, and I nearly fell off the stool. I checked the screen, half expecting to see a message from an unknown number. Thankfully, the text was from Blake.

Blake: Looks like lunch is going to run long. So sorry. No matter what, I'll be back by dinner.

Me: No worries. Just have fun. I can always move the reservation.

Blake: I'll let you know. Love you.

Me: Love you more.

My smile—the same grin I got every time Blake's name popped up on my phone—vanished as soon as I turned back to the computer. Jeff's email was still up on the screen. My head started pounding and my stomach felt a little queasy.

No, not this weekend, I thought.

It was my anniversary. Blake went to great lengths to make the trip special, and I had a few surprises planned for him, too. Nothing, not even a potential stalker, was going to ruin our two days of absolute freedom.

As though the universe heard my pleas, a new email arrived in my inbox. This one was from a realtor named Nate Braken.

Ms. Queensbridge,

Thank you for your interest in the property on Cressent View Drive. Unfortunately, the unit has been rented. I do have two other properties that might be of interest to you. Attached are photographs for each. If neither of these units are to your liking, there is a new apartment complex in the U Street Corridor/Howard University neighborhood called The Pines. Only the model units are available for viewing right now, but construction will be complete by June. That should work for your move-in timeframe? Visit the link below for pictures.

Please let me know if you would like to tour any of the properties, I am available all weekend.

Regards,

Nate Braken

I clicked on the link, and a glass building appeared on my screen. Scrolling through the pictures, I liked it instantly.

"Is that The Pines?" an excited male voice asked.

For the second time that day, I jumped in my seat. I turned to find two guys standing behind me.

"So sorry," the taller of the two said. "We don't mean to snoop, but we just looked at a two-bedroom at The Pines. It's hard to forget a building with a Chihuly in the lobby."

He gestured to my laptop screen, where the slideshow of images Nate had attached to the email was playing.

"The square footage on those places is the best you'll get with new construction in D.C.," added the second man. He held out a large hand. "I'm Luke, and this is my husband Brad."

Feeling pleasantly surprised by their friendliness, I accepted the handshake.

"Lark," I introduced myself. "It's nice to meet you guys. So...The Pines is nice?"

"Definitely." Brad nodded enthusiastically. "And the area is great."

"Well, that sort of depends on where you will be working," Luke advised. He tilted his head to one side, appraising me. "Or going to school...."

"True," Brad added. "I'm a resident at Washington Hospital Center and Luke is a professor at Howard, so the neighborhood is perfect for us."

"It's close to public transportation, too. If that's a must for you," Luke said.

Brad chimed in again, "And so many cute coffee shops and bars and—"

I laughed and held up my hands. "Wow, you two are more convincing than the realtor."

Brad looked into his steaming mug and blushed. "Can you tell we're really excited to be The Pines newest residents?"

"Really? Would never have guessed," I teased. "Thank you, seriously. I'm down from New York for the weekend looking at apartments. It's a little overwhelming."

Both men nodded in commiseration. "If I were you, I would at least check out the models. If you do decide The Pines is for you, we just signed a lease for 9D. Knock on our door any time you need a cup of sugar," Brad said with a grin.

"Thanks, I'll remember that."

"Good luck," the couple chorused. They waved and headed for the door.

Their enthusiasm was contagious, and I didn't waste time looking at the other properties Nate recommended. I grabbed my cell and dialed the number at the bottom of the realtor's email.

"Nate Braken," answered a deep voice.

I cleared my throat. "Mr. Braken, I just received your email about the new building, The Pines," I began.

"Ah, Ms. Queensbridge, I presume?"

"That's correct," I confirmed. "I'd love to tour the model. Are you available to meet in an hour?"

"That works for me, Ms. Queensbridge," he replied.

"Wonderful. And, please, call me Lila."

### Fourteen

###### Raven

The Pines looked much as it had the previous day. In fact, Darrell was even at the front desk again, which made life a lot easier for me.

"Ah, Ms. Ferragamo," Darrell greeted me with a friendly smile. "Back again, are you?"

"I am. L–" I started to say Lark, but quickly remembered she hadn't rented the apartment under her real name. "My cousin," I amended, "asked me to drop in a—"

His thin eyebrow raised in question. "I believe you said yesterday that she was your friend?"

Crap on a cracker. Leave it to the gatekeeper to remember details.

"She is," I backpedaled. "Our, um, moms are best friends, and we're very close, so you know, I also think of her as my cousin."

"How lovely," he replied without an ounce of sarcasm. Man, he has this concierge thing down.

"Anyway, she asked me to come by and pay her rent," I continued, mentally preparing myself to launch into the carefully prepared explanation that I'd concocted on the walk over.

Thankfully, Darrell wasn't interested.

"Wonderful," he replied. "I'd been wondering when Ms. Queensbridge would materialize."

"She's away right now," I answered lamely.

This drew another eyebrow raise from Darrel. "She did mention that another person might be staying at the apartment...I'm guessing that would be you?"

I nodded and fought to keep my expression blank.

Lark knew someone would find her journal, I realized. She knew—or at least hoped—that person would follow her clues.

Darrell leaned over the desk.

"This sort of thing goes against our policy," he whispered, like we were suddenly co-conspirators. "All occupants are supposed to be on the lease. But you do already have a key, and you're planning on a brief stay, correct?" It wasn't so much a question as a firm suggestion.

"Definitely," I agreed, nodding. "I have my own apartment in Petworth. My cousin just wanted me to check on things for her until she gets back. Don't worry, I won't actually stay the night or anything."

Stop rambling, Raven.

Darrell straightened and tugged his suit jacket down.

"Excellent, miss. Did she happen to give you a mailbox key?"

"No...," I replied.

"The boxes are quite small and tend to fill up quickly," Darrell explained. "I'll get you a key. Even if it is only advertisements, I'm sure the mailbox needs to be cleaned out."

He pronounced it ad-vurr-dis-ments, and it took me a moment to figure out what he was saying.

"Thank you," I said.

Darrell opened a drawer behind the counter and rifled through it. I tried to not think about the fact Lark knew someone would be staying in her apartment.

Is someone else going to show up? I wondered, my throat tightening.

"Here we are." Darrell held out his hand, a small brass key in the palm.

I snatched it up, grateful our exchange was nearly over. Thanking him again, I headed for the back of the lobby where rows of brass mailboxes gleamed in a small alcove.

"Excuse me, miss?" Darrell called after me.

Swearing under my breath, I slowly turned back. "Yes?"

"You mentioned the rental payment?"

"Right, yes," I said, breathing a sigh of relief. "I did. I mean, I have the check."

The front pocket of my messenger bag held a single cashier's check, and I handed it to the desk attendant. Darrell gave the check a cursory glance, then placed it into one of the cubbyholes behind him.

"Thank you, miss. Please let me know if there is anything we can do to improve your...stay here at The Pines."

I was already halfway across the lobby again, but the inflection in his voice conjured an image of Darrell giving me a conspiratorial cartoonish, over-the-top wink.

Better to have an ally than an enemy, I thought.

Reaching the mailbox alcove without further interruption, I found rows of square doors meticulously labeled with last names. Finding the one marked "Queensbridge," I inserted the key.

Like the other times I'd slid farther down the rabbit hole of Lark's life, I felt a rush of adrenaline and fear. What would I find inside the mailbox? It was too small to hold anything substantial, but my imagination ran wild with gruesome possibilities.

"This is stupid," I muttered under my breath.

"Oh, I agree," a voice behind me said.

Not realizing anyone was nearby, I startled.

"The amount of credit card offers I get per week is criminal in this economy," the voice continued as I turned around.

The older woman was tall, thin, and dressed in mismatched neon workout clothes.

"Are you new to the building?" she asked. "I don't think I've seen you before. I'm Deidre, 10B. My husband's Sam, and our daughter is Mabel." Deirdre held up on hand and rolled her big blue eyes. "Don't ask, it's a family name."

"Kind of," I said once I was sure she'd finished speaking. "I'm...housesitting for my cousin."

Keep the story straight, I reminded myself.

"Oh!" Deidre face lit up as she nodded to my hand. It was gripping the mailbox key, still inserted into Lark's mailbox. "Your cousin is the Queensbridge person?"

"Um, yeah. Do you know her?" I asked tentatively.

"No, but I'm very curious about who lives there," Deirdre replied. "Sam and I moved in last month, and we haven't seen her once yet. We live next door and there hasn't been a single peep from that apartment."

"She's away," I said vaguely.

Deidre looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to elaborate.

"It was nice meeting you." I turned back to the mailbox and opened it.

A handful of envelopes was stuffed inside. With Deirdre hovering, I stuffed the mail into my messenger bag and hurried out of the mailroom.

"See you around," I mumbled.

Back in the lobby, I hesitated. Should I go upstairs to the apartment? There might be more clues inside. But what if I got stuck in the elevator with Deidre? She had questions and no shame, a combination I wanted to avoid.

I glanced over my shoulder. The other woman was still in the mailroom. If I hurried, I'd beat her to the elevator. The lure of Lark's mystery was calling. Decision made, I rushed to the elevator bank and mimicked Darrell's actions from the day before with the keycard.

"Come on, come on, come on," I chanted in a low whisper. The doors slid closed.

Once the car was racing toward the tenth floor, my body untensed.

Minor obstacle avoided, I thought.

I made my way into Lark's living room and settled on the sofa. The leather was the highest quality I'd ever felt, buttery-smooth and soft beneath the layer of dust. Even the throw pillows were high-end; the soft, embellished fabrics reminded me just how out of place I was. For a moment, I sat and luxuriated in the feeling of a life that wasn't mine.

Slivers of guilt dampened my bliss without warning. I was pretending that I had a right to be there, living someone else's life in their luxury apartment. Meanwhile, that someone was missing...maybe even worse.

You're here because you want to help her, I reminded myself.

Lark Kingsley may have died for her secrets. Even if posthumously, she seemed to want those secrets revealed. Or...something. Even without knowing exactly what Lark wanted of me, I felt compelled to follow through. Had our roles been reversed, I'd like to think she'd spend every moment trying to solve the mystery of my disappearance.

Straightening, I nodded resolutely. I retrieved Lark's possessions from my messenger bag and spread them across the coffee table. Trying to be methodical, I arranged them chronologically.

The journal was the best lead into what Lark Kingsley's life was like before her disappearance. Tucked in its pages had been the key to The Pines, which brought me to the apartment. The cryptic letter and train ticket on the counter led me to Union Station, though I had the distinct feeling that I was missing something there.

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

Though the train ticket led me to Union Station, maybe I was missing something there. Maybe the date was important? My headache from the previous night reappeared with a vengeance. Seriously, why didn't Lark just leave a detailed letter explaining what she needed from me? If I ever needed to disappear, I was going to do that, none of this follow-the-convoluted-treasure-map bullshit.

Moving on, I picked up the poem and read it aloud.

"Two lips across mine. Ten fingers down my spine. No space between us." Repeating it several times, I emphasized a different word each time. I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands.

Think, Raven.

Two and ten were numbers, obviously. Maybe a combination? Except two numbers didn't make a combination. Unless I used January 23, the date on the train ticket, as well. I jotted down the four numbers, in case I encountered a combination lock.

The next item in my timeline of clues was the stack of mail I'd brought upstairs. Besides delivery menus and promotional offers, there were several envelopes from First National Bank of Washington. They were addressed to Lila Queensbridge.

One mystery solved, I thought. Lila Queensbridge was Lark's full alias.

Several plain, white envelopes with no return address were also in the pile. Studying them, I saw the postmarks were all different. The letters were mailed from several Manhattan boroughs, along with one from Greenwich, Connecticut.

"Now we're getting somewhere," I muttered.

Hesitating only a beat this time, I opened the envelope with the oldest postmark—the one mailed from Brooklyn.

Inside was a newspaper clipping from the New York Times style section. A photograph of Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley in formal wear was accompanied by the headline, "Kingsley Diamond Return, Fit for the Crown Jewels." The article was dated July of the previous year and detailed the history of the red diamond from its discovery nearly a decade earlier to its re-introduction into society via a necklace.

According to the article, the twenty-five-carat gem was discovered in one of the Kingsley's Canadian mines. It was an extraordinary find. The fastidious cleaning and cutting process had taken quite a bit of time. Then, Mr. Kingsley desired the diamond to be set in a piece of jewelry worthy of its beauty before it was debuted. Jewelers from around the world visited to pitch. Finally, he'd required "a model as exquisite and brilliant as the stone itself," the paper quoted.

At the annual Kingsley Foundation charity event the previous summer, Eleanor Kingsley debuted the red diamond and pearl necklace. The diamond was gorgeous. Even in a grainy newspaper photo, it glittered like the North Star. Though I couldn't help but admire it, something about the rich, crimson color surrounded by the pure-white pearls made me shiver.

I opened several more of the envelopes and tried to forget that I was forgoing my job search to help the sole heir to a billion-dollar diamond fortune. Meanwhile, I couldn't even afford college tuition. Three more envelopes held clippings related to the Kingsley Diamond and its many outings. The damned thing got more press than a reality TV star. In general, the articles seemed to lack any information to help in the search for Lark. Like the poem, though, the articles somehow fit into Lark's grand scheme.

Lining up the edges, I stacked the clippings and pushed them aside in favor of the bank statements. Lark had rented a safety deposit box under her assumed identity, and the monthly fee was being paid automatically from a savings account also set up at First National. Other than that, there wasn't any information to glean from the statements.

I'd never wanted to be a computer geek more than I did in that moment. Lark was clearly an analog girl, but there was always more information to be found online. If I knew anything about hacking passwords, I'd be able to figure out where the money in the account came from. It would be revealing to know if that account was under Lark's real name. Had the police made a connection to Lila Queensbridge yet?

It was odd that she rented the deposit box under her alias, I realized. Banks typically required official ID to do anything for a client. Did Lark have counterfeit documents? A good one was probably pretty easy to come by in New York, particularly when you had a lot of money.

Again, I wondered if the police were aware of Lark's nom de plume.

Should I call the tip line? Lark warned me to not involve the authorities, but they had more resources that I did.

Then again, according to Lark, someone paid the police too well to...do something. Or not do something. With a sigh, I realized I was incapable of even deciding until I had more information.

"No cops," I announced to the empty apartment.

My stomach growled, reminding me that I'd skipped breakfast. Asher had insisted on paying for our dinners the night before, thankfully. If I didn't find a job soon, I'd have to rely on his generosity more and more.

You do have a stack of bills beneath your mattress, I reminded myself.

Except, it wasn't my money. It was Lark's. Though I might have to reevaluate if the trail of clues became a full-time job, I wasn't quite desperate enough to dip into her slush fund. Yet.

Setting Lark's things aside, I resigned myself to an afternoon of job hunting. I opened the Post, pulled out the classifieds section, and grabbed a pen from my bag.

I circled every listing that said, "No experience necessary." This amounted to ten leads. Just as I was reaching for my phone on the table, I noticed the headings under the crossword puzzle on the back of the newspaper:

Across. Down.

Two lips across mine. Ten fingers down my spine. No space between us.

"No way," I muttered.

The more I thought about it, the more I believed the poem referred to crossword clues. Excitement mounting, I felt like a child who'd just found the prize in a Cracker Jack box. My elation subsided as the reality of the situation sunk in—there was no way to know what crossword she was referring to. To start, was it the Post or the Times? Or maybe some small publication, like the Queen's Gazette?

It would be something widely accessible, I decided. Lark wanted the clues to be deciphered. The crossword I needed would be somewhere I could find it, like online or at the library.

When I tried looking up archives for both the Washington Post and the New York Times online, the sites required a paid account for access. With my meager wallet, signing up for a newspaper subscription seemed silly, particularly when I wasn't even sure which paper I needed. Maybe a library would have access to the archives. At least, it seemed like they should.

There was only one way to find out.

Of course, branches of the D.C. Public Library were spread throughout the city. A lot of them. Scanning the listings online, I saw the Howard branch was closest to Lark's place. Though I debated getting my car, walking the mile would be faster.

Twenty minutes later, I arrived at a modern building with a glass façade. An art deco sculpture made from metal and neon-green and red lights sat out front. Approximately the width of two row homes, the library was tall, narrow, and extremely out of place among the convenience stores and takeout restaurants on the block. It was not at all what I'd expected of a public library.

A bored-looking woman in her mid-thirties sat behind a circular reception desk. A computer monitor was on her left, and a magazine was open in front of her. She didn't bother to glance up as I approached.

"Excuse me, um–" I looked for a name placard, but there wasn't one.

The librarian flipped to a page depicting some A-Lister's Ten Best Looks.

"Can I help you?" she finally asked. A piece of dark hair fell into her eyes, and she blew it away with painted red lips.

"I'm looking for your newspaper archives," I told her.

"Third floor. Elevators are right there," she pointed to the metal doors not ten feet from where I was standing, "The librarian in the reference section will help you get set up."

I thanked the woman, then followed the receptionist's instructions and found the reference librarian. She proved more helpful. The library kept hard copies of both The New York Times and The Washington Post from the previous year, and I requested both editions from January 23rd—the date of Lark's train ticket.

There was a possibility I was wrong about that part, of course. But given the capitalized letters in DAY on the note that accompanied the train ticket, it seemed like the obvious solution. Well, as obvious as any of Lark's clues ever were.

Newspapers in hand—they were hooked around long wooden rods—I wound through the stacks until I found a row of carrels along the back wall. The chair was cold and uncomfortable, biting into the backs of my thighs. When I tried to position myself so nothing was embedded in my skin, my knee brushed against a sticky wad on the underside of the desk.

Ugh, disgusting.

Shoving all other thoughts from my brain, I started with The Washington Post. Flipping to the crossword, I found the clue for "two across": Male rulers of a monarchy.

I smiled. Though I'd been worried that the Post's crossword would be beyond my abilities, this answer was a piece of cake. I retrieved a pencil and the small pad I'd been using to make notes. Turning to a fresh sheet of paper, I wrote down the answer: Kings.

Next, I found "ten down": an urban area generally larger than a village yet smaller than a city.

It was four letters.

Think. This isn't that hard, I gave myself a mental pep talk. Lark wanted someone else to be able to follow her trail, so she wouldn't have picked crossword clues that were impossible to figure out.

The word popped into my head: town.

I recited Lark's poem from memory: Two lips across mine. Ten fingers down my spine. No space between us. I wrote the two words side by side without a space in the middle.

Kingstown.

### Fifteen

###### Lark

"You should join us," Blake said. I sat at the bathroom vanity in our suite, and he leaned over to kiss the top of my head.

"It's bonding time with your new teammates," I reminded him with a smile. "Taking the girlfriend would be very uncool of you."

Turning, I craned my neck for a real kiss. Blake didn't disappoint. He took my face in his hands and brought his mouth to mine. His hands were in my hair, fingers tangling in the wet strands. I pulled the collar of his button-down, bringing his body closer to mine. Blake's lips trailed kisses down my throat.

