by Sophie Davis
“Online banking,” was all I said in response. With a quick smile, he went back to thumbing through the slips of newsprint.
The good news? Filling in the username field was easy—one of the options was to use the nine-digit account number that I retrieved from the statements.
The bad news? I was clueless about the password. The string of numbers from the Sudoku puzzle seemed a good place to start. I transferred the sequence from the slip of paper I’d written it on earlier to the password field. No dice. After trying Raven_Lark and Lark_Raven, a message written in bright red font popped up on the screen: Four Tries Remain Before Account is Locked.
Crap, I thought. If they lock her account, I’m totally screwed. Think, Raven, think. What has she given you that might be a password for this?
Wracking my brain, I came up with nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Just as I was about to ask Asher for suggestions, two small words caught my eye: Forgot Password?
Bingo.
True, it was a long shot. But it was also my only shot at this point.
Instead of asking for an email address or the answer to some obscure personal question, the top of the screen read ‘Password Reminder’. Beneath that line were both a visual clue, and a written clue. Apparently they’d been provided by Lark herself.
The picture was simple: a white box with a red heard inside. The two words were vague: Your Future.
Blake.
In many of her journal entries, Lark had lamented about wanting a future with Blake. She’d even been ready to defy her parents’ wishes and come to D.C. with him, instead of staying in New York to attend Columbia.
Going back to the login page, I typed Blake_Greyfield in the password field.
The screen refreshed.
Three Tries Remain.
Crap, crap, crap.
After omitting the underscore between the two words, I pressed enter once more.
Two Tries Remain.
Future. Future. What is Lark’s future, in terms of her heart, if not Blake?
And then it hit me. Her future. Holding my breath as I typed, I entered Lark Greyfield. The page took eons to load, and I kept waiting for it to tell me that I only had one attempt left. What should I try for the final one? Mrs. Greyfield? Mrs. Pattinson? Lark Elgort?
Thankfully, it didn’t come to making that critical decision. Not caring that Asher was there to bear witness, I pumped my fist in the air in victory.
“Yay!” I shouted out loud, drawing an endearing smile from Asher.
“Success?” he guessed.
“Yep, I’m in!” I said excitedly, not even trying to contain my enthusiasm.
Asher scooted closer to me and I angled my screen so we could look over the account webpage together.
Seconds later, he let out a low whistle and sat back against the couch again. It didn’t take me long to see the reason.
Lila Quattrocchi had quite the balance. I was startled to see just over twenty-five thousand dollars in the account. From that overview page, it appeared that the only recent deposits were interest payments from the bank, and the only withdrawals were the safety deposit box rental fees.
Seconds later, I noticed something even more startling. Something that would’ve scared the shit out of me two weeks ago, but only induced minor heart palpitations now. My name was also on the account.
My. Name.
Holy crap.
The earth stood still. Lark put my name on this bank account. It was nuts. While still staring at those two words, my name, on the screen, something else caught my eye. As if I weren’t already overwhelmed enough, my heart skipped seven beats when I saw it.
One pending charge.
Holy shitake. Lark was using the account? Lark was…no, no way. Except, it had to be…. Was it possible that the only clue I needed was suddenly right in front of my face? Without giving myself time to fully consider the ramifications and have a total freak out, I clicked on the hyperlinked words.
A Little Slice of Pie.
My charge. Our pizza. My debit card….I…I had…whoa. Twenty-five thousand dollars.
Technically, I had enough money to pay cash for a brand new, moderately priced car. Or for a fabulous new wardrobe. Or to take one hell of a vacay.
Just to be sure, I grabbed my purse and yanked out my wallet. Asher was back to reading articles, and didn’t even look up to see what I was doing. Which was good, since I wasn’t sure what to tell him about this new development.
Quickly checking the account number online against the sixteen digits on the debit card with my name embossed across the front, I found that they were, indeed, a match.
Stunned, I let myself fall backwards against the couch cushions. If I had any lingering thoughts about identity theft, they’d just been vanquished. Lark definitely hadn’t stolen anything from me, she was handing me the money I needed to survive—to pay rent, to buy groceries, and for the all-important Starbucks stay-caffeinated fund—while trying to help her.
“Maybe she stole it from her parents?” Asher suggested, his voice breaking into my reverie and drawing me back to the present.
At some point he’d set aside the articles, his attention now focused on me.
“Huh?” I asked distractedly.
“The money in the bank. Maybe she stole it from her parents,” Asher repeated slowly, emphasizing each word as if I belonged on a short bus.
“Twenty-five grand? No way. That’s a lot,” I replied.
“True. But they are the Kingsleys,” Asher reasoned. “That kind of money is probably pocket change to them.”
“Regardless, I’d bet anything that she didn’t steal it,” I replied thoughtfully. “It’s not Lark’s style. She probably sold off some jewelry or something.”
Asher shrugged nonchalantly.
“Maybe. But even if she did take it from her parents, is it really stealing? She’s their daughter, sole heir to their empire and all that. The money will all be hers one day, I think that entitles her to borrow from the family coffers, you know? Even if she was just slowly siphoning it off, or setting aside some of her crazy big allowance, it’s not stealing.”
