by Sophie Davis
Our only other matter of business doesn’t require the same press or exposure. At least, not as long as you follow through with it. It’s very simple: shut down the mine in Jyranji. Stop funding the rebels. Providing aid for the people and hope for the government only means something if you stop paying for the weapons for the insurgents. If you stop funding the rebel movement.
This doesn’t have to be a permanent situation. If the money and weapons for the insurgents run out at the same time the Relief Fund provides aid to the government, there is hope for the people. Hope for a future free from living every day at gunpoint. Hope for the children to be kids instead of toting guns around and living as pawns in a war they don’t understand. And yes, hope for Kingsley Corp to reopen the mine—it would, after all, provide jobs for the people—and export genuinely conflict-free diamonds.
I hope that you can see how this would be better for everyone. Wouldn’t you like to be able to sleep at night without the dreams of child soldiers haunting you? I know that I would.
I also hope you don’t construe my generous offer as blackmail. It’s not. This is my attempt at finding a way to live with myself and everything I have. I can’t bear the true cost of it. If you can’t do this for yourself, please…do it for me.
Maybe it’s naïve or overly optimistic of me, but I genuinely believe that you’re still a good person. I saw the tapes. I heard the conflict in every word you spoke. I believe that you did what you thought was best at the time, even though it was as wrong as humanly possible. And I know you can see that in hindsight.
So, just like McAvoy pressured you into this, I’m pressuring you out of it. That’s all this is: me offering you an out. So few people are given an opportunity to right the wrongs they have committed. This is your opportunity.
Even though what you’ve done has hurt my heart, I believe that we can repair some of the damage. You have spent years grooming me to take your place, to become the head of our company. And I will. I will gladly take the reins of this new, softer, legitimate version of Kingsley Diamonds. I hope to have you by my side when I do.
I’ll take the Kingsley Corp’s announcement of this generosity as your agreement.
No matter what, for better or for worse…I love you, Daddy.
L.
ONLY TWO MINUTES of my life were more awkward than those right after I kissed Asher: the ones we spent staring at each other in the vestibule of the Gibson Street building a day later.
Believing he’d be in class and that I’d be able to sneak in without his knowledge, I returned home from the Pines after a quick nap—waking up at 5 a.m. had finally taken its toll on me after getting off the phone with Darrell. Apparently my timing was off, because Asher exited his apartment at the exact moment I entered the front door from the street. Mind suddenly blank, I simply stared. I felt my lips part, as if about to say something, but my brain wasn’t on the same page.
My downstairs neighbor was evidently no better prepared for the encounter, because he was clearly as out of sorts as I was. He, too, simply stared. The silence that followed was absolute and awkward and harder to break than a diamond.
For what felt like an eternity, neither of us spoke. It was like living out one of those scenes from the movies, where the two main characters stand motionless while the world moves in fast forward around them. Both of our lips moved silently at various times, as if to speak words that wouldn’t come. The tension in the air was thick and stifling, making the small space feel crowded as if a third person had joined us.
Asher regained his composure first.
“Look, Raven, about last night…,” he began.
Wow, those are definitely words that no girl wants to hear, I thought.
“Don’t, Asher. Please, just don’t. I think we both can agree it was mistake. So maybe we can also both agree to never mention it again. Okay?”
While I made my plea, I concentrated my gaze on my toenails, which were painted a cotton candy blue. When he didn’t answer right away, I dared a quick, hopeful glance up at Asher through my lashes.
“It’s just that…well, I’m…,” he started again, evidently still unsure how to finish a sentence.
“Older?” I suggested helpfully, giving Asher the easy out.
Truthfully, there were a million reasons why the kiss had been a mistake. My ego just didn’t need for them to be enumerated.
“Yeah, there’s that,” Asher agreed, nodding jerkily. He looked directly at me, but seemed to be staring through me. “It’s just, well, it’s complicated, Raven. I like you. I like you a lot, actually.”
“But just as a friend?” I said dryly, channeling my inner bitch.
“Yes, as a friend. But, well, you and me,” he pointed back and forth between us with an index finger. “It’s just not appropriate. I’m sorry,” Asher replied.
Without thinking, I crossed my arms over my chest, as if to protect my heart. It was the standard defensive pose known the world over. Even though I was well aware that the kiss had been a colossal mistake, Asher’s words still stung. And yes, my feelings were hurt. No girl wants to hear that she isn’t kissable.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Asher. I kissed you,” I said with a large dose of attitude, knowing that I was being oversensitive. “So, I guess I’m the one who’s sorry. You’re right, I was out of line. The kiss was ‘inappropriate’.”
I made air quotes, mocking him and feeling only marginally bad about my juvenile behavior.
Inappropriate? I thought. What a strange choice of words.
As I started for the stairs, I could feel my cheeks flaming with embarrassment. Asher stepped in front of the staircase, blocking my escape. Undeterred, I turned sideways and tried to squeeze by him. Asher wasn’t having it. He touched my arm, holding on until I finally met his gaze.
“You’re right, okay? Let’s just pretend it never happened, yeah? It’s already forgotten in my mind.”