As much as it pained me, I pushed lightly on his chest.

"Your car is waiting downstairs," I warned.

Blake shrugged. "He can wait."

"Your team lunch starts in five minutes," I whispered against his soft lips.

Straightening to his full height, Blake groaned. "Okay, okay."

"Good. Have fun." I smirked mischievously. "But not too much fun. We have plans tonight."

It took all my willpower to maintain a blank expression. I had a surprise planned and couldn't wait to see his reaction. Only one errand remained before that evening.

"I can't wait," Blake said. He gave me one last quick kiss on the cheek before heading for the door.

Once I heard the click of the door closing, I retrieved my laptop from the room's closet. Jeff's email was still on my mind, and it had taken compartmentalizing to keep my worries to myself. I didn't want to tell Blake, not yet. Not until I knew what was really going on. But it was only a matter of time before my flimsy excuses no longer satisfied him. That was why I needed to get to the bottom of this mystery.

K!ng5t0wN1867. I'd memorized the string of characters, and I was confident that I'd puzzled out the first part: Kingstown. There were less obvious possibilities, but I wasn't ready to explore those quite yet. Jeff thought someone was screwing with me, and I tended to agree with him. Changing my password repeatedly was...bizarre, but the fact that it had been changed repeatedly to the same thing? That was...troubling.

Is someone trying to send me message?

What did Kingstown mean? Was it a joke? Some sort of reference to my family? Or was Kingstown an actual place?

A quick internet search produced an impossibly long list of destinations called Kingstown. I leaned back in the desk chair.

"Maryland? Rhode Island? Grenadine? So many options," I muttered.

My head started to hurt from staring at the computer screen. Releasing my bun, I let my wet hair hang loose and ran my fingers through.

The numbers. What do the numbers mean?

1867. A year? It seemed the most obvious answer but didn't feel right. To be sure, I ran a search for 1867 + Kingstown. There were a few notable hits: a railroad accident that killed five in Kingstown, Pennsylvania; a fire in Kingstown, Scotland that destroyed some castle; and an infamous train heist outside Kingstown, Missouri that was never solved. While uncovering the identity of the train robbers did hold some appeal—it was an intriguing mystery—I couldn't fathom a plausible reason my stalker would care about a theft that occurred well over a century ago.

A glance at the clock made me realize how quickly time was passing while caught up in the mystery. "Crap," I swore under my breath and picked up the receiver of the room's phone.

"Please dial '1' for the concierge," a mechanical voice prompted.

Not a year, I thought, already typing the four-digit number again into the search bar. This time, I separated the 1 from the 867, like the country and area codes of a phone number. "1" was the country code for both the US and Canada, and "867" was the area code for the Northwest Territories in Northern Canada.

"Hello? Ms. Queensbridge?"

"Sorry, hi," I said into the receiver. "I have a spa appointment, but I'm running a little late."

"Not a problem, miss. Would you like to push back the appointment? Or, if you would prefer, our specialists could come to your suite?"

"That would be great," I replied absently, my fingers flying over the keyboard.

Results for Kingstown + Northwest Territories populated my computer screen.

"I can send up the masseuse now? Then we have room for your facial at 2:30, and the hair stylist and makeup artist can fit you in at 4:00," the concierge rattled off.

But I barely heard him. My eyes were glued to the laptop screen, everything else blurred into background. The top hit was a blog called DiggingUpTheDirt.

"Ms. Queensbridge?" the concierge prompted.

"Yes, sorry. Can we cancel the massage? Everything else sounds great. Thank you." I hung up before the concierge could answer.

Fingers shaking slightly, I tapped the link.

Diamonds—The Four Cs, but Should There be a Fifth, for Canada?

Over the last several decades, the name Kingsley has become synonymous with diamonds. The family-owned-and-operated business started out designing jewelry. In more recent years, they have expanded and currently own more mines than anyone else in the world. Phillip Kingsley, President and CEO of Kingsley Diamonds was one of the first to realize the potential in defunct Canadian mines. At the turn of the twenty-first century, the business tycoon purchased several nonoperational mines in the Northwest Territories, all in abandoned towns.

According to sources inside the company, Kingsley hired workers from all over the world to populate the towns and resurrect the mines. His gamble paid off; earlier this month, Eleanor Kingsley debuted a pearl and diamond choker. The center stone is the famous Kingsley Diamond.

In an interview with the Times, Phillip Kingsley said that the rare red gem came from one of his Canadian mines, but did not specify which one. This is where the story gets interesting. After a little digging—my specialty—I have learned that the famed Kingsley Diamond was found in the company's Kingstown mine. That's right, Diggers, Phillip Kingsley not only repopulated a ghost town, but he also renamed it after his family. I reached out to several individuals who reportedly live in Kingstown but received no response.

Of course, I didn't give up there. I found individuals in the next town over, which, admittedly, is over one hundred miles away. One source described Kingstown as a "strange" place, with an "inordinate amount of security". Another source said the town was "unwelcoming" and "not the sort of place that invites visitors".

Are you intrigued? I know I am. I see a Canadian adventure in my future.

Come back next week for my report on Wetherly Cosmetics—Wicked isn't just a new eyeshadow shade, it's their company motto.

Until next time, Diggers,

DD.

I reread the entry several times.

Kingstown. Did my father really name a town after our family? It appeared so. The blog post was dated not long after my mother wore her necklace for the first time. DD—whoever he or she was—suggested they were going to dig deeper into the mysterious Kingstown. But when I searched the site, there was no further information.

In fact, the entry about my family was the last one.

What does that mean? Why does someone want me to know about Kingstown?

Maybe...maybe...maybe, what? I couldn't fathom why someone would take the time to change my Gracen Portal password repeatedly to the name of a mining town.

What are you trying to tell me?

A knock on the door interrupted my musings.

Tomorrow, tomorrow you can come back to this, I told myself. Tonight was about Blake and our anniversary. I opened the door and greeted the team of stylists with a smile.

"Ms. Queensbridge, I'm Nora," said a tall woman, shaking my hand. "Are you ready for your facial?"

Blake was already dressed, watching the day's college football highlights on SportsCenter in the living room when I emerged from the bathroom. His eyes lit up when he saw me, and the remote fell from his hand with a clatter.

"Lark...you're stunning."

He walked over as I twirled to give him a 360-degree view of my slinky white dress. Blake grabbed my hand, and I spun into his arms.

"You're not hard to look at either," I replied with a smile.

Blake's dark curls were still slightly damp from his shower. His olive, button-down shirt picked up the green in his eyes. His gray slacks were neatly pressed and fit to perfection. He was beyond good looking.

"Is it time to get this mystery date started?" Blake asked.

"Almost. I just need my shoes and purse."

When I returned, gold heels on my feet and clutch in hand, the television was off. Blake was perched on the arm of the sofa with a single red rose in his hands. I blinked in surprise. He stood and held the flower out in my direction.

"When did you...?" I shook my head and trailed off. It didn't matter. Blake had his secrets, and I had mine.

He kissed my cheek as I smelled the fragrant rose.

"I love you, Lark," he said, his lips brushing my skin as he spoke.

I turned just enough so that our mouths met. "I love you, too," I said and kissed him deeply.

The moment was perfect. I briefly considered abandoning my plans for the evening and skipping straight to the bedroom. When I thought about where we were going, and the delight I hoped he'd feel, I decided against it. I gave him a soft but promising kiss before stepping back and taking his hand.

"Are you ready?"

I couldn't have hoped for a more beautiful night. Even though the temperature was near freezing, the sky was clear and the stars twinkled. We exited the hotel through the side door and passed a line of well-dressed young professionals waiting for entrance to the hotel's rooftop bar.

"We don't need a cab?" Blake asked, not sparing a single glance at any of the beautiful, scantily-clad women we walked past.

"It's a lovely night. Let's walk," I answered with a coy grin.

With our hands still clasped tightly, we walked across the street toward the National Mall. Our pace was leisurely, as if we had all the time in the world. His thumb gently ran circles across the back of my hand, giving me chills in a good way.

"So, how was your day?" he asked as we reached Pennsylvania Avenue.

"Good," I replied, which was only half true. The facial had been relaxing, and having someone else do my hair and makeup was always nice. But the whole Kingstown mystery weighed heavily on my mind.

Tonight is about Blake. About us, I told myself sternly. Nothing, not even a potential stalker was going to ruin our anniversary. Blake paused and pointed to the Washington Monument.

"Let's play tourist," he teased, pulling out his phone. I rested my head against his shoulder, and his arm snaked around my waist. Blake snapped several pictures to commemorate our night.

We crossed the famed street and stepped onto the National Mall. The path passed right by the monument, but we didn't stop to admire it up close. I was suddenly anxious to get where we were going, though I tried my best not to show it. When we got to the sidewalk on the opposite side of the Mall, I turned left.

"Do you really have a plan for tonight?" Blake asked, giving my hand a squeeze. The area was both dark and deserted.

I offered him a coy grin. "Remember when you told me that your favorite movie growing up was Night at the Museum?" I asked. Though I was striving for nonchalance, my excitement was hard to contain.

"Yeah," he laughed. "I was convinced that if I could just stay up late enough, my action figures would come to life like the statues in the movie." He chuckled softly, lost in the memory. Somehow, Blake didn't notice we were standing in front of the National Museum of Natural History until I gestured to the building.

"Want to see if the triceratops is awake yet?" I asked, suppressing a grin.

Blake's expression was dubious. "You want to break in to the Natural History Museum?"

"Breaking in sounds so criminal. We could just see if the door is unlocked," I suggested, starting up the wide front steps of the museum. "Come on," I added over my shoulder.

Blake grinned and sprinted up the stairs two at a time. He caught up with me easily, grabbing me around the waist and lifting me up into the air. I laughed as he spun in a circle. When he set me down, the world still felt like it was moving. With a mischievous grin, I reached for the door handle.

"Someone did leave it unlocked," I said innocently, pulling it open and slipping inside.

Eyes wide with wonder, Blake's gaze darted around. After ensuring no one was watching us, he followed me through the double doors. The charade ended as soon as we were inside. The tuxedo-clad waiter, holding a tray with two champagne flutes, was a dead giveaway. Blake's mouth hung open as his gaze ping-ponged between the waiter and me. His surprise turned to glee, making my preparations worth every moment.

The curator had been over the moon when I'd called to request a meeting, ostensibly to discuss the possibility of our family loaning the Kingsley Diamond for a special exhibition. It wasn't not true. I mean, my parents might entertain the notion. I'd spent an hour listening to the curator drone on about the museum's security measures to prevent theft. I'd smiled politely, reminding myself it was a small price to pay for the enormous grin on Blake's face.

Hands interlaced, we walked slowly through the dinosaur exhibit. Sipping champagne and strolling through the darkened museum with Blake felt like a dream. I couldn't fathom another person I'd rather share the experience with. Halfway through the loop of exhibits, a table was set with candles and more champagne. The catering staff had pulled out all the stops; every one of Blake's favorite foods was incorporated into a dish. We talked and laughed from the tuna tartare to lobster mac and cheese, all the way through the ice cream sundaes we had for dessert.

"You are way too good to me," he declared, scraping the remnants of butterscotch from his bowl.

Blake was the kind of guy who liked to enjoy things to the last drop. It was one of the many things I liked about him.

"You deserve it," I said, suddenly feeling shy.

Our hands were clasped on top of the table, and I couldn't help but think how cheesy this must seem to the waiters. I'd felt the same way about romantic clichés until I experienced them with Blake.

After dinner, we meandered through the museum for several more hours, holding hands like kids in junior high. We were a full-on parody that night, but I didn't care.

Walking back across the Mall, past the still-lit Washington Monument, Blake twirled me around. Humming a Sinatra song, he held out his hand and spun me underneath his arm.

The champagne emboldened me. As we walked into our hotel room, I stepped back to lean on the closed door and pulled him against me. Heat sparked in Blake's eyes, but his kisses remained soft, sweet, and lingering. One arm wound around my back, gently pulling me closer to him. Blake's torso was hard lines and firm muscle, and I silently thanked his soccer coach for continuing their workouts in the off-season.

My hands kept running over the lines of his abdomen. I wanted to feel his skin against mine. I untucked his shirt, his skin hot beneath my hand. He sucked in a breath and deepened the kiss ever so slightly. Blake broke away, his lips swollen. He pulled off his shirt completely, and then leaned forward to whisper in my ear.

"I love you."

His lips traveled down, lightly grazing my throat. His fingers found mine and he laced them together, the other hand gently massaging my lower back. He reached up and slid one of the dress straps from my shoulder, his lips finding the skin it had been covering. I leaned my shoulders back against the door and closed my eyes, reveling in the feeling of his hands and lips on me.

When his lips found mine again, there was more intensity than I'd ever felt from him before. He pulled back and looked into my eyes, a question in his own. I smiled and pulled him against me in answer. Without breaking away, he began moving slowly backward, pulling me with him. A brief flurry of nerves fluttered through me, but calmed when he went to the couch instead of the bedroom. He hesitated momentarily before sitting on the plush cushion and pulling me down into his lap. For a minute that seemed to last a lifetime, we sat while his eyes searched mine. Looking into his face, I saw such a mix of emotions: desire, affection, tenderness, need, love. I was sure my look mirrored his.

"Is this because of the champagne?" he asked, his concern evident.

If I said it was, he would stop immediately, tuck me into bed, and I'd spend the night wrapped in his arms, fully clothed.

"It's because I love you," I whispered honestly.

Blake kissed me again softly, only a hint of contact between our mouths. I gently pushed off his lap and stood, willing my legs to hold me. His gaze never left mine as I slid my side zipper down. The other strap fell from my shoulder, and my dress dropped to the floor, a puddle of silk around my feet. His eyes stayed fixed on mine as he reached for my hand, the thumb still making those reassuring small circles, and pulled me into his lap again.

I froze the moment our bare skin touched, even as heat started to build inside of me. Blake started at my shoulders, running the tips of his strong fingers gently down my arms and over my abdomen, skirting around the blue lace underwear I still wore. When my kisses became more demanding, he answered in turn. I wasn't even aware that I was kneading the hard muscles just above his hips until I felt a tremor run through him. Encouraged, I turned to whisper in his ear, "I want this."

For a moment, Blake sat motionless, his eyes shut tightly. My heart raced in my chest, my pulse pounded in my ears, faster and faster as I waited for him to say he did, too. Finally, Blake nodded slowly, any lingering hesitation gone. I stood and backed away from the sofa, just enough so he could see all of me. Blake's eyes fluttered opened, and for the first time since I'd slid out of my dress, his gaze wasn't locked with mine.

Standing there in the lingerie I'd selected specifically for this momentous occasion, with Blake's eyes slowly drinking in every inch of my body, I felt beautiful. In the past, he'd kept his expression carefully guarded. I think he worried that the intensity of his desire would scare me. Tonight, he held nothing back. Intense was too weak a word for what I saw as I watched him watch me. Yet, I wasn't scared or self-conscious. The way Blake looked at me was the way I imagine mortals looked at Aphrodite—awed and full of rapture.

Light doesn't travel as fast as Blake did when he leapt up. The next thing I knew, I was literally knocked off my feet as he swooped me into his arms. I wrapped my arms around his neck and teased the exposed skin at the hollow of his throat with my lips.

The way he'd flown off the couch, I figured he'd rush to the bed. He didn't. Blake took his time, walking almost painfully slow as I trailed kisses up his neck.

Maid service had turned down the bed, and Blake laid me down on the thousand-thread-count sheets as gently as if I were made of the same spun glass as the chandelier in the lobby, careful to place my head on a plush pillow. Again, he took his time studying me, as if committing every detail to memory, down to the tiny freckle to the left of my belly button.

The buckle on his belt was undone a moment later. His slacks fell to the carpet. Now it was my turn to admire the view. I studied him the same way he'd studied me. Thankfully, Blake didn't stand there too long because I was ready for the hands-on portion of the evening.

Blake stretched out beside me, propping himself up on one elbow. Every point at which his skin touched mine felt as if it was on fire. Light as feathers, his fingers skimmed my stomach, my ribs, the strip of lace holding the cups of my bra together, my throat.

He leaned over me and traced my lips with the tip of his finger. His whisper was throaty and deep. "I want you with me always, Lark. No matter what."

"Always," I echoed in a ragged whisper.

I finally understood what it meant to truly love another person wholly, unconditionally, and without reservation. With that one act, Blake Greyfield erased my past, made me appreciate the present, and offered me a future I'd never thought possible.

### Sixteen

###### Raven

"The green one," I declared.

Asher was holding up four ties, and the emerald green one would best compliment his coloring. We'd been at Sak's Fifth Avenue for the better part of three hours. Asher's mother had set up an appointment for a suit fitting, and I was making good on my promise. In exchange for my chauffeur services, he'd offered to take me to dinner at the restaurant of my choice. I was already perusing menus on my phone.

"You sure? Dad always says red equals power." Asher admired himself in the trifold mirror, holding each tie up to his neck to see how they compared.

"Positive. It'll go with the white and grey shirts you picked out. Maybe you should get a striped tie, too? Aren't you getting that pink shirt?"

"Salmon, miss. The color is salmon," Hans, the impossibly stuffy salesman, corrected me.

Asher caught my eye in the mirror and smirked.

"Yeah, Raven, salmon," he said in a poor imitation of Hans' British accent.

I laughed. "Whatever. I'm starving, and there's white-chocolate-raspberry-truffle cheesecake calling my name."

"I'll take the green one and the red. And if you have a striped tie that matches the salmon shirt, I'll take that, too."

"Very good, sir," Hans said. He left the dressing room to ring up the purchases.

When Asher went to change, I tucked my phone back into my purse next to my notes from my library trip. While I was positive that Lark's clues had been for The Washington Post crossword, I'd also checked The New York Times to cover all of my bases. "Two across" and "ten down" on there had led me to the words Elizabethan and Dusenburg, which didn't go together at all. Admittedly, I was very proud of my investigative skills. Now I needed to figure out what I was supposed to do with the new information. I'd made a list of possibilities, and a password for something I had yet to find was number one on it.

"Ready?" Asher asked, startling me from my thoughts.

I smiled brightly. "Definitely."

Nearly two thousand dollars later, Asher's shopping adventure was complete. Since the suits would be sent to a tailor for customizing, we left the department store with only one bag containing his new shirts and ties. Against my better judgment, I asked him whether he needed new shoes, too. Thankfully, he had black and brown dress shoes that only needed a good polishing.

The restaurant was busy with an early-dinner crowd. The hostess asked if we preferred waiting, or we could sit at the bar. Asher probably would've waited for a table, but my stomach growled audibly. We chose the bar.

A bartender named Genevieve was dressed in an all-white uniform. She set two cocktail napkins down in front of us, along with two large glasses of iced water. Since I'd already read the entire menu on my phone, I gave her my order first.