“Where you going?” Asher asked as I turned and headed down the hallway.
“Bathroom, if you must know,” I called over my shoulder. “Nosy,” I added in a lighter tone.
This earned me a raspberry from Mr. Law School himself. How professional.
As I walked back to the guest bathroom, I decided that, as awe-inspiring as I found the new developments in my financial standing, I should move on from the bank statements. The mystery of where Lark acquired so much money was not all that important in the grand scheme of her disappearance. At least, I didn’t think so. After realizing that both Lila’s and my own name were on the bank account, I started to think that the money was probably to help Lark set up a new life. Adding me to the account—though I still didn’t understand why me—was a safeguard. It allowed someone access to all that lovely cash, and made sure that I didn’t have to work. Because, after all, working would totally get in the way of devoting every waking hour to discovering clues and deciphering their meanings.
While I was drying my hands on a hand towel and deciding what to obsess over next, I heard a knock at the front door. Every cell in my being immediately froze. Who the hell could that be? Asher was already here. I didn’t know anyone else in the city. So….
The intruder.
Then I remembered that he had a key. And, seriously, what kind of intruder would he be if he knocked?
“Raven? You expecting company?” Asher called, his voice muffled by the still-closed bathroom door.
“Um, no,” I called back.
The knock came again, louder and more insistent this time.
Taking the brave route, I cowered in the bathroom and let Asher answer the door. He probably would’ve insisted on doing so anyway. Especially now that we’d realized another person knew about Lark’s secret apartment. So I was just saving us the
trouble and skipping ahead.
At least, that’s what I told myself as I hid.
“Hey,” I heard Asher say, his voice clipped and low as if bothered by the visitor. His next words were downright rude. “What are you doing here?”
After that, Asher’s voice got even lower and I couldn’t make out what he said.
I caught very little of the person’s reply.
Mumble, mumble.
“—here?”
Pause.
“Okay?”
The visitor was male. Definitely not Deidre asking for a cup of sugar. Her husband, Sam, maybe?
“Depends…day…good…confusing,” Asher responded.
He was really making me work to hear his side of the conversation. I pressed my ear against the door, wishing I had a glass to amplify the sound, like people in the movies.
Or you could just go out there, I thought.
“This should help, I think.”
This time, when he spoke, the visitor’s words came through loud and clear. My heart leapt into my throat. Weak-kneed I stumbled backwards, bumped into the sink, and, ungracefully, sank to the bathroom floor.
No. Way.
No fracking way. It can’t be.
“—leave,” was the only word of Asher’s reply that penetrated both the haze in my brain and the inch-thick door.
Quickly scuttling across the two feet to the door, I scrambled to put my ear back into position, not wanting to miss a single syllable of the conversation. Holding my breath, I waited for the other boy to speak again. To confirm that I wasn’t crazy.
“Do you think she wants to see me?”
There was no doubt. I recognized the voice. I was positive it was him. Him.
Even though I’d only heard him speak once before, I was sure. Then, he’d been talking about a girl named Rachel. But now…Blake Greyfield was standing at my door.
No, Lark’s door, I corrected myself.
Regardless, he was there. Asking about…well, about what? Lark? That was obviously the ‘she’ he referenced.
Why, though? Why was here? Did he receive the package? Had there been a note inside, telling him to come here? Was it possible he’d known about the apartment at the Pines all along?
For that matter, was Deidre wrong about the time she’d seen the guy in the hallway? Was that guy Blake, after all? Did he know about me? What did he know about Lark’s disappearance?
Suddenly, I was desperate for answers. Jumping to my feet, I threw open the bathroom door and tore down the hallway. I made it to the living room just in time to see Asher close the front door.
“Who was that?” I demanded, pointing an accusing finger at the door. “It was Blake, wasn’t it? Why’d he come here? What did he want?”
“Raven—” Asher began.
“Move,” I insisted, pushing him aside and reaching for the doorknob without waiting for a reply.
Asher called my name a second time as I dashed passed. I shrugged off the restraining hand he placed on my shoulder. A ping echoed in the hallway, signaling the elevator’s arrival. The doors gave a tinny whine as they opened. With his head tilted, Blake’s unruly curls hung down his cheek, obscuring his profile.
But I knew it was him. I’d known from the moment he first spoke.
Dressed in navy cotton pants, a white polo, and brown leather Rainbows, Blake was picture-perfect as he stepped onto the elevator. If he heard the door to the apartment open again, he didn’t react—he didn’t so much as glance in my direction.
“Blake!” I screamed his name just as he disappeared from sight.
Too late, I thought.
Some very unladylike words escaped my lips and I was about two seconds from stomping my foot in frustration. So. Close. Blake Greyfield had been so damned close. And I’d let him slip away. More accurately, Asher had let him slip away.
And then…fingers curled around the metal door, preventing the elevator from closing. A balloon inflated in my chest. I watched as the top of Blake’s head emerged from between the car doors. After letting out a shaky breath, I opened my mouth to ask any of a million questions. They flew through my brain, every single thing I’d wondered about in the past weeks. Which would he know the answers to? I’d have to ask them all, though I had no clue where to start.