The twinge of rejection was washed away by a tidal wave of relief. This was what I wanted after all, to forget that the stupid, stupid kiss had never occurred. Blot it from my memory with a big ink stain.
Asher cleared his throat, waiting to see if I would respond. When I didn’t say anything, he rushed on.
“So, um, want to go grab something to eat? And you can bring me up to speed on the Lark hunt? It’s been almost forty-eight hours since I last talked to you.”
“I think you need to go back to math school, buddy. There are only twenty-four hours in a day.”
Asher looked at me quizzically, and then shook his head, as if to clear it.
“Classes are kicking my ass. My sense of time is all screwed up.”
Without too much thought, I decided to take the olive branch. In our brief time apart, I’d missed him. And learning that someone had been in Lark’s apartment the night before made me realize I needed Asher. Before, his overprotective nature had seemed silly, and a bit over the top. Now? Between sketchy Larry and the unidentified trespasser, I was beginning to see that searching for Lark might be dangerous. Clues and puzzles aside, this was no game. And Lark’s life might not be the only one at risk.
“Food would be great,” I said, forcing a smile. “And in Lark news, I do have something to tell you. Fair warning, though…you’re not going to like it.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Asher replied. “Come on, let’s do Mexican tonight.”
On the walk to Café Poca Cosa, a restaurant Asher said he’d been dying to try, I filled him in on both the prowler and the Sudoku puzzle clue. Part of me was surprised that Asher didn’t whip out his cell and punch in 9-1-1 before I finished my story. Instead, he got all quiet and introspective, leaving me to wonder what thoughts were bouncing around in his mind.
“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “Darrell, the front desk guy, got permission to show me the surveillance tapes. So, really, I think this might be a good thing. This guy might be the break we need. He might even know where Lark is.”
“That
’s unlikely, if he was going through her apartment,” Asher pointed out. “He was probably looking for her, or some indication to her whereabouts. Which would mean he’s just as clueless as we are.”
“Well, yeah, I guess that’s true,” I relented. “But he knows about the apartment, which is something. She rented it under a false name, Asher. Her parents don’t know about it. Blake doesn’t know about it. Her friends don’t know about it. I just…I don’t…it’s just a feeling I have, okay? I feel like this guy knows something that will be useful to us.”
“Maybe. Probably not, though,” Asher said with a shrug, obviously unconvinced. “Regardless, how do you plan on finding him? Even if you can see his face in the tapes, that won’t tell you who he is.”
“True. But maybe this is worth taking to the authorities. They can run facial recognition or whatever.”
With a dubious look, Asher laughed.
“This isn’t an episode of Bones, Raven. It’s somewhat doubtful that facial recognition software works quite as well as they make it seem on TV. Besides, if this guy did have anything to do with Lark’s disappearance, don’t you think he’d be careful enough to hide his face? Didn’t the neighbor lady say he was wearing a hat? Don’t you think—”
His pessimism was beyond grating on my nerves, and I cut him off.
“Stop poking holes in my theories, okay?” I snapped. “I’m not naïve, I get it—it’s a long shot. But, so far, all I have are a bunch of cryptic clues that lead nowhere. The most concrete evidence I’ve found was that envelope addressed to Blake, and I mailed it to him without reading the contents. Which, looking back, was probably stupid.”
Drawing near to the end of my rope, I threw up my hands. Asher’s Debbie Downer attitude was exasperating.
Sensing my annoyance, Asher grabbed my hand. After pulling me to a stop, he gently tugged on it until I faced him. Twin creases formed between his brows.
“I’m sorry,” he began. “I don’t mean to poke holes. I’m just playing devil’s advocate. You’re right—this mystery guy could lead us to Lark. But you’re also right that this is getting too dicey for us to handle. Maybe it’s time to alert the authorities. Why don’t we get the tapes from Darrell and I’ll call this FBI agent I know? He’s old friends with my dad, I’ve known him forever. We can give him the tapes. You and I can keep following the clues if you want, but we’ll leave the real police work to the professionals.”
Though involving the authorities had been my suggestion, I was sorely regretting it now. Yes, the FBI or whomever was better equipped to track down the trespasser. At the same time, I wanted to know who had been in Lark’s apartment. And there was a chance that they wouldn’t share that information with me.
What if it was one of her friends? Lark had known something was going to happen to her. She’d prepared for it. Left a trail of clues for me to follow. Maybe this guy was one of them. One of the bad guys.
“Before you contact your FBI guy, I want to see the tapes,” I said stubbornly.
Asher sighed.
“Fine. But—”
Irritation bubbling to the surface once more, I jerked my hand free from him.
“No ‘but’s, Asher.”
With that, I started walking again. Leaving him no choice but to follow.
Our fight didn’t help to lessen the remaining kiss-related tension between us. We spoke little on the rest of the walk, except to agree that takeout would be better than dining at the restaurant. Instead of returning to Gibson Street with our food, however, Asher suggested going to the Pines. He seemed eager to go over all the clues, including the newest one I’d found. With the possibility of involving the FBI soon looming over us like a storm cloud, I shared his impatience.