"Could you bring us some bread before the meal?" Asher asked, handing both of our menus to the perky bartender.

"Coming right up."

I played with my straw, using it to dunk the lemon wedge below ice cubes and spread the flavor. Unsurprisingly, I was enjoying spending time with Asher. He was easygoing, fun, and incredibly good-looking.

"Sorry to pull you away from the job search today," he said.

I groaned. "Don't remind me. I'm having no luck whatsoever."

While this was technically true, it was only because I wasn't making the effort necessary to secure employment. Lark Kingsley and her disappearance were consuming every free moment.

"Where have you tried?" he asked. "Maybe I can brainstorm more options."

I hesitated. Telling Asher that I'd been job hunting was one thing. Making up places where I'd supposedly applied was something else entirely. But coming clean would lead to questions I wasn't prepared to answer, like what I'd been doing instead.

"You haven't applied anywhere, have you?" Asher took my silence for the guilty admission that it was. "Let me guess, you've decided watching YouTube is more exciting than getting a job?"

I scoffed and threw my straw wrapper at him. He held up his hands to ward off the paper attack.

"No, no, I get it," he laughed. "Working sucks. Believe me, if Dad hadn't already arranged this job for me, I'd be a couch potato, too."

Though he was teasing, I stiffened. Defensiveness rose within me. I wasn't wasting away on my couch watching random conspiracy videos. I was helping a desperate girl expose the reason she'd gone missing. A girl I'd never met. A girl who might be dead.

"I'm sorry, Raven," Asher said, turning serious. "I was only kidding. Seriously." His big, brown eyes were sincere, as if truly worried that he'd hurt my feelings.

I sighed. "I know, Asher. It's not that. It's just...I've been a little preoccupied lately. Something sort of came up. A problem I need to solve. It's time sensitive, and I really need to work it out before I can think about getting a job."

"Intriguing." He stroked his chin like an evil mastermind from a cartoon. "What's this problem? Can I help? I'm great at logic games, you can check my LSAT score."

I tried to smile, but it came across pained. I was in over my head, I knew that. Asking Asher for help might get him tangled in the very complicated web that Lark had woven. I hated the thought of putting him in that position. And yet...I really did need help.

"What do you know about diamonds?" I ventured.

The question caught both of us by surprise. Asher coughed around the sip of water he'd just taken and turned beet red. I wasn't sure why I led with that question, but I decided to run with it.

"Specifically, the Kingsley Diamond. Have you heard of it?" I continued.

Asher held a napkin to his lips and dried the water. He blinked his eyes rapidly to rid them of the tears collected in the corners.

"Who hasn't?" he said finally. "I mean, what a find, you know? Red diamonds are rare. And one that big? Jeezy. The thing will probably end up more famous than the Hope Diamond."

I knew about the rarity of diamonds, particularly red diamonds, from reading Wikipedia. And his claims about the Kingsley Diamond surpassing the Hope Diamond were probably true.

"How does the Kingsley Diamond relate to your problem?" he asked, studying me.

Again, I hesitated. How much should I divulge? Asher wasn't stupid. Asking about the Kingsley Diamond might've piqued his curiosity enough that he'd eventually realize my interest lay in Lark's disappearance.

Averting my gaze, I asked, "Have you read about the daughter's disappearance?"

For some reason, I felt like I was betraying Lark by sharing her secret with Asher. It was nonsensical, I was aware. I didn't even know Lark. How could I violate her trust when we'd never met? Still....

"It's been all over the news. She never returned from a trip with her friends or something, right?"

I nodded. That was close enough. The minute details weren't really important.

"You know how I found that keycard to that apartment building, The Pines? Turns out, the apartment is rented to Lark Kingsley."

For some reason, I kept her assumed name to myself.

The food arrived—barbeque chicken salad for me and lobster ravioli for Asher. He dug into the pasta immediately, appearing to mull over my disclosure. I picked up my fork and began eating to cover the silence.

"Raven?" Asher started after he'd swallowed a ravioli whole.

"Yeah?"

"Did you tell the police?"

"No." I examined a lump of goat cheese.

"Do you think maybe you should?" he asked. "I mean, that seems like the kind of thing they should know. She might still be alive. If you have information that might help them find her...."

Asher trailed off, leaving unspoken the fear that I'd had lodged in the back of my mind since finding her journal.

If I didn't figure all of this out soon, it might be too late for Lark. Was I really the best person to investigate her disappearance and follow her clues?

No, I absolutely wasn't. But she'd specifically asked that I not involved the authorities, so I wasn't sure what else to do.

Shaking my head, I took a sip of water.

"I can't, Asher," I said after swallowing. "You don't understand. I know she was, or is, in trouble, but I think someone close to her was the cause of the disappearance." I hesitated for a long, awkward moment, and then added in a soft voice, "Lark seemed to think the authorities couldn't help. She even suggested that there might be some sort of conspiracy or pay-off happening."

Asher's gaze landed on the hand holding my fork. It was clenched in a fist. I hadn't realized how worked up I was.

"Sorry," I said sheepishly and rested the fork on the edge of my plate. "It's just that I've been reading her journal, and she left all these convoluted clues and–"

"Her journal?" Asher cut me off. "And clues?"

Shit. I hadn't meant to say so much. "Um, yeah. That's where I found the key, tucked into her journal. She left a trail of breadcrumbs. I think she wants someone to follow them."

"Raven–"

This time I cut him off. "Asher, please. I know how ridiculous this sounds. But please, trust me on this? She needs my help."

My help? Lark needed help, but surely I wasn't the one she'd intended to find her journal or her apartment or anything else, right? She was probably hoping for someone...competent.

"Okay," Asher said slowly, drawing out the word to make it sound impossibly long. "Fine. No cops. So, what sort of clues has she left?"

I met his inquisitive gaze with a wide-eyed stare of my own.

"Really? You want to help? You know that we could be arrested for hampering an investigation, right? It happens all the time on crime shows."

Asher laughed. "I'm the law student, remember? If you feel that strongly about this, then I'm here to help."

Relief washed over me. I had an ally, a friend. I didn't realize how badly I needed those until that moment.

"Thank you," I told Asher.

He reached across the table and took my hand.

"I'm here for you, Raven." He met my gaze squarely. "Just tell me how I can help you find Lark."

### Seventeen

###### Lark

The way time passes here...there's something so off about it. Some days, each step takes an eon to complete. It feels as though I've been wandering these halls for an eternity already. Some days, the silver hands of time barely moved. Others, hours pass with each stroke of the brush through my hair. One minute, I'm sitting by the window, admiring the gladiator sandals on a glossy page of a magazine as morning sunlight warms my cheek. The next, I blink and look down to find I'm still sitting in the same chair, the magazine closed and returned to its place atop the side table. The only light now comes from the bulbs recessed in the ceiling.

Hours after my arrival, I saw my first captor in the flesh. She introduced herself as Joanie, and I felt true panic for the first time since being taken from my family's Manhattan home. I've seen her face. I know her name, I remember thinking. I've seen enough movies and read enough books to know that neither of those facts is good for me.

Joanie brings me three meals a day. She appears in the doorway with a tray in her hands and asks whether I'd prefer to eat in the dining room with the others or in the privacy of my room. Why would I want to eat with "the others"? The other wandering souls just remind me how dismal my fate is. I always choose privacy.

I'm scared and alone, but I prefer solitude to people I can't trust. I'd also prefer Joanie drop the charade. This place is not a luxury spa. I'm not on vacation. I'm being held against my will for reasons I don't understand. My wrists aren't bound with rope and my ankles aren't shackled, and yet I am not free.

It really does seem like they want me to see this place as a little getaway, no big deal. Really, the airs of civility here are almost laughable. Almost. The latest editions of my favorite magazines are procured and arranged on the coffee table in the living room. Movies still in theatres are waiting to be watched beside the eighty-inch flat-screen. In my room, Lululemon's newest yoga mat—a replica of the one in my bedroom at home—sits in the corner. Copies of the same paperbacks that line my bookshelves are arranged on the ones here, too. It's as though they've been watching me, studying me, learning my likes and dislikes in hopes of bribing me.

For what? I don't know.

Ludicrous! I want to shout. Stop pretending! I see through the façade! I want to scream until my throat burns from the effort. This isn't a bed and breakfast. This is the land of the lost.

Yet, I never summon the nerve to say anything of the sort; the consequences would be as unwelcome as the outburst itself. So, we all pretend. I play the part of the well-mannered guest, even as the desire to rage against Joanie and her cohorts eats me up from the inside out.

When I choose to ignore their distractions, I'm permitted to roam within the carefully guarded walls of my prison or write in my diary. This journal is my escape, my getaway, the only place I can express what I am truly thinking and feeling. To do so outside of here would bring all sorts of unimaginable punishments. To my knowledge, no one has ever invaded this space. I carry it with me all day and sleep with it beneath my pillow at night.

Sleeping here was impossible at first, despite the soft, Egyptian-cotton sheets and the fluffy pillows. Joanie tried to "help me." Every night, the seemingly pleasant woman with beautiful chestnut hair appeared next to the bed with two yellow pills and a cup of water.

"In case you need help sleeping," she said.

At first, I sneered at her offer, refusing to make myself any more vulnerable than I already was by accepting her "help." I fought hard against Joanie and her tempting sleep aids, determined not to ingest any substances that would impair my mind. And I fought even harder to stay awake day after day, to stay constantly on guard. It was exhausting. Soon, I was wandering the halls with my eyes half open and my reflexes twitching.

Confusion came next. My thoughts urged me to beware of Joanie and her pills. Don't crack. Don't cave. That's what they want. The mental voice grew louder and louder until I began to wonder if it weren't in my head at all. That night, when Joanie set her offering on the bedside table, I finally gave in. I didn't need paranoia of unseen entities clouding my attention. I needed to stay on guard against actual, tangible foes.

The next morning, I realized the pills were actually a gift; a kindness that was unexpected and, perhaps, unintentional. Falling into the depths of a velvety darkness was a blessed break from the anxiety that was persistently tugging at my brain since the moment I was brought here. For the first time since my arrival, I slept through the night. And much of the next day.

Now, I sleep straight through each night, waking refreshed and relaxed, until the reality of where I am comes crashing over me. My nighttime reprieve and these brief moments in the morning are the only times I feel free. And freedom is something I desperately seek.

Some days, they want to talk to me. Or rather, they want me to talk to them. There's no routine to this, no warning; a tall woman wearing a frown will simply appear. The first time, she simply stood in front of me for several moments before speaking. We engaged in a game that I've seen my mother play at many social gatherings. It is a time-honored tradition among our circle: we weigh, we measure, and we pass judgment immediately upon meeting a newcomer.

The tall woman, my opponent, may have once been beautiful. With her round face, long blonde hair, and endlessly long legs, she reminds me of an aging supermodel. The lines around her flat eyes, the deep trenches extending from the corners of her downturned lips, and the extra ten pounds she carries tell me her days of catwalks have long been over.

"He is ready for you." She has a thick, Russian accent, and I stare at her blankly.

I heard, "Key ees veddy fortu."

Luckily, her expectant, no-nonsense expression tells me I should follow when she turns suddenly and walks away. Nerves make me clumsy, and it's all I can do to keep my feet from tangling together as I trail behind her. Transferring the slight sheen of dampness from my hands to my jeans, I take deep breaths and steel myself for whatever comes next. I picture myself standing tall, exuding confidence. Yet I am not so out of touch with reality that I think this is what I look like.

The meeting takes place in a front room that looks more like a parlor than an interrogation chamber. This does not comfort me. After pleasantries that belie the severity of the situation, the man behind the desk tells me to call him David. Just "David," nothing more.

David, the name of a school friend or barista in a coffee shop. David, as though my life isn't held in the palm of his hand.

There is a small paunch in David's abdomen, like a woman in her second trimester. The crinkles around the corners of his muddy eyes tell me he's been wearing that same watery smile for a lifetime. Visually, everything about him screams non-threatening. But I have a definitive feeling deep in my stomach that tells me otherwise. It's as though he's practiced being good-natured. He is the hospitable face of the very inhospitable organization holding me hostage.

The scribble of his pen grates on my nerves. That smile causes acid to rise in my throat. And still, I strive for indifference, as though anyone is fooled by my apathetic mask.

That first meeting was just the two of us. This is not always the case.

Occasionally, another man will sit in a wooden chair in the corner, observing me intently but never saying a word. In a way, this man is more frightening than my other captors. Like a predator, he is always watching. I call him the Hawk.

I'm certain he's David's equal; authority and power practically leak from his pores. Despite his silence, he manages to speak volumes. The man's presence brings heightened stress, and I get flustered when I answer David's questions. Guessing at what the answers should be becomes harder with the audience. I vacillate between overanalyzing every syllable that forms in my head before speaking and rambling incoherently under the Hawk's penetrating gaze.

He has this habit of leaning back in his chair, resting his elbows on the wooden arms, and placing an ankle upon the opposite knee. This is the Hawk's casual pose. I have one, too. For both of us, though, "casual" is an act. There is nothing casual about these meetings.

Sometimes, when I'm answering David's questions, the Hawk tilts forward ever so slightly, as if he can't help himself. Intensity and interest radiate from him. I pretend not to notice, but I can see him in my peripheral vision when I look directly at David. I always choose my words carefully when I see his other foot come to rest on the plush, beige carpet. Twice now, I've seen his elbows rest on his knees with his chin propped on the back of his laced fingertips. Alarm bells went off in my head both times, and a stern whisper in my head told me to lie.

His absence is almost worse. It carries a whispered warning.

Did you tell him what he wanted to hear last time? Have you sealed your fate?

I don't know what will happen to me when the Hawk hears the words he's waiting for. David's questions are always innocuous, sometimes downright confusing. I fear that I'll be unaware I have disclosed the magic words until it's too late to take them back. When that's done, which way will I be cast?

The days I am not summoned to David for questioning are spent in what I can only assume is a drug-induced stupor. Unlike at bedtime, Joanie does not give me a choice in the matter. If I were clairvoyant and knew which days these would be in advance, I wouldn't eat or drink what I'm given. Some days, I'm asleep more than I'm awake. Sometimes these days pass with hardly a glimpse of sunlight.

Coherent days, where I make it through breakfast without exhaustion creeping into my bones, put me on edge. I'm left to wonder when they'll come for me and what they'll want when they do. I miss my old life. The longer I am here, the more I am convinced that it's behind me for good.

Today isn't one of the clear days.

I attempt to peruse another magazine, struggling to muster interest. A new movie plays on the television with the blonde from Grey's Anatomy and a heavyset guy with curly hair who looks vaguely familiar. Joanie took the liberty of putting it on for me. From what I hear in the background, the witty dialogue seems like something I would typically enjoy. But I refuse to let Joanie catch me watching the raunchy comedy. I'm ignoring them and their efforts. Thank goodness I have my journal to write in. However small, it feels like a victory.

Listening to the movie, I'm once again reminded that my captors have done their homework; they know me better than some of my closest friends. I've never told the girls that I think movies with guy humor are much better than sappy love tales. Under normal circumstances, I find it impossible to not enjoy the action and eye candy in Ocean's Eleven, which Joanie put on last night. But being here, how can I possibly enjoy these things I used to enjoy in my everyday life? How do they expect me to sit and watch this as if I haven't a care in the world?

Great, here comes Joanie. If she thinks I'm touching anything else she gives me today, she's nuts. I'm barely awake as it is.

My lunch is served on bone china, the food's presentation as careful as Colicchio's. This is just another facet of this place's diamond-encrusted façade. The joke is on them, though, because impure diamonds crack easily under relatively low pressure. Between the guards, the interrogation sessions, and the drugs, this place is more flawed than a heavily blemished stone. A major outburst or escape attempt from me, and the veneer would break wide open.

"All done?" Joanie asks, reaching for the untouched food tray. She's obviously gotten the memo: I'm not eating it. "How does a walk sound? Or maybe you want to read for a bit?"

I respond with a blank stare.

"Well, Ms. Kingsley, how would you like to spend your afternoon?"

There she goes again, pretending as though I have options. Hypothetically, I am free to do as I please. If it doesn't involve going within fifteen feet of the alarmed doors.

I don't tell Joanie that I'd like to spend my afternoon anywhere besides here. That I want to sleep in my own bed. That I want to never see her fake smile again as long as I live. She grins down at me expectantly, waiting for an answer to her ridiculous question. If I ignore her and keep writing, eventually she'll give up and go away. I've used this tactic before. She's a fool if she thinks she'll be getting any other response.

A man sits by the front door, reading a leatherbound volume of a classic novel. The wiry muscles of his forearms are at odds with the delicate, gold trim on the book. The pique knit of his polo strains across his chest. Outside of these walls, I am certain that's not his attire of choice. He looks like he'd be far more comfortable in a tight, white undershirt and gold chains hanging around his neck. Undoubtedly, those in charge made him cleanup for this job. Like seeing him in golf attire makes his presence any less ominous. It was another pointless pretense.

His dark skin and hair remind me of Don Vito's men from The Godfather. I think of him as Michael Corleone, to remind myself that there is undoubtedly violence beneath his civil exterior. He doesn't sit there because he finds the armchair comfortable. The chair itself is not situated there because an interior designer decided it should be. He will stop me if I try to leave. He will use force if necessary.

Michael has a nighttime counterpart with dark, menacing eyes and the look of someone who enjoys inflicting pain. I think of him as Carlo.

The guards and impenetrable locks are the only blatant warnings that escape will not be tolerated. But I don't need to see these reminders to know I'm a prisoner. That fact is a weight deep in my soul, punctuated with every heartbeat. I am confined, I am trapped. I don't know if I will ever see my home again. My friends and family may all be lost to me for eternity.

Indeed, the existence of eternity is what I face here. This is my biggest fear. It is as though David and his questions are an interview—or an audition—for my life. Tell us what we want to know and we may allow you to continue existing. But if I don't get the part...

That is where the fear comes in. Every time I pray for this to be over, I chastise myself.

You want it to be over, Lark? Be careful what you wish for. This ending may be permanent.

### Eighteen

###### Raven

Confiding in Asher eased my mind. It also gave me a sense of urgency that hadn't been there before. I needed to solve Lark's clues, but the ones I'd uncovered just didn't fit together.

"Come on, Lark," I muttered, after I'd finished my nightly ritual of brushing my teeth and washing my face. "Something helpful? What am I missing?"

No answer came. Thank goodness. If Lark Kingsley popped up in the mirror and talked to me, I was out.

The apartment was humid, even with the window air conditioner running on full blast. I stretched out in the middle of my mattress with Lark's journal. Not wanting to fold the pages, I was using the note I found in Lark's apartment to mark my place. Flipping to the next entry, I began reading.