As soon as he turned his head, Blake’s gaze found mine and held on. Pinning me in place with those bright green eyes I’d read so much about. And just like that, all of the questions dissipated. The words ceased to exist. The depth of emotion swirling within those irises was overwhelming. In that moment, I was breathless and boneless and weightless. I’d heard people talk about out-of-body experiences and always wondered what they’d smoked to create the illusion. But standing in that hallway with Blake, I sort of understood the sensation.
A part of me felt as though I were watching the scene unfold from above.
Then, slowly, Blake smiled. I snapped out of the delusion and back into my body. The gesture was bittersweet, the expression overlaid with a deep sadness. Longing for his missing girlfriend shone in those emerald eyes. Pain touched every inch of his chiseled features, giving him a haunted look that made my heart break. For him. For her. And maybe a little for me, too.
Without a word, Blake Greyfield disappeared from view once more.
The elevator doors closed with a defining thunk.
And I was lost within the raging ocean of emotions warring within me. The tide pulled while the waves thrashed, and I surrendered to the sensations, feeling each as it washed over me in turn. There was despondency, but somehow relief. A wrenching heartache that I’d never felt before, but somehow joy. Anger and anxiety and just…everything. Some piece within the shadows of myself, one that I would never dare bring to light, felt elated that he’d come. That part, along with the rest of me, felt hope.
Which made less sense the more I fought my way out of the daze and back to the real world. Because I’d just let my best lead disappear. The one person who knew Lark, probably even better than she knew herself, just walked away. And I’d let him.
Good job, Raven, I thought, without the conviction I usually felt when mentally chiding myself. Some detective you are.
WHAT THE HELL is happening? What is going on? I don’t understand. Why am I here? How did I get back here? What happened?
What happened?
Was it all just a dream? Is it possible that my desire to leave actually caused me to hallucinate the whole thing? That would be…two days. Two days I hallucinated? What is real? I just woke up in my bed, back in my cell. My journal was on the nightstand, right where I always leave it.
I can see the Burberry tote hanging in my closet from where I sit. Hanging up on a peg, right where it’s been since I arrived. What the fuck is happening? I feel like I’m losing it. Was any of it real? Was he real?
Holy crap. It’s almost 3:30 in the afternoon. I never sleep this late. They never let me sleep this late, always send people check on me, to be sure I’m not whittling a spear out of my bedposts or anything else I should be doing. You’d think that—
Wait a second. If he’s real, he should be here right now. Two in the afternoon until two in the morning. That’s his shift to guard me and the other girls. If he exists, he should be here. I’m going to look.
****
He’s here. He’s real. And if he’s real, that probably means everything else was, too. So what the hell happened?
The last thing I remember, I was sitting in the warmth of that little coffee shop, relishing in the mere idea that I was free. I considered calling the police. But something kept stopping me. Something kept holding me back.
Did I really want to return to that life? I could’ve just gone to Blake. I wanted to go to him, not to anyone else. And if I called the police, they would return me to my parents. There would probably be one of those over-acted dramatic scenes that you see on the news when someone who was kidnapped is reunited with her family. But it would be different. Because my mother would be thin
king more of what other people would think, how they would perceive her, than of me. I already knew how much it would hurt.
And yes, I wanted to see my father. Wanted to hug him and let him hold me, tell me that everything would be okay. That he would see to it personally. That he’d make anyone who hurt me pay. I wanted to be Daddy’s Little Girl, even if just one more time. Because it probably would be the last time.
But more than all of that, I wanted Blake. I wanted to see his face light up when he saw me, just like every single other time. It was an amazing feeling, seeing a person react to your mere presence in such a visceral way. That light in his eyes, that smile, it made me feel like I was special. That I was loved. I can picture it now, and it makes my heart hurt a little. What if no one ever looked at me like that again?
Was I in purgatory? Had they killed me, leaving me here as a ghost to haunt this terrible place and the people who’d abducted me and held me captive? I’ve watched enough horror movies to know that people who die in tragic or violent ways have their spirits trapped in the place where they met their demise. Trapped there until a heroine and her medium come along to set them free.
Except, I can’t be dead. Dead people don’t eat. They don’t interact with everyone around them. Even if this place was some kind of vortex that trapped the spirits of everyone who died within the walls—it’s so very American Horror Story, if that’s the case—I’d left. I’d interacted with the barista at the coffee shop. So clearly I wasn’t a ghost.
But I do feel like I’m living out one of the scenes from AHS. The one where the daughter runs outside, to the gate and out to the sidewalk. As soon as she sets foot off of the property, she ends up back in the kitchen. It wasn’t as soon as I left the grounds, so I don’t think that my life is imitating Ryan Murphy’s art. But something is definitely off. Wrong. Terrifying.
Seriously, how could I possibly be back here? It’s not like I drank my coffee, grabbed my bag, and came sauntering back. I didn’t stroll up to the walk and knock on the front door. The guards didn’t open it and just let me back in, as if nothing were amiss.