by Sophie Davis
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 Wash
ington 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 w
as 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.