Not all of Lark's journal entries were particularly interesting. Some days, she wrote about her classes at the overpriced private school she attended. Other days, she ranted about her parents. My favorite entries were the ones about Blake. The words leapt emotionally from the pages. I felt both the thrills and the sadness. There were a lot of reasons for someone like me—hell, for anyone—to be jealous of Lark Kingsley. She had everything that anyone could ever yearn for in a lifetime: beauty but concealed the most joyful aspect of her life. Lark lived both the highest highs and the lowest lows.

Luckily, the next entry was about Blake. I settled into my pillows. Two sentences in, I was struck by how different the passage was from others about her boyfriend. Lark didn't draw hearts or doodle "Mrs. Lark Greyfield" in the margins, but she typically used a certain tone when talking about Blake. It was noticeably absent from the first paragraph of tonight's reading. Even stranger? She seemed to be describing their first meeting. Except, I'd already read about their first meeting. At least, I thought I had.

summer was just becoming fall, and it was the first truly cold Morning manhattan had seen in months. i'd planned on using the treadmill in dad's office for a morning Run, but when i went downstairs, i found the office was already occupied. dad was on an early-morning conference call with an auction house in london. seeing me dressed in my workout clothes, he'd waved me inside, mouthing, "come in." i knew nothing would make him happier than if i went in and listened to the call. he was always advocating my taking an interest in our company. kingsley diamonds was still a family run business, so it wasn't publicly traded. as the only child, the responsibility would one day fall on my shoulders to take the helm.

but, unlike my parents, i didn't exercise to stay in shape or sweat out last night's Champagne calories. running was my great escape. it gave me the opportunity to be truly alone with my thoughts and block out the rest of the world. listening to dad berate the guy on the other end of the conference call was anything but relaxing.

i whispered, "That's okay, thanks," to dad before closing the office door.

i didn't want to risk running into my mother and being detoured from going out to the park, so i headed straight for the front door without bothering to grab a jacket. best decision ever. because if i hadn't gone, or the timing hadn't been exactly what it was...i never would have met him.

i'd just finished a lap around the reservoir, my ipod blasting hip-hop. i stopped to stretch on the steps. lost in the world of the mid-nineties, i was singing under my Breath, head bent over my leg so that my forehead was touching my knee. the deep pull in my hamstring felt good. i held the position through the refrain, and then switched legs.

the steps were slick with morning dew, and the tread on my sneakers was worn. i lost my Footing. in the most ungraceful moment of my life, i was flailing backward, rushing for a date with the pavement. i remember thinking about how pissed my mother would be if i cracked my skull open. stitches and gauze bandages were not the season's must-have accessories.

and then his arms were around me.

that first touch was Electric. tingles raced up my arms and down my spine. my face felt flushed. one heartbeat flamed hot, the next icy cold. in my ears, beyoncé was crooning. and i knew. even before those impossibly green eyes appeared above me, i knew that this moment was a turning point in my life.

his full mouth, inches from mine as he leaned over me from behind, formed words i didn't hear. i was lost watching his lips move and wondering what they would feel like on Mine. it wasn't until he yanked out my earbuds that i heard his rich, amused voice asking me, "are you okay?"

i nodded dumbly, but didn't attempt to break free from his hold. looking back, i should be embarrassed by how badly i wanted those arms to hold me forever. but he wasn't too quick to let me go, either. he guided me upright, though he left his hands resting on my hips. i felt his warm breath on the side of my neck. it was still fairly early, but other joggers were gliding past us on the path above. i barely noticed. the weight of his hands was all that mattered.

"um, yeah. i'm fine. just lost my balance for a second," i said, finally remembering that he'd asked me a question. somehow, i knew that the introduction of this guy into my life would mean i'd never be balanced again. or maybe that i'd finally found the equilibrium i'd been searching for.

slowly, those strong hands turned me around, only breaking contact with the fabric of my shirt for a moment. i was eye-level with his chest.

"blake," he said, smiling down at me.

"lark," i replied. "thank you. that could have been extremely embarrassing."

he laughed, the sound deep and rich and wonderful as it rumbled in his chest. "nah. nothing a beautiful girl does is embarrassing."

i felt the heat flood my cheeks. people at school, my father, and random strangers told me i was Beautiful all the time. i believed them because my mother would have drained our bank accounts dry if i wasn't. but when blake said it, i genuinely felt beautiful, despite my damp hair and my makeup-free face.

since i was so used to people telling me how amazing i looked, i had a catalog of witty quips ready. but staring into blake's mesmerizingly green eyes, all i said was, "Thank you."

"are you finished with your run? would you maybe want to grab coffee? there's this great place not far from here, downtown downs. have you heard of it?"

i had plans to meet annie and cam for a bottomless-mimosa brunch followed by retail therapy—cam's latest relationship had ended in flames while we were out the night before. yet, suddenly, my friend's broken heart didn't seem so Important.

"sounds great," i told blake.

he had also been out for a morning run, and wore black track pants with rathbourne academy printed down the side and a short-sleeved shirt. around his hips, he'd tied a track jacket that matched the pants.

we made small Talk as we walked. blake told me that he played for rathbourne's soccer team and, since they didn't have saturday practice this week, he'd come to the park for a little exercise. i told him that i'd been desperate to get away from my parents for an hour, which was why i'd come to the park. he insisted i take the jacket from his waist when he noticed me shivering from the cold.

twenty minutes later, we arrived at downtown downs, the cutest coffee shop i'd ever seen. we spent the day sipping lattes, eating Decadent desserts that my mother would never have approved of, and sharing our life histories.

and that was how i met my soulmate.

All traces of exhaustion fled as my brain scrambled to figure out what was happening. I reread the entry three times. Baffled, I flipped back through the earlier entries to find the one about the Met Ball. I was relieved to find that it existed. For a minute, I'd worried that I dreamt the story.

After a fourth pass of the journal entry, I realized what I missed the first three times. Lark was a smart girl, and all her entries followed basic grammar rules. This passage was clearly different.

The journal entry is a clue.

"You sure are making me work for this, Lark," I grumbled, grabbing a pencil from the nightstand. In my investigation notebook, I jotted down the only capitalized letters: M, R, C, B, F, E, M, A, F, B, I, T, D.

Sleep refused to come as I lay there wondering what the list could possibly mean. With only a single vowel, it wasn't an anagram. But what else could it be? The numbers on my cell glowed 3:02 a.m. when I finally gave up on the pretense of sleep. I debated knocking on Asher's door, but decided it would be rather rude to wake him. We didn't both have to be sleep-deprived. Instead, I decided to go to the one place I might find answers: Lark's apartment.

After pulling clothes on, I tucked my laptop and wallet into my messenger bag with the keys to Lark's apartment and her journal. I spared my appearance a brief glance in the bathroom mirror. My bloodshot eyes and dark circles broadcast that I'd yet to sleep. I hastily pulled my hair into a sleek ponytail, fastening the shortest pieces with a clip to keep them from falling free.

Driving the mile to The Pines, I found stellar parking directly across from the glass building. For once, Darrell was not on duty. His nighttime counterpart was a sleepy-looking security guard with a shaved head and a fastidiously groomed beard. Though I was prepared to launch into my cover story, the guard couldn't be bothered. He probably thought I was somebody's booty call. Ick.

Tapping the visitor's log, he muttered, "Name, date, and time, miss."

I didn't see anyone on my way to Lark's apartment. Frigid air conditioning welcomed me through the door. Flipped the light switch in the small foyer, I placed my messenger bag on the kitchen counter.

"Where to start?" I mumbled aloud to break the silence.

The quiet felt ominous. Shaking off my unease, I headed down the short hallway that presumably led to a bedroom and bathroom. I'd only seen the kitchen and living room so far.

There were three rooms off the hallway. One was a moderately sized bathroom done in smoky-gray marble. A white shower curtain covered in large, red roses brightened the space, and the vibrant flowers lent a much-needed pop of color to the otherwise monotone bathroom.

Opening the medicine cabinet above the sink, I found it empty. The shower appeared unused, and the liner still smelled like fresh plastic. Even the roll of toilet paper placed on the dispenser was untouched.

Because the silence was still making me anxious, I left a trail of lights turned on behind me. It gave me a small degree of comfort as I continued snooping into Lark's secret life.

The next door led to a small guest room. A daybed was against one wall, covered in a white, brocade quilt and decorative pillows. The closet was small and empty. The walls were bare, too.

Another dead end. I sighed.

At the end of the hallway, I found the master suite. I held my breath and grasped the doorknob. My anxiety peaked as a picture of a dead body flashed into my mind.

Nice, Raven. Perfect timing for that thought.

Before I allowed myself anymore macabre ideas, I swung the door open. The bedroom was enormous. On the king-sized bed, a down comforter was arranged beneath enough throw pillows to fill my car's backseat. Unlike the daybed in the guest room, I got the impression that this bed had been slept in at some point. I couldn't put my finger on why, but I felt certain.

The room smelled faintly of expensive perfume. The walls were still white and bare. A glass-topped desk with a large, flat-screen monitor caught my attention. Besides the computer display and an empty laptop docking station, only a thin layer of dust sat on the transparent surface. I sat in Lark's leather desk chair, absently noting how insanely comfortable it was, and began opening the desk drawers.

The first held a package of plain printer paper and a box of equally boring envelopes. I flipped through both to make sure they were all blank and nothing was hidden within.

The second drawer was full of office supplies, and all looked brand-new. Underneath, I found an unlabeled manila file folder. Inside was one slip of yellow carbon-copy paper that had "Custom Order Receipt" printed at the top. It was a handwritten work order for something called Linus Systems. Under the "Item(s)" and "Description(s)" column headings, there were two lines filled in. The first item listed was a "Customized 3000XPS." My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when I noticed the price: Ten thousand dollars.

What on earth had Lark paid that much money for?

The second line read "Installation" with another thousand dollars added. At the bottom of the receipt, the words "PAID IN FULL" were written in all caps. Beneath that, someone had scrawled "cash."

I stared at the receipt, reading it again from top to bottom for any clues. Lark had been extremely careful to this point. Did that mean she wanted someone to find the invoice? There was no note attached, but that didn't mean it wasn't a purposeful clue.

Everything is a clue, I decided.

I left the receipt on the desk and resumed searching. There was nothing else noteworthy in the drawers, so I moved on to the closet. It literally could have fit my entire bedroom and the closet inside.

Everything was neatly categorized, with jeans, slacks, and skirts arranged according to season on the left side. Tops were organized by sleeve-length on the right side, and sweaters were stacked on shelves. The back wall held dresses and more coats than I'd owned in my entire life. Racks of shoes lined the bottom half of the closet the entire way around, organized by occasion and season. I spun around in the middle of the closet, letting myself temporarily forget my mission and the missing heiress. I ran my hands over the soft fabrics, pretending for a moment that this was my wardrobe.

That was when I noticed something truly strange: everything still had tags attached. It was as if Lark purchased an entirely new wardrobe just to collect dust.

I tamped down a flare of resentment provoked by the discovery and reminded myself that we were from different worlds. People like Lark Kingsley—people who could afford to drop ten thousand dollars on one item and buy cashier's checks for a year's worth of rent—were the same people who discarded garments every three months. Though, from what I'd read, Lark seemed almost irked by this practice.

Retrieving a small pad of paper and pen from Lark's desk, I made an inventory of the items I found in her apartment. After writing down the receipt from Linus Systems and the wardrobe of untouched clothing, I moved on to the master bathroom.

The tile was the same smoky-gray marble as the first bathroom. Lark had at least added a few personal touches here; a light-blue bathmat covered the floor, and scented candles were arranged on one corner of the tub.

Fatigue was finally catching up with me, but I wanted to finish the initial search of the apartment before returning home. There was a dresser, a lingerie chest, and a nightstand that I still needed to go through in the bedroom. Then I wanted to do a quick search of the kitchen cabinets and drawers. Maybe Linus Systems wasn't the only company Lark had hired to do some custom work.

The dresser held pajamas and workout clothes, all with tags. At this point, I had no problem rifling through her clothes to look for clues. It wasn't an invasion of her privacy, since she'd asked me to help. But underwear was where I drew the line. Even though they were clearly new, touching them felt wrong and icky. I did, however, make sure that no notes or false bottoms were hidden in the lingerie chest.

It was in her nightstand that I found the next interesting item: a copy of The Great Gatsby. I let out an audible gasp when I first saw the well-worn book. Our mutual love of the classic novel shouldn't have come as that big of a surprise. After all, I'd read in her journal all about a 1920s-inspired theme party thrown by Lark's friend Taylor. The Great Gatsby was also required reading for most high school students.

The most interesting item I found in the nightstand was an iPod. Since I was curious to hear what music Lark had listened to most before her disappearance, I set it aside. Beneath the iPod was another book of sorts, though not in the traditional sense. This one made me groan audibly. It wasn't a great work of classic literature, a New York Times Bestseller, or even the latest girly "it" novel. No, this was a collection of Sudoku puzzles. I hated Sudoku.

I rubbed my eyes and fought the urge to close them.

I'll just rest for an hour, I thought. Lark wasn't using the apartment, and she'd said to step into her life—no harm in resting.

Stretching out on her bed, I grabbed Lark's iPod and selected "Shuffle." Sleep finally took me under as Green Day sang about a Boulevard of Broken Dreams.

### Nineteen

###### Lark

I hated the winter. Sunlight was too scarce, and the nights were too long. Why we continued to practice daylight-saving time has always been a mystery to me.

Still, I was thankful for the cover of darkness as I set out for my evening errand. This task wasn't on my typical to-do list; it wasn't a charity board meeting, a Future Leaders gathering, or any other resume-building activity. Instead, it was one I actually cared about and that excited me.

Slipping away from my friends had been tricky. The past few weeks, I'd been ditching quite a bit of quality time with the Eight to either see Blake or run one of my illicit errands. My absence hadn't gone unnoticed or unacknowledged, though. Feeling bad, I glanced at my watch and thought about what my friends were doing.

They'd be on their way to Ilan Avery's house. All of us were spoiled to some degree, but none of us quite like Ilan. He didn't have a bedroom or even a suite; he had a wing. Three levels, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a game room, an entertainment room, a library—it was absurd.

Before I met Blake, I was usually tucked into the corner of the sectional after school, fingers wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate with just a splash of Bailey's. That was the extent of my weeknight imbibing, though the same could not be said for the rest of my friends. Annie was the only one besides me who exercised any restraint, and the two of us took great pleasure in laughing at the antics of our inebriated friends. We sang loudly and laughed at retellings of the guys' disastrous conquests. There was never a dull minute. They were idiots, but they were my idiots. I really did love them.

Unfortunately, instead of watching the spectacle alongside Annie tonight, I hurried up the cement steps of the 125th Street subway station. Pulling my coat closed against the chilly wind, I only slightly regretted my decision to take public transportation.

Despite the cold air and the stench—a cross between moldy gym socks and cabbage—I was getting quite the rush from my rebellious adventure. Out in the world, when no one knew where I was or could follow my trail, I felt free. It was thrilling. The more freedom I tasted, the harder it was to deny the craving.

The world was full of regular, unaffected, unassuming people. Hardworking men and women walked their own dogs down the sidewalks, even bending to clean up after the animals. In the warmer months, I imagined little girls played hopscotch on grids they'd draw with fat pieces of chalk. Their mothers—not nannies—would watch from the windows above. I longed to be part of a community, a place like this where people actually cared about anything other than wealth.

Anxiety quickened my pace, my nerves in overdrive. I was on my way to see Navid, the jeweler I'd entrusted with my family's priceless gem. Though he'd assured me I had nothing to worry about, I was still concerned. He had a stellar reputation and was known for his discretion in delicate matters, but if something happened to my mother's necklace....

Shaking my head, I banished the thought before my anxiety turned to panic. To Navid, his reputation was everything. He wouldn't do anything to jeopardize it. Not even for one of the most famous diamonds in the world.

I turned down an unremarkable cobblestoned side street, the space barely wide enough for a single car to pass through. Ahead, a small, navy awning marked Navid's business. The heavy, metal door lacked the colorful graffiti found on many like it. Once inside the small vestibule, the outer door slammed shut behind me with a muffled clank that made me jump.

A second metal door lay directly in front of me. The black button of an intercom was positioned on the wall to the right of it, and a camera watched from overhead. Pressing the buzzer for only a moment, I pulled my cashmere hat back from my face and looked up at the camera. A loud click answered, and I quickly entered.

A man in an immaculately cut suit emerged from a back room. The large smile on his face showcased the white of his teeth. He clasped my hand in both of his, pumping enthusiastically as he leaned down to place a kiss on either cheek.

"Darling, so lovely to see you," the jeweler said, his accent subtle but noticeable.

"You, too, Navid," I replied.

Social etiquette dictated a certain amount of small talk take place prior to a business transaction, but I was too excited for pleasantries. I was practically vibrating as I stood in the middle of his shining displays, staring at Navid expectantly.

Navid was exceptional at what he did, a born charmer and natural salesman. It took him all of three seconds to realize I didn't care to chat or peruse the cases. Hopefully he realized I was excited, not being rude.

"Shall we go take a look at what I have for you?" Navid gestured to the back of the showroom. The smile he wore was somewhere between smug and eager. He was as keen to show off his work as I was to see it.

"Please," I answered, already walking to the door he'd come through to greet me.

This one was locked as well. Navid's watch caught the light and glittered brightly as he ran a fob over the scanner. With a whoosh of air, the door opened, and we entered the back office. He gestured to a chair opposite the antique mahogany desk.

"Please, Ms. Kingsley, have a seat. May I offer you something to drink?"

"No, thank you, Navid," I replied. On more than one occasion I had asked the jeweler to call me by my first name, but he never did.

"Very well. One moment, if you please."

"Of course."

The jeweler pulled a painting back to reveal a wall safe. He entered a combination on a keypad that undoubtedly responded to his fingerprint alone. After the door opened, Navid withdrew two large cases. He closed the safe door, then sat behind the desk.

"This was a very...interesting project. I don't know that we've ever had an order quite like this," Navid said, dark eyes flashing with an excitement that mirrored my own.

From the middle drawer of his desk, he produced white gloves and a velvet-lined display board. I had to remind myself to breathe.

"Well, yes. I have quite the imagination," I answered vaguely, hoping he wouldn't press for more details.

Navid started to open the first case, but I held up my hand to stop him. "I have something to ask of you before we continue here," I started. Emulating my father's tone in business dealings, mine was a careful medium between polite and brusque.

He paused after pulling on the gloves, eyebrows raised. "Of course, darling, what can I do?"

I pulled a manila file folder from my tote and set it on the desk. Glancing at the identical pages inside, I slid both across the desk and placed them in front of Navid.

"This is nothing you haven't seen before, just a simple Confidentiality Agreement. My father's lawyers drew it up, it's standard practice with the family."

In fact, I'd looked through my father's desk, knowing he'd have something close to what I required at the ready. From there, it was a simple matter of copying the language and adding a bit where necessary. Anyone the least bit familiar with legalese wouldn't believe for a moment those parts were written by an attorney. Still, I wasn't overly concerned. I just needed Navid to understand my desire for secrecy.