All of a sudden, it was like we were approaching a deadline. Like an invisible clock was counting down our remaining time, and the seconds were ticking away too quickly. There was no getting around one inescapable fact: once we turned the tapes over to the authorities, I’d be sidelined from the investigation. Agents would be crawling all over Lark’s apartment, demanding I turn over every clue I’d found. They weren’t going to want me muddying up the waters, sticking my nose in places it didn’t belong. And that was so not okay with me.
The more I thought about it, the more I regretted telling Asher about the surveillance tapes. Even more than that, I regretted the offhand comment about the authorities and facial recognition. It had been a knee-jerk reaction to Asher’s pessimism about identifying the mystery man.
You sure do have a lot of regrets these days, I thought bitterly. Which was ironic, since I couldn’t think of anything that I truly regretted in my life before moving to Washington, DC. Maybe I should’ve told Dave Alvando that I thought he was cute back in the tenth grade. Maybe I should’ve taken prom for the memory it was, instead of a silly night out with the girls. Maybe I should’ve done more of the high-school-memory stuff in general, instead of always working and worrying about leaving New Freedom. But those weren’t real regrets. They were silly little nothing thoughts compared to what I was facing these days—irrevocable decisions that could mean the difference between life and death for Lark Kingsley.
And maybe even for me, too.
I DID IT. I actually fucking did it.
I’m out. I’m free.
I cannot believe that I’m actually out of that place. That place where I was never meant to be. I cannot believe that I am sitting here.
The soft, cheerful chatter around me. The peppermint aroma that wafts from the piping hot mug in front of me. The strands of white twinkle lights and lush wreaths with their bright red bows. The rich polished mahogany floorboards. The smiling people with their shopping bags and enthusiasm.
It’s all so…normal. In the most gratifying way possible, it’s an unremarkable scene. An unremarkable day for all of these people. While my whole world has been turned upside down and shaken, everyone else has gone about their business in a series of unremarkable days. Though the thought saddens me, being dropped right in the center of one of those days is comforting. It means I can get back to my life. I can build a new life. I can do anything. Because I’m suddenly free.
AT ASHER’S INSISTENCE, we spread out all of the clues on Lark’s living room floor when we got back to the Pines. As we ate, we discussed several of the items in front of us, trying to guess how some might fit together. With everything laid out in front of us, including the random scraps of paper I’d written notes and solutions on, it looked like the contents of a kitchen junk drawer in the house of a particularly eclectic hoarder.
As if by magic, the moment we sat down in the midst of Lark’s breadcrumbs and began discussing them, our fight seemed to be ancient history. Just like the kiss, Asher was content to pretend it never happened. Following his lead, I was also acting as though nothing was out of the ordinary, that everything was okay. Honestly, as far as I was concerned, it really was. As soon as we started talking about the clues, it was like someone had hit rewind and we were back to two days ago. Now it seemed we were recording over the scenes that neither Asher nor I wanted in the final cut of our friendship.
It was especially satisfying that we’d found a way to get back on track, because I was really feeling like we were close to uncovering something big, at long last. And I hated dwelling on petty, unimportant matters when Lark was out there somewhere, in need of my help.
We decided to start with the mail I’d collected that first fateful day, when I’d come to the Pines. Unsure whether there was actually anything to be learned from the mail, we split it up to cover more ground. Asher volunteered to go over the newspaper articles, which left me with the small stack of bank envelopes.
It was the first time I’d really looked at them in any great detail. Before, I’d felt they weren’t my business, like I was overstepping. So I’d given them a quick once-over, and left it at that. By this point, though, I’d already become privy to so much of Lark’s private thoughts and feeling that reading bank statements hard
ly seemed like an intrusion. Besides, it seemed the further I delved into the shadows of her life, the closer I was to finding her.
Picking up the envelope on the top of the stack, I ran my finger across the clear plastic rectangle positioned over the addressee. Lila Quattrocchi.
As far as I could tell—which, truthfully, wasn’t very far—it seemed safe to assume that Lila was Lark’s chosen alias, and not another person helping her. More than anything, I wanted that to be the case, because I couldn’t handle another huge question in need of an answer. If not, who was Lila? And where did she come into this story? There was only one small point that I couldn’t figure out: if Lila was indeed an alias for Lark—where on earth had she come up with a last name like Quattrocchi? Wouldn’t something like ‘Smith’ have been a better, easier choice?
Ugh, this is not a path you want to go down right now, I decided. The speculation alone will kill you, and that’s all you can do: speculate. Move along.
I opened the first envelope, and began studying the single sheet of paper inside.
Crap.
It wasn’t actually a statement, but instead only a notification of withdrawal for the safety deposit box fee. As, I quickly learned, were the rest of the correspondence from First National.
Just as I was ready to announce my utter failure to Asher, who was laying out the various clippings, a line at the bottom of the page caught my eye:
For more information on your accounts, please visit www.FirstNationalBanking.com.
Sweet! Maybe they’re not a dead end after all.
Since I seemed to be on a roll, I allowed myself a brief moment of excitement. Though, I did refrain from shimmying with Asher there.
Pulling my laptop over from where it sat off to the side of the array of clues, I called up my browser and went to the bank’s homepage. Asher glanced up, eyebrows raised.