"It's standard language," I continued. "You may not disclose the pieces we've ordered or share that we're clients." Looking directly into his chocolaty eyes, I hoped to convey the gravity of that last part. This would disappoint him, though he'd be more concerned about losing my repeat business.

"Of course, of course," he said, giving me a knowing wink.

Without another word, he pulled an expensive pen from his breast pocket and signed both copies with a flourish. This was the reason Navid was trusted within certain circles—no questions asked, the utmost privacy assured. It made no difference to him. Clients paid a markup for his skill, for his expertise, and his silence.

"So," he began, sliding one copy back across the desk to me, "are you ready to take a look?"

"Yes."

Navid opened the first box. His gloved hands gently slid the necklace out and set it on the velvet display board. He took another piece of jewelry from the second box, put it next to the first, then turned the board toward me. Admiration and pride shone in his eyes with a touch of apprehension. Leaning forward, I touched each with only my fingertips.

"Navid...you've outdone yourself."

Indeed, they were more beautiful than I'd hoped. The utility was more important, but Navid didn't stop there. Delicate gold wings and a gleaming opal shone against the black backdrop.

"Here, let me show you," he replied. A broad smile crossed his face as he cradled the butterfly.

I beamed back while he explained all of the handcrafted details.

"And my mother's necklace?" I asked when he'd finished his spiel. I couldn't stop grinning, marveling at the way he'd crafted my requests.

"Ah, that one is not quite ready yet," he replied, sitting back slightly in his chair. For the first time since my arrival, Navid seemed unsure of himself.

"I understand. I knew that one would take more time. My mother is so particular. It has to pass muster, you know?" I assured him.

"I do," he said, nodding and looking relieved.

Navid gently placed each of my pieces in a small velvet bag and then into their respective boxes. Both of these were placed in a carrying tote that Navid handed to me. I carefully set it in my oversized bag and stood up.

"Perfect. You can reach me on my cell when it's done," I said. "I'll be the one picking it up, and there's no sense trying to leave a message with our maid. She's not always the most reliable." I managed a small laugh at this.

"Of course, darling. Can I call your driver to bring the car?" I knew he was being helpful, but my heart skipped a beat.

"No, no, but thank you. I'm meeting a friend," I lied effortlessly.

He walked me out with assurances of contacting me the instant he'd finished with my mother's necklace.

"Oh, and Lark?" I was pushing open the first of the two metal security doors and turned back to face him. "Be careful out there. It is not safe for a girl like you to be out alone at night."

Navid was right. At least, considering what I now had in my possession. It would be valuable to others based on the materials alone. But, to some of us, it was priceless.

### Twenty

###### Raven

Saturday morning, I embarked on a Washington, D.C. rite of passage: brunch at a DuPont Circle restaurant and bookstore called Phrases. The smiling hostess informed Asher and me that the wait was currently forty-five minutes, and we were free to browse in the meantime. Asher assured me it would be worth the time, and pulled me over to the bookstore section.

After ordering an iced mocha from the coffee bar, I wandered and perused the new releases. Asher scanned the nonfiction section for law school study aides. I'd found a corner to lean in and was just becoming engrossed in the latest novel by John Grisham, when Asher let me know our table was ready.

"Are you gonna buy that?" he asked, pointing to the hardback.

I glanced at the back of the book and sighed. With limited funds at my disposal, the hardback price tag was a luxury I couldn't afford.

"Too rich for my blood," I told him with a smile. "I'll snag the e-book instead."

I replaced the book on the shelf and followed the hostess. After a few steps through the crowded bookstore, I noticed Asher wasn't behind me. Turning back, I saw him staring contemplatively at the stack of books in his arms. He wore khakis and a pink button-down, with a pair of aviators perched on his stylishly messy hair. He looked adorable. Scratch that. Asher was hot.

And I wasn't the only female noticing him. A group of college-aged girls were staring admiringly at my brunch companion.

"You coming?" I called.

The group of girls looked disbelievingly between Asher and me, no doubt wondering what a preppy law student was doing with a barely-legal hobo. One of the girls sneered in my direction, then whispered something to her friend. They both erupted in giggles. Self-consciously, I looked down at the navy miniskirt I'd paired with a gauzy, yellow top. The outfit was just as cute now as when I'd seen it in the mirror two hours before, the top perfectly matching the embroidered sailboats on the skirt. Though it wasn't something I'd normally purchase, I really liked it. In fact, it wasn't something I'd purchased at all. The skirt and the top were Lark's.

In addition to still having the tags on them, her clothes were very close to my size. When I'd woken up that morning in rumpled clothes, it seemed easier to borrow something of Lark's than to have people think I was making the walk of shame. The bottoms were a little loose around the waist and the top was slightly baggy in the chest, but they fit well otherwise.

"Go ahead. I've got to pay for these." Asher held up the books for emphasis. "I'll be right behind you."

"Want me to order you a drink?"

"Orange juice," he called back.

I gave him a thumbs up, which earned another round of hysterical giggling from his new fan club. Okay, so maybe the gesture was a little cheesy and juvenile.

The hostess seated me at a two-person table by the window. I thanked her and accepted the menu.

"Kristoph is your server, and he'll be right with you," she told me pleasantly.

The waiter appeared a moment later with a bread basket and two glasses of ice water.

"Good morning and welcome to Phrases," Kristoph said with a thick accent as he set down the basket and beverages. "Have you been here before?"

"Nope," I replied.

"Let me tell you about our specials...."

The waiter launched into a speech that included lobster omelets, crab cake benedict, and a smoked salmon scramble with caviar. My mouth watered just hearing about the options. Once he finished, I ordered Asher's orange juice and an apple juice for myself. While perusing the menu, a commotion across the room caught my attention. A snort of laugher was out before my hand made it to my mouth.

A Phrases shopping bag slung over one shoulder, Asher was attempting to navigate through the exceptionally narrow aisle between tables. "Bull in a china shop" was the phrase that came to mind. His tall, athletic frame was already too big for such a small space, and the bag of books just added to the problem. Asher was apologizing profusely to a dreamy-eyed blonde who was rubbing the back of her head. Evidently, she'd spilled her mimosa upon being knocked upside the head with the bag of books. To make matters worse, the girl was wearing white, satin shorts.

Instead of ranting and raving at Asher, like most people would have, the girl was cooing that it was "no big deal" and batting her eyelashes. I rolled my eyes, all traces of sympathy gone, when Asher's latest admirer placed her hand on his waist.

I'd given little thought to our relationship progressing beyond friendship. But as I watched the blonde bat her big, doe eyes at Asher, I had the urge to smack her a second time with the bag of books. The thought surprised me, and I felt a little ashamed.

Asher sent me a pleading glance. His brown eyes seemed to be saying, "Raven, do something." Luckily, before I had to decide whether to intervene, the hostess appeared with napkins and a fresh mimosa for the girl.

"I'll take it from here," she told Asher pleasantly. Then she pointed to where I sat, chewing my thumbnail into a sharper weapon, and loudly added, "Your girlfriend is right over there."

Visibly relieved, Asher didn't bother to correct her assumption. He thanked the hostess and apologized again to the blonde. Cradling the bag to his chest, Asher hurried over and plopped into the chair opposite mine.

"You okay there, killer?" I asked.

"I can't believe I did that," he muttered, making a great show of opening his menu. "Thank goodness she's been drinking, the girl was really nice about it."

"Uh, huh...," I said, the teasing tone gone.

In his embarrassment, Asher didn't seem to notice.

"I feel awful, but it was so hard to not laugh when I was apologizing." His eyes sparkled when he looked at me over the top of his menu.

I smiled, somehow relieved that he thought the whole encounter was comical.

Kristoph returned with our drinks and repeated the specials for Asher. We ordered, and the waiter disappeared again.

Once we were alone, I told Asher about the odd diary entry I'd read the night before. Though he'd been the one to call and invite me to brunch, I was planning to do the same to get his thoughts on Lark's latest developments.

"That's so weird," Asher agreed after I finished explaining the two wildly different versions of Lark and Blake's first encounter. "Do you think it's a clue?"

"It's definitely a clue, but I can't figure out what it means. I made a list of all the letters she capitalized. Beyond that, I'm stuck." I gave him my most winning smile. "I was hoping you'd have some ideas."

Asher watched me thoughtfully as he took a long drink from the mocha I'd ordered at the coffee bar. The act was oddly intimate, like I really was his girlfriend and we frequently shared drinks.

"Well, it's probably some sort of cipher," he said.

"Right...," I replied. Retrieving my notebook from my bag, I flipped to the page with the list of letters and pushed it across the table. "But how do I decode it?"

Asher blew out a long breath, his brown eyes thoughtful as he stared at the page.

"I don't know," he admitted after a minute. Something in my expression made him add, "We'll figure it out, Raven. We're in this together."

My response was barely above a whisper. "What if we can't? What if...." I trailed off, unsure how to finish the thought.

"She's gotten under your skin, hasn't she?" Asher guessed.

"Kind of." I shrugged. "I mean, I've been reading her diary. It's sort of hard to not feel like you know someone after you've read their private thoughts. Is that stupid?"

"Not at all."

Asher reached across the table and held out his hand. Tentatively, I placed my palm in his. He squeezed it gently.

"I think it's amazing that you're willing to help someone you've never met," he said.

I blushed and averted my eyes.

Kristoph materialized with our meals, interrupting the oddly inmate moment.

While we ate, I gave Asher a rundown of my middle-of-the-night trip to Lark's apartment. Though I told him about the entire wardrobe of new clothing, I left out the fact I was currently wearing some of them. I also left out the part about falling asleep in Lark's bed while listening to her iPod. Even though I wasn't embarrassed about that—like I was about wearing Lark's clothes—it sounded a little too much like a scene from Single White Female.

"Don't do that again," Asher scolded after I'd finished. His expression had turned hard and disapproving.

"What? Why?"

"Raven," he began, setting his fork on the table and locking my gaze. "From what you've told me, it sounds like Lark was involved in some bad stuff. People might be looking for her. And not–"

When I started to interrupt, Asher held up his hand to stop me. Pursing my lips, I let him finish.

"–and not just her parents, her friends, and the police. Like I told you the other night, I'm here for you. Let me help," his tone softened. "Please, don't go running off in the middle of the night alone again. Next time, wait until the sun comes up. If you don't want to do that, then, hell, knock on my door. I'll go with you."

"Nothing bad happened," I grumbled. "It's a secure building with a doorman."

Why was he treating me like a naughty child? Whether or not my earlier feelings of jealousy were indicative of romantic interest, the feelings were obviously not reciprocated. Asher was suddenly treating me like a little sister.

"This time," he said pointedly. "But something bad did happen to Lark. I'm worried about you getting caught up in the same mess."

Seeing the concern in his warm brown eyes, I dropped the snarky attitude.

"You're right," I replied. "And I'm sorry. I promise, no more solo late-night adventures."

Unfortunately, I didn't keep that promise for long.

### Twenty-One

#### Lark

Volunteering is taken very seriously in Manhattan. It is a huge honor to chair a gala or fundraiser for one of the large charitable organizations, the pinnacle of a lifetime for women like my mother. Committee chair positions are just as coveted. Recent Ivy and Seven Sisters grads, and those who decided to forgo higher education in favor of a lifetime spent volunteering, furtively contended for those spots. Then there are the committee members, carefully selected for their party planning prowess. Finally, at the bottom of the totem pole, were the Junior Committee members. As high school juniors and seniors, that was where my friends and I ranked.

Certain causes are classics, and considered the so-called best: the Ballet, the Opera, and the "popular" cancers. Invitations are extended to volunteer for these. Seriously. They also bring in more money in one night than many underdeveloped nations do in an entire year.

Not that I was criticizing these very worthy foundations per se. Of all of the things Manhattan's female elite compete for, the chance to chair a big charity gala is the one I most respected. I just wished that the less fashionable charities received the same enthusiastic support as the classics or the causes du jour. Why don't we throw our money at the Deworm the Globe folks? Isn't helping rid the world's children of parasites a worthy cause? I thought so. Though, it could stand a rebranding campaign; the name alone makes people itchy.

My disapproval also stemmed from their use of donations. Don't get me wrong, this season's Opener Ballet was greatly improved in my eyes with the addition of Prabal Gurung tutus. But the amount of the foundation's money used to throw these lavish engagements, even with sponsorships, sickened me. If it were up to me, everyone would just send in their donation checks without receiving an extravagant evening of decadence. Wouldn't that be better for the actual cause, instead of a self-congratulatory soiree? Way more kids would be sans worms.

Since I was alone in thinking that way, my mother scurried to sign me as a volunteer for the Metropolitan Opera Society's gala. At least my friends' mothers were likeminded in their choices. Though this was certainly not by chance; they surely spent several afternoons strategically planning this decision.

Like the good society daughters we were, Cam, Annie, Taylor, and I always showed up where and when we were supposed to. Though, no one would mistake us as overeager. It was highly doubtful we'd be tackling each other in just a few short years for the chair positions. Luckily, we had a plan of attack, borne from years of experience and our lack of fanaticism. Instead of spending weeks stuffing envelopes with invitations or sampling fried calf pancreas, the girls and I joined the décor committee. It was by far the least zealous group, with the smallest obligation.

The Gala Board hired Event Planner extraordinaire, Ruella Prince. She was both a perfectionist and a control freak. Ruella took the business of parties very seriously, and her demeanor was as tightly wound as the severe bun always present at the nape of her neck. She did many of our mothers' parties, so the girls and I were familiar with her protocols.

This facet of my world was how I came to give up my Saturday. All day, I'd been over at the park, beneath the enormous tent set up for the evening. I was supposedly decorating. In reality, Cam, Annie, and I were hindering the catering staff from finishing the place settings. We sat around one of the linen-covered tables, chatting. Taylor was on the other side of the tent, leaning on the makeshift bar with one hip thrust out, her fingers twirling her hair. The young bartender was blushing, fumbling as he lined up rows of brandy snifters. She'd decided a bottle of wine would liven up the afternoon and set her sights on the poor guy. With his supervisor only feet away, it was looking like an unsuccessful mission.

The florist arrived, and the committee chair rushed over to us. A parade of men carrying centerpieces follow in her frantic wake.

"Ladies," she said, in a piteous tone, "do you think you can handle supervising the placement of the floral arrangements?" Jen Randolph was much younger than the other chairs, and obviously had yet to understand that her role was simply to carry the title, no more. Her frenzied attitude spoke volumes about her experience with Ruella. Or the lack thereof.

"Of course, no problem, Jen," Annie replied, hopping up from her chair.

"Great, thanks," Jen said with a wave of her hand. She'd already dismissed us, her other hand pressed to her earpiece, listening intently. The half dozen men holding flowers turned their attention to us. Annie was surveying the arrangements and looking thoughtfully around the room, but she was beat to the punch.

"Put them on the tables," Cam said breezily, with a wave of her hand.

"Right," said one of the deliverymen, "but specifically wh–"

"Doesn't matter," Cam replied, smiling. "Thanks, guys!"

With that, our work was basically complete. Ruella had minions like us for several reasons, but mostly so that she'd have a cornucopia of potential victims to berate when things weren't absolutely perfect. And in Ruella's shrewd gaze, nothing was ever perfect. No matter where we thought the floral arrangements should go, we were wrong. There was literally no point in even trying.

Taylor returned to the table with a grin and a pilfered bottle of Beaujolais. We all laughed as she poured small amounts in plastic cups she'd swiped as well. They were quickly passed around, and the half empty bottle stashed under the table. Annie and I looked at each other; daytime drinking wasn't really our thing. I gave her a wink before taking a sip of the light red wine. It was one of my favorites. Annie tasted hers as well, with a quick glance to confirm Ruella's whereabouts.

The Event Planner from Hades wore an earpiece like Jen's, except she wasn't on the receiving end of any communications. Ruella was barking orders in a grim parody of General Lee at the battle of Gettysburg. A young girl scurried after her with a clipboard, constantly flipping the pages back and forth, feeding Ruella pertinent information. It was probably the girl's first job out of college, though her lack of nerves meant she'd been at the post for at least nine months. Girls went to work for Ruella for the same reason they went to work for Anna Wintour: if they could suffer through one year of torture, they'd emerge on the other side with the knowledge and connections to secure any other job in the industry.

"This is exactly what I want my wedding to look like, it's the most romantic story!" Annie's attention had shifted from the event planner to her work. Lanterns, flowers, silk drapes, and twinkling lights were indeed coming together artfully. Candles were being strategically placed, ready to be lit at nightfall. The story Annie was referring to was L'elisir d'Amore, the opera that the decorations were modeled after.

"Oh yeah, definitely," I said, sarcasm dripping from my words. "A story where the fickle rich girl laughs at the male lead when he professes his love, solely because he's poor."

"Then suddenly, she's interested in the poor guy because he gets smart and starts ignoring her," Taylor joined in, getting in to it.

"But no fear, ladies of wealth! Because he receives a huge inheritance, so they can live richly ever after," I finished. "Yeah, so romantic." I stole a glance over at Annie, worrying I'd hurt her feelings, but she was giggling along with everyone else.

"Lark, when did you become so jaded?" Camilla laughed.

"I'm not jaded," I protested. "I just think the whole story is so...shallow."

"Right, and you're the expert on deep, meaningful relationships," Taylor chimed in. "Remind me again, who was it that you were making out with at this thing last year? The guy from Captain America?"

"Seriously, Taylor? Get your facts straight," I replied in a mockingly serious tone. "One," I held up my index finger, "we were totally not making out. It was just two like-minded people getting together to discuss the state of global affairs. Two," my middle finger joined the index finger, "he was in Spiderman. Totally different." My ring finger joined the other two. "And three, the incident you are referring to happened two years ago."

My friends all laughed.

"Same difference," Taylor said. "He was hot." She held up her wine to toast my accomplishment. I touched my cup to hers before taking another sip. The make-out session in question was a hazy memory. At the time, I'd thought the wanton act—some pretty intense kissing on a bench in a beautiful garden—was fun. But in retrospect, I was ashamed that I'd let the vodka and my hormones cloud my judgment.

"Anyone good coming tonight?" Cam asked. Annie's mother was in charge of the Invitation Committee, and she always snuck a peek at the guest list.

Annie shrugged. "Same people as always," she said, sounding as bored as I felt. "Politicians, cardiac surgeons, bank presidents, the Diamond King and Queen of the World." She smiled and gave me a small nudge at the reference to my parents, before continuing. "A few Hollywood A-listers, a Victoria's Secret model or two, a couple pro hockey and soccer players...you know, the usual. Oh, and some kid from that show on the BBC that everyone is obsessed with." Annie cocked her head to the side and wrinkled her nose as if the name was eluding her, but if she concentrated hard enough, she might be able to sniff it out. After a moment she shook her head, obviously giving up. "Whatever. I can't remember his name, but he is going to be my boyfriend for the night," she professed with a grin.

"Does he know this?" I teased. "After 'Black Tie Required,' did his invitation say, 'Date Will be Provided'?"

"No way. It said, 'Sex will be Provided'," Taylor cut in.

"Oh, ha ha," Annie said, pretending to be offended. "You're both comedians now, is that it? Well, keep on joking. Because while Mr. I'm-Not-A-Royal-But-I've-Played-One-On-TV is talking all British to me, you'll be dodging Alfonso What's-His-Name and his attempts to play grab-ass."

Cam, Taylor, and I all shuddered in unison. Alfonso Curro was a foreign diplomat who, somehow, always scored an invite to the big social functions. He never failed to inappropriately touch every female he came near. No one seemed to like him, though many seemed more than a little afraid of him.

"I've got something in the works," Taylor said, all mysterious.

My cell buzzed in my lap. I looked down.

Blake: Afternoon, Gorgeous. Leaving home now. Meet you at our spot in an hour?

I couldn't hide the silly grin.

"Looks like you're not the only one, Tay. Who 'ya talkin' to, Lark?" Cam sing-songed.

I looked up into my friend's shining eyes and lied smoothly. "Jeanine."

"Your housekeeper?" Cam asked skeptically.

"Yeah." I rolled my eyes. "Mom sent her to the Bronx to this weird new age store that specializes in cleanses. Apparently, mommy dearest is feeling a little fat and needs to lose five pounds, pronto. Jeanine wants to know if I need anything for tonight while she's out," I lied to my friends as I typed a quick response to Blake.

Me: I'll start making my goodbyes.

I didn't know exactly when I started keeping so many secrets from the girls, but it was long before Blake Greyfield came along. Hiding such a large part of my life from my best friends felt wrong, yet it also felt kind of right. In the beginning, I'd been worried they wouldn't accept him. Now I didn't really care if they did. But I still kept the truth of our relationship to myself. I loved having something that was mine and mine alone. Our time, mine and Blake's, was so much more special because it was stolen from our ordinary days. It was rare, and all the more beautiful for it.

Blake: Can't wait.

Me: Me neither.

Hiding my side, I tuned back in to what the girls were saying. Apparently, my totally fabricated story about my mother needing to do an impromptu cleanse had reminded Annie of a real story about Lydia Gromsley. My best friend was recounting the details of Lydia's latest fad diet, which purportedly involved lime peels, the oil from a spicy pepper only found in China, and actual gold shavings.

Cam and Taylor were laughing so hard they were crying as Annie imitated the irritating baby voice that Lydia was known for using. Especially around Ilan. She seemed to think that talking like a four-year old was a turn-on. I caught Annie's gaze and smiled gratefully. Lately, whenever the others seemed to find my behavior suspicious, Annie swooped in and diverted the attention away from me. Lying to her was the worst.

"Hate to break up this party," I said, after Cam finished trashing the girl Ilan was bringing as his date tonight. Apparently, Lydia wasn't the only one with her eye on that particular prize. "But I should get going."

"Seriously?" Taylor asked. She glanced at her watch. "The mice are still sewing your dress, Cinderella. Relax. How much longer are we going to be able to sit around and gossip while others do the work?"

"Um, forever," Cam answered before I had a chance. "That's the beauty of being us."

I laughed along with my friends; the joke wasn't actually funny, but it was true.

Thirty minutes later, the bell above the doors to the Downs jingled as I hurried inside. Blake was already there, tucked back in the corner in a cozy armchair big enough for two, his forearm on the wide velvet armrest. Blake was absorbed in a book propped on his leg, giving it his full attention, just as he did with everything of interest to him. A lock of dark hair fell forward, curling around his temple. I took a moment to watch him and marvel at just how good-looking he truly was.

He must have felt the weight of my gaze. Blake's head popped up and his green eyes found my blue ones. I grinned, showing so much tooth that my mother would have been appalled. Blake started to rise, like he was going to come meet me at the door. I quickly waved him back down, but he ignored me. The next thing I knew, we were embracing. His arms were around my waist and mine were around his neck, our lips meeting in the middle.

The public display of affection was reckless and stupid and left me breathless. I was taking too many chances these days, and one of them was going to backfire.

He's so worth the risk, I thought.

"Sorry," Blake whispered, his lips brushing my cheek as he spoke in my ear. "I couldn't help myself. You look too good. It would be a shame not to touch you."

"Blake Greyfield," I pretended to chastise him, "At least say it like you mean it. I don't think you're sorry at all."

Blake ran his palms down my arms, sending a shiver of pleasure up my spine, and then grasped my hands in his. He stepped back to look me. Straight-faced, he said, "That's because I'm not sorry."

I couldn't help myself. I giggled and gave an exaggerated eye roll. I quickly sobered, thinking of everything else happening in my life, but managed a real smile when I looked up at him again.

"What's wrong?" Blake asked.

I'd spent all day with three girls who were supposed to be my closest friends, yet not one of them had even suspected that there was something amiss in my allegedly fabulous life. I'd told myself that I was just that good of an actress, and my friends were more interested in gossiping about classmates than discussing our own problems. But that was a lie. One look at me and Blake knew I was not okay.

"Nothing," I said quickly. Maybe a little too quickly. "I'm just nervous about giving you the present I had made. Promise you'll love it?"

Blake brought our joined hands to his heart and made an awkward X. "Cross my heart." He nodded towards the chair he'd been sitting in when I arrived. "Want to sit?"

As it turned out, the oversized armchair would've been big enough for three people; Blake and I fit comfortably with room to spare. Shirley appeared with a hot chocolate and two giant cookies just as were getting settled.

"First batch of spring," she announced, setting the steaming mug and plate of cookies on the end table next to the table. "They're lemon drop. Enjoy."

"Thanks, Shirley," I called after my favorite waitress as she departed.

The lemon cookie was soft, almost gooey in the center, and sprinkled with large sugar granules, just the way I preferred it. But I couldn't muster the appropriate enthusiasm for the treat. My stomach was in knots over giving Blake his present.

I reached into the interior pocket of my floral Fendi bag. My fingers closed around the velvet pouch. He loves you. I let my smiling mask fall back into place and shifted in the chair so I could look at Blake without craning my neck.

"I know it's silly," I prefaced, "but I really wanted to give you something special." The pouch was cupped between my palms and I held it out to Blake. "Seriously, though. Please be honest. If you hate it you can tell me. I'll happily go shopping for something else." Please don't hate it. Please don't hate it.

Blake feigned shyness as he slid the velvet from my fingers. He kept glancing between the pouch and my face, drawing out the moment so long I finally exclaimed, "Open it already!"

He laughed and leaned forward to brush a kiss across my lips. "Your impatience is adorable."

"And your pokiness is maddening," I teased.

Blake kissed me again before finally untying the drawstrings and flipping the contents of the pouch into his open palm. An old-fashioned key, approximately an inch long with two gold teeth on one end and a gold latticework hoop on the other, fell out. It was attached to a wound rope made of soft black leather—very masculine—so he could wear the key around his neck, if he wanted.

At first, he didn't say anything and I felt an uncharacteristic need to fill the silence. "It's so cheesy, right? I'm sorry, I–"

"I love it, Lark," Blake cut me off. "Sometimes cheesy is good." He looped the leather over his head, and then pulled me in for a long kiss. For the first time ever, Blake's lips didn't empty my head of all thought. His touch didn't make my problems completely disappear.

What did you do, Lark?

"So what exactly did I do to deserve the key to your heart?" Blake asked when we broke apart. "I'd like to know so I can do it again. Who knows what I'll get next time?"

It was a joke. So I laughed. He was trying to cheer me up because he knew something was still bothering me.

The key was dangling in the space between our chests. I gently tucked it inside Blake's collar, making sure that the gold charm fell over his heart. Then, I leaned so close that my lips brushed his when I spoke. "I love you so much. I can never say that enough."

### Twenty-Two

###### Raven

Saturday night: party night, for all the bright young things in D.C. Not me, though. I chose to stay in and watch comic book movies. One of the cable channels was showing an Iron Man marathon. It was playing in the background while I sat, cross-legged, on the floor with all Lark's clues spread out before me. Asher was out with a couple of his law school friends. Before leaving, he'd extended what I assumed was a pity invite. Not being of legal drinking age and living on limited funds, I'd declined. Besides, I owed it to Lark to spend every spare moment working out her clues.

Unfortunately, the clues weren't speaking to me. I'd been so proud of myself for deciphering the crossword, but now I just felt lost. I had no idea what I was supposed to do with the answer. "Kingstown" was a password for something. An email account? Online access to her bank account? I didn't know.

I flipped to the next page of my notepad, where I'd copied the capitalized words from the journal entry: Morning, Run, Champagne, Breath, Footing, Electric, Mine, All, For, Beautiful, Important, Talk, Decadent. Forming a single word with the capitalized letters hadn't panned out, so I thought maybe the words would make a sentence. The lack of words like "a", "an", "and", "to", etc. made it impossible, though.

I blew out a deep breath and glanced at the TV. Onscreen, Tony Stark was unveiling his latest technology, robotic soldiers, to the world. "Got any suggestions?" I asked the TV. When none of the characters answered, I grumbled, "A lot of help you are. Aren't you supposed to be a genius? Can't you just invent a program that I can—"

My question was lost in a fit of derisive laughter. I didn't need Tony to invent a program, random sentence generator apps were a thing. I'd seen several in the App Store a few weeks back while looking for a new game. Unfortunately, it took me longer to download the app than it did for the same app to produce zero results. Which was also the number of results the app spit out when I entered just the first letter of each word.

"Now what?" I asked the woman declaring "Waves laundry detergent is soccer mom approved!" on the TV. By way of answer, she gave me a thumb's up.

Slumping against the back of the sofa as though all the air had been let out of my body, I allowed my head fall over the top of the cushions so that my loud groan was directed toward the ceiling. "Why? Why? Why? Why can't just one clue say something like: 'I'm being held in a Brooklyn basement' or 'I found out my mom is having an affair with one of our drivers, so I ran off to Ibiza'?"

Honestly, was a little transparency too much to ask for?

Walk away. Exhausted and frustrated, you're of no help to anyone, I thought. That was true, of course. Pulling three all-nighters in a row to prepare for my AP History exam had not turned out well. I shuddered at the memory.

I had a nutritious dinner of cheddar cheese, crackers, and turkey pepperoni, all purchased at the corner store, while I watched Stark save the world, again and again and again. But the witty one-liners and impressive special effects barely held my attention. I was ashamed to admit it, but in the beginning, following Lark's clues was a nice distraction from my own life, my own past. And the real reason I'd left my tiny Pennsylvania town with population 3794, in favor of D.C., where I was just one of the approximately 682,000 people who called it home.

Somewhere along the way, the distraction had turned personal, and a lot more selfless. I wasn't continuing on the mission for me, but rather to help expose the truth—the truth about Lark's disappearance, as well as the truth she'd been trying to expose in the year leading up to it, if they weren't one and the same.

Why couldn't she confide her secrets to someone, anyone? I wondered.

Was it too dangerous? Or was it a lack of proof issue? Or was it possible that Lark didn't know the extent of the secrets that ruled her world?

The same damned pounding in my temples that always accompanied a long day of deep thought started around midnight. I traded the television for Lark's iPod, which I was embarrassed to have borrowed from her apartment. Despite my love of music, I'd never had one of my own. There was a playlist of soft ballads simply called Chill. Pressing play, the songs slowly helped me to relax. Soon, my eyelids grew heavy. I knew that I should get up from the couch and go to my bedroom, but I couldn't muster the strength. One night on the sofa won't kill me, I thought, as sleep overtook me.

Dreams are strange. While in one, you never realize how bizarre they are. The cat that talks to you, the fact that your mother looks like Carole Brady, and your romance with the prince of a country that doesn't exist all seem normal until you wake up. This dream was no different:

I was jogging on the National Mall. The sky was bubble-gum pink, with the remnants of a pale gold moon just barely visible. There were no other early morning runners around, so the crunch of dirt and pebbles beneath my feet and my labored breathing were the only sounds. My breath came out in small white puffs of air, and I suddenly felt overwhelmingly cold. I glanced down and was startled to realize why. Instead of workout clothes, I was wearing a floor-length black gown that I'd never seen, and gray and purple Nikes.

The cherry blossoms were in bloom, and the area by the Jefferson Memorial was overflowing with the flowering trees. Ahead of me, low-hanging branches extended like bony fingers into my path. On my left, fog rolled over the muddy water of the Potomac. The ground sloped slightly downward, and I skidded several inches before regaining my footing.

I slowed my pace, but felt my pulse quicken. I was excited, breathless not from the run, but from anticipation. I smoothed my hands over the skirt of the gown and then ran trembling fingers through my tangled hair. The shoulder-length locks weren't pulled back into a short ponytail like they normally were when I exercised but were loose instead. My hair was also longer than in real life, swishing back and forth between my bare shoulder blades.

He materialized like an apparition ten feet in front of me. Early morning fog misted around his tall form, parting like a curtain as he strode forward to greet me. In my mind, I recognized his features as they'd been described. In my heart, I knew him. After waking, I would later recall the guy as a cross between Chase Crawford and the actor who played Captain America. In my dream, he was undeniably Blake Greyfield.

"Hey there, beautiful," he called. The three words were soft, heavy with love and longing. Yet, had this been high noon in Central Park I'd have never heard him, he spoke so quietly.

"Hi, handsome," I heard myself calling back.

The silly grin on his face was mirrored on my own. He exuded a cool confidence that excited and scared me, the latter reaction if only because no one had ever looked at me with so much want and need.

Before I had time to truly appreciate just how amazingly the tuxedo he wore fit him—the clean, tailored lines juxtaposed perfectly with his slightly askew bowtie—Blake's arms were around me. We were two halves of a whole, fitting together like a best friend charm. I felt whole in his arms, complete. The feeling was exhilarating and nerve-wracking all at once. It was as though some part of me had been missing until that moment, and I hadn't even realized it.

His lips were soft on my forehead, gliding gently across my skin as he murmured, "I've missed you so much."

I rested my head against his chest, wondering whether my makeup was going to mess up his crisp white dress shirt. He stroked my hair. His voice sounded distinctly like Asher's when he said, "I'm so glad you were able to get away."

"Me too," I agreed.

Blake gently pulled away. Running his warm hands, slightly calloused from lifting weights, down my bare arms, he threaded his fingers through mine.

"Want to walk?" he asked.

I nodded, and we began moving forward. I looked down and noticed the pebbles beneath my sneakers had become smaller, finer. Sand. We were still in downtown D.C., except there was a beach, not a rocky path, beside the water. The wind picked up just enough to ruffle my hair, causing brown strands to blow across my face. I pushed them out of my eyes. Several locks seemed to snag on something around my neck.

"Here, let me," Blake said.

I hadn't realized I stopped walking until Blake was standing in front me, carefully untangling my hair. Tentatively, I touched my neck. When my fingers felt the smooth, round surface of the pearls, I choked on my next inhalation of air. Suddenly, I couldn't breathe. The necklace seemed to be growing tighter by the second. Pearls dug into my skin, and a heavy weight pressed down on the hollow of my throat.

When I glanced to Blake for help, an older man stood in his place. The fingers in my hair belonged to him. As I gasped for breath, the man stepped back with a grin that would've given the Cheshire Cat a run for his money.

"There. A diamond fit for the future Diamond Queen," he said with the pride of a new father.

The man was oblivious to my distress. My sight became blurry, my eyes were swimming, and the threat of a sob was deep in my chest. I was positive my face was the color of a ripe grape. I blinked, forcing the tears down my cheeks. When they fell, the sensation felt wrong on my skin. The feeling was softer, cooler, drier. I opened my eyes and was standing in the middle of a place I'd been only once in my life yet recognized immediately: The Key West Butterfly and Nature Conservatory.

Butterflies of all sizes and colors were circling my head. The wings that skimmed my cheeks were soft and sensual. More of them glided back and forth between the fragrant flowers lining the pathway, while others perched on tree branches near the top of the glass atrium. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the gurgle of a stream sliding over rocks. The man was nowhere in sight.

Large ivory wings appeared directly in my line of sight, blocking the conservatory from view. Thin veins of gold formed a delicate design on the wings and pulsed with each beat; the effect was mesmerizing, and I found it impossible to look away. It was as if those wings held the meaning of life. For what felt like forever, I just stared at the insect with rapt attention.

The spell finally broke in the most unpleasant way possible. A car horn—no, a car alarm—blared inside my head. I blinked rapidly, desperately trying to recapture the image of the butterfly with its beautiful wings. The noise was unrelenting as it continued to wail. And it wasn't inside my head. It was all around me.

Fully awake but still disoriented, I shifted and tried to sit up, only to find that I was already sitting. The backs of my thighs itched, and sweat had my tank top plastered to my back. I started to panic.

Calm down, Raven, I ordered myself.

The fog in my brain was starting to clear, and I remembered that I'd fallen asleep on the couch in the living room of my apartment. That horn was probably on TV. Except, when I looked around at my surroundings—really looked around—I realized I was definitely not in my living room. There was a window to my right, a headrest directly in front of me, and my left arm rested on the same itchy material as my legs.

A car. I was in the backseat of a car. WTF? How did I get into the backseat of someone's car? Terrified thoughts raced through my head. Had someone come in to my apartment? Why would they put me in the backseat of their car? Holy shit! Asher was right! I never should've been investigating Lark! How long had I been out? Where had they taken me? And where were they? I was definitely alone in the car. The same people who....

Frantically, I reached for the door handle and realized the car keys were in my right hand. Wait, why would kidnappers have given me the keys? Why did the view from the windshield look so incredibly familiar? With only the dim light from a nearby street lamp to aid me, I examined the keys I was holding. Wait. These are–

I was sitting in the backseat of my own car. The alarm stopped shrieking. Someone must have turned it off, or it'd been ignored long enough to realize its incessant cries wouldn't be answered. In the silence that followed, I finally felt like I could think. Breathe, Raven, I told myself. Just breathe for a minute. Everything's fine. My fingers were trembling so much that I dropped the keys into the slim space between the seat and the door. I didn't bother retrieving them right away.

Sleepwalking was not exactly new to me. On several occasions, when I was a child, I'd awoken in a different place than I'd fallen asleep. It hadn't happened in almost a decade, though. But all the fear and confusion that I felt now was exactly as I remembered from back then.

My heart was racing so fast that it took me several rounds of long, labored inhales and exhales before I was able to focus. As soon as I had my emotions in check, I reached for the interior light and switched it on. The dull light it provided was a shock to my senses.

I was still wearing my pajamas, making it easy to assess my arms and legs for any signs of damage. No obvious bruises or bumps, I noted. That, at least, was a blessing. Then I saw my bare feet and groaned. Great. Even the short walk from my apartment to the car would have meant the soles of my feet were exposed to the grime and filth that covered all city sidewalks. Not important right now.

Finally, I wiggled my fingers into the crack that had claimed my keys, sighing with relief when I felt the warm metal brush against my fingertips. With one last look around the car, I went for the door handle, preparing to exit. That was when I realized the armrest in the middle of the backseat was down. Honestly, I hadn't even known that my car had an armrest in the backseat. This fact wouldn't have been alarming, save the small velvet pouch in the cup holder.

Rich black fabric with gold embroidery and delicate drawstrings sat innocently, staring up at me. I ran my fingers over the velvet, and then picked up the pouch. It was heavy, suggesting something substantial was inside. Jewelry? I guessed, given the look and feel of the little bag. I slid a finger into the mouth of the pouch and worked it open. More curious than nervous, I reached two fingers inside the bag and pulled out the contents.

Looking back, I cannot say which was more terrifying: the pounding on my car window or the sight of the ivory and gold butterfly pendant resting in my palm.

### Twenty-Three

###### Lark

Scandal rocked the Upper East Side. At least, that was what anyone with ears would've thought upon hearing my mother's high-pitched screaming.

"Lark, that is just not acceptable. I'm sorry, that is not going to work," her voice switched between stern and pleading, unsure how best to deal with my noncompliance. "Go get ready, right this minute. Henry will drop us off, and then he will come back for you. We simply cannot wait, we will miss the carpet." She looked helplessly at my father for support.

"Mom, it's one night. One party. One event. We've been to three already this week, and I have a term paper due." It was the one excuse that I knew would draw my father to my side. "Because of that stupid committee, I'll be at the Park all day tomorrow setting up, and then I have to go straight to my hair appointment."

"That committee is not stupid. You're making lifelong friends and connections. You're building your place in society and meeting the proper people," she responded, ignoring everything else I'd said to defend one of her precious causes.

"Eleanor, she is being responsible," my father finally stepped in. "She is showing maturity by passing up a night of frivolity to honor her commitments and live up to her responsibilities."

"Thank you, Daddy," I beamed at him. Sure, I was milking it a little, but his support meant a lot to me. It wasn't often that my parents told me I was doing something right.

"Phillip, this is not a good idea...," my mother gave my father a pointed look. "Do you really think Lark should be home by herself? What if she needed something or...there will be no one here. I gave the staff the night off."

"Lark is almost an adult. She will be fine for one evening," my father responded, patience with my mother's theatrics waning. That made two of us. Lately, she'd been wildly overprotective, as though her maternal switch had flipped on one night and she was making up for the past eighteen years. "Besides," my father continued, "Jeanine can stay for a while." He didn't bother to ask the housekeeper, or even to spare her a questioning glance. His word was the bottom line in our house.

"But this is such a big night–" my mother began, trying another tactic.

"Lark is staying home." My father's tone was definitive, and it effectively ended further protest from my mother. She pursed her lips and crossed the foyer to where Jeanine was awkwardly standing with her coat, trying to pretend she was not privy to our family drama.

"She is my daughter too, Phillip. It would be nice if either of you," she shot an icy glare at first my father, and then me, "cared about my opinion." My mother was sulking, plucking at my father's emotional strings. When she pouted, he melted. At least, as long as he wasn't on the phone or pouring over contracts or working in general. She had a captive audience in him tonight, and it was clear she was taking advantage. He'd pay handsomely for siding with me. I wouldn't be surprised if some new, rare jewel found its way to her in the coming week.

"Eleanor, of course we care. I just want our daughter to have her priorities in order. How am I ever going to retire, to travel the world with you full-time, if she doesn't have the proper education to take over? Lark has to put in the time." My father's spiel left a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. Of course he wasn't actually proud of me. I hadn't done anything to be proud of yet. Admission to Columbia had been a big deal to him, but it was just the first step. I had a long way to go in my father's eyes.

There were so many things I wanted to say to my parents in that moment. As usual, I held my tongue. There was no point. Mom might have felt as though Dad and I were ganging up on her in tonight's fight but, in the ongoing battle for control of my future, they always stood united against me. Both had their own agendas, and neither gelled with mine.

"Have a great time tonight, guys. I wish I could go," I said, forcing a smile.

From where I stood, just over halfway down the staircase, I took a moment to appraise my parents. They really were a striking couple. My mother's floor-length Valentino gown was dark blue-gray silk, a color that made her eyes sparkle and her skin glow. A large blue diamond in an antique cushion-cut setting was around her neck, dangling from a delicate strand of platinum with impeccably clear diamonds inset the entire way around. The necklace went perfectly with her flawless blue diamond engagement ring and diamond tennis bracelet. Dad wore a Valentino tux and a bowtie the same color as Mom's dress. The initials of his monogrammed cufflinks were separated by sparkling diamonds. Between the flashbulbs and the bling adorning my parents, every person within three city blocks of the red carpet would be seeing spots tonight.

My parents had paid ten thousand dollars a plate for tonight's dinner, the proceeds going to an organization that fought world hunger, yet all they needed to do was pluck just one of the smaller diamonds from its setting to feed a child for a year. Every day, people around the globe were killed over less money than was resting against my mother's slim throat. That thought made me shiver. Parading their wealth was asking for trouble.

I descended the staircase to place a kiss on each of my parents' cheeks. There was a heaviness deep within me, almost like my soul had suddenly donned a leaden belt. I swallowed back the knot that developed in the back of my throat to smile and wave as they swept into the elevator. Like a parent seeing her child off on a first date, I waited until the steel doors slid shut before closing and locking the front door behind them. I leaned against it as an overwhelming sadness washed over me.

"Can I get you something, sweetheart? Maybe a cup of tea?"

I'd forgotten that Jeanine was still in the foyer until she spoke.

"No, no. Thank you, though. I can make my own tea, Jeannie," I said, using my old nickname for her. "Go home, you've done more than enough today. Oh, and take those sandwiches and stuff for the boys."

That afternoon, my mother had hosted a luncheon for the committee chairs of whatever cause she was heading this year. The kitchen staff had prepared a variety of tea sandwiches, salads, fruit skewers, and bite-sized lettuce wraps. Of course, the women had stuck with the carb-less choices, and our Sub-Zero was now so full of sandwiches that we were in danger of being mistaken for preppers.

"I think your parents wanted me to stay...," she trailed off, torn between their wishes and the prospect of getting home at a decent hour.

"Seriously Jeannie, I'm fine, I promise. I'm just going to be working on my paper. Go spend some time with the boys. Nick and Greg deserve more mom time."

Maybe imploring her to spend time with her children was cheating. Nick, the oldest, would be leaving for college in just a few short years, and I knew she worried that all her time catering to my family's needs meant she was neglecting hers.

Jeanine crossed the marble checkerboard floor and pulled me in for a quick hug. She'd been working for my family for four years and was well aware of our dysfunction. She felt sorry for me, wanted to dote on me and show motherly affection, since my own mother clearly lacked the instincts. Still, Jeanine only dared to cross these lines when Eleanor Kingsley was off the premises.

"You are so sweet, my Lark." She pulled back and held me at arm's length. "But your parents are my employers—"

"So am I," I cut her off with mock sternness. "I am telling you to take those sandwiches, go home, and have a late dinner with the boys. If Eleanor and Phillip Kingsley have a problem with that, they can take it up with me. And I'll make sure they know that."

I wrapped my arms around her for another embrace. Jeanine gave me a tight squeeze, which I returned happily. "Thank you for everything you do, Jeannie. We all appreciate it so much," I whispered. We both knew it wasn't entirely true, but I wanted her to know that I appreciated her. "Now, have James call you one of our cars." Anticipating her protest, I added quickly, "I'm not going anywhere, and I'm sure Francisco is bored."

Jeanine hesitated before finally nodding. "You really are the best of both your parents," she told me.

I sat in my room for eleven minutes, tensely watching the clock make its slowest progression ever. I planned to wait fifteen minutes—plenty of time for Jeanine and Francisco to leave—but the delay was agonizing. I clutched the sky blue velvet cushion of my armchair, trying to focus on anything besides the numbers that refused to advance.

It's fine. Just go, I coached myself. Do it before you lose your nerve.

I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then sprang to my feet.

You've got this, I thought as I dashed out my bedroom door. My feet were bare, making no sound as I crept down the stairs. No one is home, focus on your goal. Even knowing I was alone, I still glanced around nervously as though someone might be hiding in the shadows.

When I reached Dad's study, I paused with my hand on the door handle. You've come this far, do not waste this opportunity. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door just wide enough for me to slip inside. Darkness consumed me as soon as the door clicked into place. The silence was unnerving.

Just breathe. You've got this. And remember, you deserve to know the truth.

Straightening my spine, I turned on my phone's flashlight app, not taking any chances that Jeanine had forgotten her purse or that the doorman would let in a delivery person with a package too large or too important to be left downstairs. I crept across the carpet on tiptoes, wondering if maybe I was being a tad paranoid.

There's a reason Dad is keeping Kingstown a secret, I reminded myself.

I slid into Dad's desk chair, sinking into the deep cushion. It was weird, sitting in the power seat. So many life-altering decisions were made from this very chair. Kingsley Diamonds had never held a public offering, so ownership had never been divided or traded. My father held in his hands the lives of every single person who worked for the company.

One day this will all be yours, I thought.

Dread coiled in my stomach like slithering serpent, and I thought I might be sick. Even before I was born, Kingsley Diamonds was my destiny. And for so long, I thought I wanted that future. Not anymore. I didn't want my father's throne.

You are in control of your fate. You are writing your own story. That's why you need the files.

I reached for the computer keyboard and entered Dad's password. For a long moment, I stared at the screen. Once I knew the truth, there was no taking it back. I couldn't just forget the secret my parents were hiding from me. Blowing out a long breath, I typed "Kingstown" into the search bar and crossed my fingers.

Results populated the display. I waited impatiently for the computer to finish the search, and then scanned the list for the video files. There was only one. I clicked on the file folder and then on the lone video inside. Instead of an actual video, there was a single frame with a white lettering against a black background. The image ran for twenty-two seconds.

"You have to be kidding me," I groaned aloud. "Now what?"

I closed my eyes and tried to clear my head. The footage is a decade old. Where would Dad store archived videos?

Or maybe the better question was, where would Dad hide proof of his crimes?

In his giant burn box, of course.

But before moving on, I popped a USB from my pocket into one of slots on the side of the monitor and copied all the files from my original search, all the files with even a mention of Kingstown. Just in case.

The data transfer was going to take a few minutes, so I started the complicated process of accessing Dad's secret room. I yanked on the handle of the top desk drawer, but it was locked. Weird. I'd never seen Dad use a key to open the drawer, so when had this security measure been implemented?

The locked drawer was an obstacle, not a road block. I had prepared for this very situation. The locking-picking set was in my back pocket. I grabbed the requisite tools and followed the steps I'd learned from watching an online video. Four minutes and three seconds later, the drawer popped open—not great, but decent for a newbie thief.

I pulled out the drawer halfway, and then ran my fingers along the piece of wood that was both the underside of the desk and the top of the drawer. The lever was small, easy to miss unless a person knew where to look. Which I did, since I'd watched Dad do this several times. When I pulled the lever, two wall panels behind the desk slid apart, revealing a set of double, steel doors. The first time I'd seen the hidden compartment, I'd thought it was an elevator. But no, these doors led to a room that wasn't on any blueprints or city records.

The data transfer was complete. I closed all open windows, deleted my search from the computer's history, and then replaced the USB inside my pocket. With another deep breath, I turned back to the steel doors. There was no biometric scanner or keypad to enter a passcode. Dad had gone old school with the security. Inset in one of the doors was a small compartment with Rubik's-style cube that sat on a pressure sensitive panel. Once removed, I would have exactly two minutes to solve the puzzle. If I failed, Dad would receive an alert on his phone. Needless to say, failure wasn't an option.

My hand was steady as I reached for the cube. Holographic red numbers appeared over the pressure sensitive panel—the timer, which started running immediately. Closing my eyes, I let muscle memory take over. It was as though my mind and body were disconnected as my fingers twisted and turned the cube's panels. I reopened my eyes just as the last panel slid into place. Five seconds were left on the timer. I shoved the cube into its compartment. The numbers froze at 0:02 and the doors slid open.

Am I really doing this?

I was breaking into my father's secret room. Even though I'd been planning this tryst for weeks, surreal didn't begin to describe the way I felt in that moment.

Do you want to know the truth? Or would you rather keep on the blinders?

Slowly, I put one foot in front of the other and entered Dad's hidey hole.

Shelves lined the back wall, many holding actual video tapes, DVDs, and blue ray discs. A large wall safe occupied the right side of the room, and file drawers the left. Dad was meticulous. He liked things neat and tidy, everything was in chronological order, and then organized alphabetically within each year. This made it easy to locate the timeframe I needed, but just as I started scanning the proper shelf, faint voices filtered through the study door.

No, no, no, no one is supposed to be here, I thought frantically.

For a second, I froze, unsure what to do. But then, my instincts took over. I turned off the flashlight app and punched a button on the wall beside the doors, causing them to close. Darkness engulfed me. The air seemed too thin, and I had trouble catching my breath.

Calm down. Now is not the time to freak out.

Inside the secret alcove, the silence was deafening. I could no longer hear the voices, but since the room was soundproof, I didn't know whether the speakers had entered the study.

Intercom. Find the intercom, I told myself.

I turned the flashlight app back on—with the doors closed, even sitting at the desk, no one would be able to see the light—and directed the beam at the wall near the doors. I pressed the intercom button, allowing me to hear what was going on in the study. Two sets of footsteps sounded from the other room, and one of the people was definitely wearing heals. Then I heard Dad's voice.

"It was only a matter of time, Eleanor. We've always known that," he said, sighing heavily.

"No, that was not the deal we made," Mom spat, and I could imagine her standing with her hands on her hips, her icy blue gaze fixed on her husband.

"No, it's not. But we knew the risks." Ice clinked in a glass—Dad making his scotch, most likely.

It sounded like Mom was tapping her foot, a nervous habit she rarely displayed.

Whatever they are talking about, it must be serious, I thought.

"What are we going to do, Phillip?" Mom demanded. "If she finds out what we have done—if anyone finds out what we have done—we need to get out in front of this."

There was a long pause before Dad finally answered. "How do you suggest we do that, Eleanor?" His voice was low and even, and it made me shiver. He only used that tone when he was super angry.

"You were there, Phillip. You heard our options."

"Options?" Dad's laughter held no mirth. "They didn't offer us options, Eleanor. They offered us their damage control plan."

"Call it whatever you like, but I agree with them. We all have a lot to lose if the truth gets out, including our daughter. I for one am willing to do whatever it takes to make sure that does not happen." Mom was practically shouting. I'd never seen them fight before, not like this anyway. Sure, they disagreed a lot, but losing one's temper was too middle-class for Eleanor and Phillip Kingsley.

Dad sighed and when he spoke again he sounded tired. "We won't lose her, Eleanor. I promise you that."

"So then we are in agreement?" Mom asked levelly.

Eons seemed to pass before Dad mustered a reply. "I suppose so."

"I will let them know." Mom's heels clicked on the hardwood, the sound becoming duller when she crossed the carpet. I heard the study doors open. "This is for the best, Phillip. You will see. Once it is done, we won't need to worry so much."

Mom left the study, but Dad stayed for another twenty minutes. I leaned against the wall and prayed that he wouldn't think to check his security logs.

He has no reason, too, I told myself. But, honestly, being caught inside the secret room didn't worry me nearly as much as the cryptic conversation I'd just overheard. What truth was so bad that they thought they might lose me?

Kingstown. The name popped into my head in answer to my own question. They're worried you'll find out about Kingstown.

I needed those files. I needed to know the deal with the Canadian mine. I needed to know what had happened there ten years ago, and why the people that made me were so eager to keep it a secret. Determined, I used the flashlight to scan the shelves again.

April-June, July-August, September-December. Where was January-March? Was it a coincidence that those files just so happened to be missing? I did a quick survey of the remaining tapes to see if the footage had been misplaced. No luck. Except...one of the wooden panels about the shelves looked as though it was askew. I grabbed a stepstool from the corner, climbed up, and pressed on the panel. It fell inward with a soft thud. I sucked in a breath before I remembered that no one could hear me inside the soundproof room. Still, I needed to hurry. It was a minor miracle that my parents hadn't sent out bloodhounds the second they realized I wasn't in my room.

Wait, do they know you're not in your room?

I shook my head. Family issues would have to wait. Stuffing my hand in the empty space where the panel had been, I felt around the compartment. It was small, about four inches deep and only slightly wider and taller than the panel. My fingers closed around a thin, rectangular object. I pulled out the USB drive. Like the numerous other objects in the secret room, this one was labeled. But it didn't have a name or year or any other easily decipherable identifier. Nevertheless, my heart sped up—this was it, the missing footage. I was certain. Because the alphanumeric sequence print on the side of the drive was the same one as in the Kingstown file on Dad's computer.

A new problem gave me pause. I hadn't expected Mom and Dad to come home early from the fundraiser, so I'd planned to transfer the videos to my laptop and then replace the originals. All before any one was the wiser.

It's fine. You can return the drive once they're asleep.

It was a solid option—also, my only option. As I went about fixing the room to hide my infiltration, I kept replaying the conversation I'd overheard earlier. I was positive Mom and Dad had been talking about Kingstown, which meant the Canadian mine was fresh in their thoughts. They were both worried about the truth finding the light of day. Did that mean they might destroy the drive? If so, when?

Not tonight. Tomorrow at the soonest.

If they had been intent on getting rid of the evidence tonight, they would have already found me hiding inside the secret room. It was true. I knew that. And yet I couldn't help thinking about the lack of dust and cobwebs inside the compartment. Someone, Dad most likely, had retrieved the drive recently. Maybe even frequently.

Two hours later, I sat in the window seat in my bedroom and stared out at the sleeping city below. Spring was only a few weeks away, hard to imagine with the freezing rain falling from above.

I finished my drink and set the glass on the windowsill, bleak resolve settling over me. It was too dangerous to watch the videos while my parents were in the house. Soon, though. Soon, I would know their dirty little secret.

The truth would set all three of us free.

### Twenty-Four

###### Raven

"What the hell are you doing?" Asher demanded, his brown eyes flashing with anger as he peered at me through the car window.

I clutched the butterfly pendent in one hand and yanked the door handle with the other. Asher was quick but not quick enough, and the car door clipped his forehead. It was hard to feel any real sympathy for him after he'd just scolded me like a disobedient terrier. My feet hit the rough pavement, and I tried not to cringe as I straightened to my full height and met Asher's disapproving stare.

"I needed something from my car," I said haughtily and brushed past him toward our shared row home.

Asher caught my arm. "Do you know what time it is, Raven?"

I didn't know or care, so I shrugged and tried to deflect. "What are you doing out here?"

"I was walking one of my friends out and I saw the light on in your car. Imagine my surprise when I saw you sitting in the backseat. Shit, Raven, it's four a.m."

I caught the whiff of alcohol on his breath for the first time, and wondered whether the friend he'd been walking out was female. And if she was getting benefits.

"Don't change the subject," Asher continued. "It's not safe to be out here in the middle of the night. What was so important you couldn't wait a couple more hours?"

I searched my brain for a plausible lie, but went with an amended version of the truth instead.

"This." I held out my hand, palm up, to reveal the necklace. "I thought I'd lost it, and then suddenly remembered I'd hidden it in the armrest. It's really special to me."

Asher's expression was unreadable, leaving me doubtful he believed my story. But I didn't care, I didn't owe him an explanation. His eyes softened. "Come on, let's go in. Your feet are a mess."

I nodded and started again for our building. Before I'd taken two steps, Asher literally knocked me off my feet. With one arm under my knees and the other around my waist, I was too flustered by Asher's sudden nearness to protest. His skin was warm against mine, and I recalled Blake's comforting touch from my dream. Only now, I wasn't so certain the guy in the dream was Blake. I had yet to find a picture of Lark's mystery boyfriend and had only a vague description of him from her journal. Still, I had the nagging suspicion that dream guy was supposed to be Blake, and my subconscious had just filled in the blanks.

Dreams are so weird.

Inside Asher's apartment, at his insistence, I propped my feet on the pizza box coffee table while he retrieved first aid supplies from the bathroom. I used the brief moment alone to shove the pendant back into its pouch and tuck it into the folded waistband of my shorts. Asher returned with wet towels, dry towels, and gauze, and knelt beside the coffee table.

"Lift up," he ordered, reaching toward my right foot.

I snatched the towel from his hand. "I can do it."

Undeterred, Asher produced a second towel and began cleaning my left foot as though I hadn't said anything. We worked in awkward silence, both scrubbing dirt and bandaging small cuts for what felt like an eternity. Then, Asher mumbled something I didn't catch and disappeared into his bedroom. My fingers itched to touch the butterfly again. I wanted to see it, to make sure it was real and not a figment of my imagination. Maybe I'd still been dreaming when I found it. Maybe I'd only woken up when Asher knocked on the window. I touched the waistband of my shorts. It was there. And I'd shown it to Asher. My sanity was still intact.

I wanted to examine the butterfly in greater depth, but I didn't dare to until I was alone. To distract my racing thoughts, I glanced around Asher's living room for something to focus on. My eyes landed on a photograph of an elegant girl atop a folded sheet of stationary on the end table. She had twinkling caramel eyes and a broad grin, both of which I recognized: Kim.

I could hear Asher rummaging around in his bedroom, so I snatched the photo and piece of paper underneath it. It was Kim, standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. I flipped it over. On the back, in small, precise letters, was, "Can't believe I am here! Miss you."

Interesting, I thought. Asher had told me the two were friendly, I just hadn't realized they were close enough to be pen pals. Besides, who wrote real letters anymore? Wouldn't it have been easier to just email, like normal people?

I knew I shouldn't read it. Maybe my vacation from reality and into Lark's world had compromised my morals. Maybe I was just too curious for my own good. Or maybe I was the tiniest bit jealous. Whatever the real reason, I was unfolding the thick sheet of paper before I knew it. To my surprise, it wasn't a letter at all. Kim had mailed Asher a charcoal drawing of himself. She was remarkably talented. She'd captured his goofy smile and inquisitive eyes amazingly accurately.

"She's a great artist, huh?"

I looked up to find Asher leaning in the archway between the living room and hall. Busted. I dropped the picture and drawing into my lap, opening my mouth to apologize. Asher waved it off before the words even left my lips.

"She's amazing," I said instead.

Silence hung in the air while I continued to stare absently at the photograph of Kim.

Asher cleared his throat loudly. "Here," he said, moving towards the couch. "Socks. And this. I meant to give it to you at brunch."

Finally, I glanced up and saw a pair of thick, wool socks in one of his outstretched hands. In the other, Asher held the Grisham book I'd started reading while waiting for our table at Phrases.

"Thank you," I said, genuinely shocked by the gift.

"It's nothing. You seemed pretty into it at the bookstore, and I figured you might need a break from playing detective."

"You aren't wrong about that," I muttered under my breath. Between the sleepwalking and the bizarre dream, it really did seem as though I'd become too engrossed in Lark's past.

I slipped the socks onto my feet and wiggled my toes inside their fuzzy cocoons.

"Want something to drink?" Asher asked, at the same time I said, "I should go."

"It's late. I don't want to bother you anymore." I stood and headed for the door. Only when I reached for the doorknob did I realize I was still holding the photograph and Kim's drawing. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm not usually so rude. She really is an incredible artist."

"Raven–" Asher began, but I just kept talking.

"Thanks for the book. And the socks. And the nursemaid act."

I searched for somewhere to set Asher's mail, settling on a rickety table with a wicker basket, where he set his keys and wallet every time he entered the apartment.

He called my name a second time, but I already had one foot in the hallway and the door halfway closed. The moment I was safely inside my apartment, door locked behind me, I retrieved the pouch from my waistband. That's ironic, I thought. I'd only noticed the picture and drawing because I'd been looking for something to divert my attention from the pendant. Now, I was using the necklace as a distraction from thoughts of Asher and Kim and the true nature of their relationship.

And distract me it did. The butterfly was even more beautiful in the light. Gilded wings of opal branched off from the butterfly's glittering body. Two thin spikes of gold poked up from its head. The chain was a thick golden rope. It was gorgeous, no doubt. I just couldn't help but think that the necklace wasn't worthy of the heiress to a diamond fortune. Don't get me wrong, it probably cost more than I could afford even when I was gainfully employed. It was just that, with flawless, priceless gems at her disposal, I'd have expected Lark Kingsley to have jewelry worthy of her last name.

What really got me about the pendant, what bothered me more than the ending of The Village, was that the snowy wings and gold detailing were identical to those on the living butterfly from my dream. It was too weird for words.

I turned the charm over in my hands. It was heavier than it looked; the body was probably solid gold. On the back, two interlocking circles had been carved into the metal. Odd. The design was too simple to be decorative, yet I couldn't fathom that it was functional, either.

Stifling a yawn, I glanced at my phone: 5:04 a.m. The butterfly conundrum would have to wait until I got some rest. Sleep didn't come easily, though. Fear of waking up somewhere other than my bedroom had me tossing and turning until well after sunrise.

Asher knocked on my door around noon. Lark's journal, most of her clues, and a pad of paper containing my own chicken scratch notes were still spread out on the floor of the living room. The butterfly necklace was safely tucked inside its velvet pouch and hidden beneath my mattress with the envelope of cash.

"I'm coming," I called on my way to the door.

Asher, two cups of steaming coffee in his hands, greeted me with a smile.

"I thought you might need this." He held out one of the coffees towards me.

"Thank you," I said as I took the cup. "And thank you again for last night."

Asher shrugged like it was no big deal. With a sweep of my hand, I opened the door for him to come inside.

"Any developments?" Asher asked, pointing to the collection of Lark's belongings on the floor.

I shook my head and let out a frustrated sigh as Asher settled on my couch. He sipped his coffee and surveyed the clues. I tasted my coffee. A mocha, I realized, delighted that he'd remembered.

"Want me to take a look over the clues? Maybe read through the journal?" Asher asked. "Maybe I'll see something you missed."

I'd become oddly protective of Lark and wasn't ready to share her personal musings just yet. Telling him what she wrote seemed like less of a betrayal than actually showing him.

"Here," I handed Asher my notepad, where I'd written out the thirteen words Lark had capitalized in the journal entry, "see what you can make of these."

"Just the first letter of each of these words was capitalized, right?" he asked, tapping the pencil eraser against the notepad.

"Yeah, which I considered, too. Flip to the next page, you'll see where I wrote out just a list of letters."

Asher studied the list, his lips moving as though he was trying to form words from the given letters.

"Don't bother," I spoke up. "I plugged them into a random word generator. No luck."

Before he could respond, Asher's cell played several notes of classical music. He retrieved the phone from his front pocket and read the display. "Sorry. Study group. I completely forgot. How about we pick this back up later? In the meantime, why don't you look up substitution ciphers?"

Asher headed for the metro. I waited thirty minutes and then I headed for The Pines. Besides reading the journal, there was no better way to get to know Lark than by spending time in her sanctuary. And maybe being surrounded by her things would give me divine inspiration, or something.

I followed Asher's suggestion and Googled substitution ciphers. Then I spent the rest of the day plugging my letters into the various ciphers. By the time Asher texted to say he was on the way back from his study group, I had an entire page of possibilities.

Asher: Dinner?

My stomach rumbled. I glanced at the time on the phone. 6:35 p.m. Whoa, I'd been here a lot longer than I thought.

Me: Sounds great.

Asher: Come down and we'll pick a place.

Me: At The Pines. Come over and we'll order in.

It took Asher a full three minutes to respond, and he was surprisingly civil when he did.

Asher: On my way. How's pizza?

Me: Perfect. Apt. 10A

I blew out a breath, relieved he hadn't launched into a lecture via text. Then I called downstairs to let Darrell know that I had a guest on the way, and he should be allowed up.

Asher arrived with a thin crust spinach and goat cheese pie an hour later. I'd temporarily given up on the journal entry cipher and was examining the butterfly necklace when he knocked on the door.

"Come in," I called, realizing a second too late that I probably should've checked the peephole. This wasn't even my apartment, after all.

"It really isn't safe to just invite people in without knowing who they are. Especially when you're inviting them into this apartment. I could've been an axe murderer," Asher scolded.

"Darrell has my back. He'd at least be sure the axe murderer signed in first," I replied, not bothering to hide my smile. "Pizza smells great." I hoped my attempt to change the subject was subtle enough.

Asher set the box on the kitchen counter and set about rifling through the cabinets for plates. "How's it coming?" he called over his shoulder.

"Eh. So-so," I said.

Asher emerged from the kitchen carrying two plates, each with pizza slices hanging over the sides. I thanked him when he handed me a plate and a cloth napkin. In turn, I handed him the pad of my notes. He took a huge bite of cheese and spinach as he studied the list. I chewed a substantially smaller nibble and watched him intently. Asher managed to finish an entire slice of pizza before saying a word. He leaned forward to set the pad of paper on the coffee table.

"Thoughts?" I asked.

"Gut reaction?" he replied, and I nodded. "Number substitution." Asher ran a hand through his hair, transferring a little of the pizza grease to his sandy locks. "But it may not be as simple as A=1, B=2, C=3, etc. Have you found a combination lock?"

"What like a high school locker?" I teased.

"No, something longer than that." Asher shook his head and seemed to run through a list of possibilities in his head. "Like a keypad or something?"

The receipt I'd found in Lark's desk caught my eye. I pointed to the sheet of paper. Asher eyed it dubiously as he read off: "Linus Systems? I don't get it."

"I haven't found a keypad or whatever, but I have no clue what or who Linus Systems is," I replied.

"Did you look them up? What do they do?"

The question seemed so obvious, which was probably why Asher just assumed I'd done it. "Seriously? You haven't thought to run a Google search?" he asked, wiping his fingers on a napkin before reaching for my laptop.

"Okay, looks like Linus Systems is an international company, with a local branch in Chevy Chase, Maryland," Asher began. He chuckled softly. "And it looks like they specialize in home security, particularly custom safes." He glanced up from the computer screen and met my gaze. "You haven't noticed any special security inside the apartment, right?"

I shook my head.

"Then it's probably a safe."

"And you think the journal cipher is the combination?" I asked.

"I really don't know, but it's worth a shot."

"Right, first we need to find a safe, though," I pointed out.

"If it's here, it won't be hard to find." Asher stood and surveyed the living room as though the answer might be there just waiting for him to discover it. "There aren't that many places to put one out of plain view."

It was easier to locate than I would have imagined, though only because as Asher pointed out there weren't many places to hide a safe. In the back of Lark's closet, partially obscured by dresses and rows of stacked shoeboxes, I found the outline of a two-foot square panel. It was the same creamy white as the rest of the wall, and was wedged almost seamlessly into the surrounding surface.

"Asher, come quick," I called. "I found it."

The thump of his heavy footsteps mirrored the accelerated beats of my heart as he pounded down the hallway. By the time he reached me, I was on my hands and knees attempting to pry the panel loose with my fingernails.

Asher knelt beside me and started knocking on the wall.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Making sure there is really something back there before we tear the wall apart."

I listened carefully as he rapped his knuckles several inches to the right of the seam, and then again inside the box. The difference was slight, but undeniable.

"Yes?"

"Definitely something back there. Now, the question is, how do we get to it?"

"Maybe I'm just not strong enough?" I suggested. "You try."

It was quickly apparent that he would have no more success than I did. His nubby nails weren't long enough to grip the edge of the panel, and all he accomplished was scratching the paint.

"We need a screwdriver," I said, sitting back on my haunches.

Despite the overeager air conditioning, my face and hands were slightly clammy. Strands of dark hair stuck to my forehead, and I tried to push them off with my forearm.

Asher shot me a skeptical look over his shoulder. "And you think Lark Kingsley has a fully stocked toolbox around here?"

"A knife, then?" I suggested.

"Be right back."

While Asher went to locate a knife, I succeeded in breaking every one of my nails trying to pry the panel loose. It was stupid, but I was so eager to see what Lark had hidden in the safe that I couldn't wait. Whatever was in there was big. A game changer. I felt it. The contents of the safe were going to lead me to Lark.

Asher returned with two knives and the pad of paper from the living room. He dropped the latter on the carpet and handed me one of the knives. With each of us taking one side, we worked the tips of the knives into the seams. It took a great deal of finagling and jimmying back and forth, but finally, finally, the panel began to come loose from the wall. Once there was enough material to grab, I dropped my knife and pulled it free.

Even though I'd fully expected to find it, the sight of the metal box made my breath hitch. When I met Asher's eyes, he, too, wore an expression of shock and awe. My heart was racing so fast I thought it might run right out of my chest. I wished that I had x-ray vision. Even the moments it would take to enter the passcode were too long. I wanted to see the contents right then.

Some of my excitement dimmed when I realized there was no keypad. I'd expected ten buttons, each one labeled with a number from zero to nine. Instead, the front of the safe had a slick, black, rectangular box in the center. That was it.

Shit. What if it's a biometric lock? I thought grimly. A safe that costs ten grand might come with a fingerprint scanner or something equally Jason Bourne-ish.

Fingers trembling slightly, I reached out and ran a fingertip across the screen. I let out a yelp when it sprang to life immediately. Thank goodness. A neon green touchscreen keypad appeared.

"Do you want to do the honors?" Asher asked quietly.

I nodded. "Read off the numbers to me?"

"Sure."

One by one, Asher slowly read off the numbers that corresponded to the capitalized letters. One by one, I input them.

"Last one...," he said.

I reached for his hand, needing the moral and physical support. My head was spinning so fast, it was entirely possible I might pass out before ever seeing what was inside. Asher laced his fingers with mine and squeezed. The gesture was small but had the desired effect. I felt grounded holding on to him.

"Four." Asher's voice was barely above a whisper now.

I pressed the square with a four inside and held my breath. Two sharp, electronic beeps rewarded our efforts. A heartbeat later, the door eased open an inch. Excited as I was, I didn't reach for the door right away. Since finding Lark's journal, I'd been living in this alternate reality. No, not exactly an alternate reality. More like I'd been living her life. I'd been so consumed with finding out what happened to her that I hadn't thought of much else. Now, on the precipice of possibly finding out Lark's biggest secrets, I found that I was a little sad. I'd come to think of Lark as a sort of kind of friend, and I was going to miss her. Not that any of that was important. Because we were going to find her.

My feelings had been premature. I soon realized that the mystery was far from over. In fact, just like every one of Lark's clues up to this point, the contents of the safe brought about more questions than they answered. But unlike the previous clues, this one was extremely personal. And left me speechless.

Inside the ten thousand-dollar safe, hidden behind a false panel in a penthouse apartment rented by a diamond heiress who had vanished into thin air, was a manila envelope. Inside that envelope was a passport, a debit card for First National Bank, and a credit card. Every single item bore the same name. And it wasn't Lark's...

Raven Ferragamo.

I stared down at the picture on the passport, unable to believe what was right in front of my eyes. It was definitely me in the photograph. Later, after several shots of cheap liquor, I'd calm down enough to realize that it was my senior year school picture. But in that moment, coherent and rational thoughts weren't possible. One thought continuously resonated through my mind. Finding Lark's journal wasn't random. Somehow, some way, she'd orchestrated the whole thing.

Now I had the biggest question of all to answer: Why me?

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You can find more information about Sophie and her books, find additional social information, and sign up for her Insiders newsletter SophieDavisBooks.com

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading Fragile Façade!

As a reader, reviewing books is the most important things you can do: they allow little-known authors like me to gain new readers! When finding a book that they've heard nothing about, many readers will give it a try if they're able to check out opinions of the books from readers like you!

So, I hope you'll consider leaving me a review—whether good or bad—on your retailer's site. Read on!

xoxo, Sophie

There are more people than I can possibly name to thank for contributing in so many ways to the completion of this book...but I'll do my best.

Firstly, of course, my partner-in-crime – we make quite a team, huh? Thank you for always being there for me, for your support, your encouragement and, most of all, your loyalty. All of our success so far is definitely due to all of your hard work. I'm really glad we decided to do this whole thing together, and I am so excited for what we have coming up.

To my family- thank you for supporting me and believing in all of this.

To my Insiders Group: thank you for your unwavering devotion, and for the time and energy you devote to me and the books. Whether it's spreading the word about the books, coming up with slogans, or giving me your opinions on book covers, I really appreciate that you always come through for me. I'm really looking forward to us growing together!

To all the indie authors, large and small, who have embraced us and kept with the true nature of this community. There has always been someone there to help when I've had questions, concerns, or could just use a little light in my day. (Shine on, Madison Daniel!)

To the bloggers, for reading my books and posting about them. Some of you have been around since I first released Talented! The fact that you were not just willing, but even eager to read it, despite the fact you'd never heard of me is nothing short of amazing. I am so grateful to all of you, for that and everything since then.

To Ashley, for being a super fan, and for allowing me the gift of reading your writing. You're going to be a huge success someday, I just know it. Thank you for showing the world that there isn't anything that can't be overcome.

To my readers, for taking a chance on an unknown, and for the enthusiasm you've shown towards both me and my work.

And finally, to the girls who are closest to my heart, who have done more for me than I can begin to think of, let alone say. Thank you Barb and Justine for being so incredible. Thank you for the time you give me, the assistance and the advice, and for joining the SDB team. You guys are both such an integral part of my days, I can't fathom getting by without you anymore.

xoxo, Sophie

