by Sophie Davis
The journal, key card, and apartment keys were in my messenger bag. I reached inside and removed the key card. Inserting it into the slot, I held my breath, worried that it wouldn’t work and I’d be stuck here until someone happened to go in or come out. My fears were put to rest when the green light on the pad came alive, followed by a long, low buzzing noise from the double doors. I was a second too late pulling the door handle and had to repeat the process.
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 immediate 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 that my parents had taken me to when I was twelve, to have 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. I supposed they were for management to send residents their rent invoices and notices.
“Actually, you can,” I said, offering him what I hoped was a dazzling smile. “I am 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. But it was enough for me to understand that he thought I didn’t belong. Apparently my white capris and baby-blue tank top were not in accordance with The Pines’ dress code. Well, that was just too bad.
I was so busy watching him watch me that I forgot he’d asked me a question until his pencil-thin eyebrows arched in annoyance.
“Are you here to see a friend, miss?” he pressed.
A friend? Well, no. Lark Kingsley and I were definitely not friends. But I felt an unexpected kinship with the missing girl. I’d only gotten through the first journal entry before exhaustion had won out and sleep pulled me under. Lark’s rambling was hard to follow. Her thoughts were disjointed, incoherent at times. It was clear the girl was troubled.
“Um, yeah. My friend–” Her name was on the tip of my tongue before I thought better of saying it aloud. A copy of The Washington Post was lying open on the receptionist’s desk. I wasn’t sure if it was the same edition from yesterday that prominently featured Lark’s disappearance, but I did feel confident that there would still be something about her in today’s paper as well. The story was intriguing national news, after all. The last thing I needed was to be rewarded for my good deed of returning her things by being hauled into an interrogation room and questioned about her whereabouts.
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.
Apparently I’d spoken the magic words because the receptionist’s attitude did a 180. 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, could you please sign 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, you see.” He really did sound sorry, too, which I found odd since he was clearly just doing his job.
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. So much had changed in the last several days, and time had gotten away from me.
“August 29th, miss. The time is…,” he paused for a beat, “10:22 a.m.”
“Thank you.”
I filled in the requisite answers and listed “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. Quattrocchi’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, wondering who that was. Was it actually someone else’s apartment? Or was that an alias for Lark? “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 towards 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.
Ten was as high as the numbers went, apparently the top floor. I tried pushing the button for it, but nothing happened. Strange, I thought.
Feeling like a complete moron, I pushed the “door open” button, intending to swallow my pride and ask Darrell for help. But when the doors 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.
The way he suddenly materialized was nothing short of creepy. It was like he had a sixth sense or something.
I nodded mutely and he boarded the elevator car. As the doors once again slid shut, I inched slowly away from the receptionist until my back struck the handrail encircling the interior. Darrell withdrew a key card just like the one I’d used to get in the front door, 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 numbers on the button glowed green.
To my relief, Darrel 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.”
“Thanks, I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” I replied just before the doors silently closed again, mercifully separating me from the omnipresent receptionist.
The elevator, like the building, was brand-new, and the ride to the penthouse was smooth and expedient. That was good, too, since I spent the entire time vacillating between curiosity, excitement, and dread. My emotions ping-ponged at a dizzying speed, making my headache from the night before return. To say that I wasn’t extremely interested in what Lark Kingsley was doing hiding out under an assumed name in Washington, D.C., of all places, would be a blatant lie. Would she actually be there? Her journal suggested a very interesting, if not disturbed, girl. And the idea of meeting the heiress did excite me for some unknown reason. I’d done a little research into her family background before leaving that morning.
Her great-grandfather had come 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. Back in Italy he’d been a well-respected jewelry designer, but had fled in a hurry and with only the possessions he could carry. This made me feel a kinship with her ancestors since I’d done essentially the same thing, only on a much smaller scale. 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 had taken the family business to new and impressive heights. Their designs had been worn by European and old Hollywood royalty alike. They’d then invested their revenue into the actual diamond mines, buying them up as the money poured in. Lark’s father inherited the business in the mid-nineties, and had continued the tradition of creating exquisite and pricey pieces that the rich and famous clamored to get their hands on. He’d also continued to grow the mining part of the company, until the Kingsleys were known not just for their jewelry,
but also for owning a vast majority of the diamonds in the world.
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 and I had to thrust my arm in 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 towards 10A. The hallway smelled like new carpet and a hint of wood polish. A mirror ran the length of one wall, and I stopped for a beat to check my reflection.
“Let’s find out what happened to you, Lark,” I told my reflection, then continued to door 10A.
My initial knock was tentative, so light that it was probably inaudible to someone on the other side. But the sound echoed in the empty hallway. I counted to thirty before repeating the act with more resolve. There was no sound of rushing feet or a voice calling for me to “Hold my horses” from inside. There wasn’t anything.
Lark was clearly not there. I turned to leave, but didn’t actually go anywhere. I had come all this way 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. Actually, no, that wouldn’t do. He was too creepy to trust with Lark’s journal.
I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. My head pounded painfully. Was it really trespassing since I had the keys? If Lark had run away and she was simply hiding out here, she wasn’t likely to report me to the cops regardless.
Exhaling, I turned and thrust the key in the lock before I lost my nerve. The sound of the deadbolt disengaging was impossibly loud. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure I was still alone, then pushed the door open and took several steps inside.
“Lark?” I called tentatively.
No response.
“Lark?” I called more loudly this time.
I jumped when the door closed behind me with a bang. Heart racing a mile a minute, I laughed uneasily. I totally should have taken Asher up on his offer to accompany me, I thought, moving further into the apartment.
“Lark?”
My flip-flops smacked the wood floor in the small foyer as I walked slowly forward. The apartment had the same new-carpet smell as the hallway. The pale-blue walls were pristine, not a scratch to be seen. My first thought upon entering the vast space was that Lark wasn’t at all roughing it, if she was in fact living here.
The dark hardwood floors were offset by a plush ivory rug in the living room area that was directly beyond the small entrance hall. A beautiful couch in brown leather with thick, deep cushions was in front of a contemporary metal-and-glass coffee table. A 72-inch plasma flat screen TV was mounted on the wall directly across from it. End tables that matched the one in the center of the room stood on either side of the couch, and lamps with light-brown crystals hanging from the shades sat on top of both. The silver blinds I’d seen from outside hung floor to ceiling over the windows, but they were covered in several layers of sheer cream curtains. The effect was much warmer than the blinds alone would’ve been. Everywhere I looked was a mix of modern and homey, stylish and comfortable.
A kitchen was off to the left, just visible beyond a countertop with stools. The open floor plan was probably designed for entertaining, so the hostess could still chat with guests while preparing a succulent meal. Though, to be honest, it was more likely that anyone who lived here would hire a chef for dinner parties. In between the two spaces sat a large dining room table, the wood just a shade or two lighter than the floors. Large chairs with snowy cushions assured that no meal would be eaten in anything less than the greatest of comfort.
I walked past the table, making my way towards the kitchen. It seemed certain that there wasn’t anyone in the apartment, but I could still leave her journal and keys for her, should she ever return. Entering the huge space with white-tiled floors, I noted that the marble countertops were covered in a thick layer of dust. It had been a long time since anyone was here.
My heart seemed to stop altogether and my breath hitched in my throat when my eyes landed on an envelope. It was propped against a small basket on the counter to prominently display the words written in a familiar large, looping cursive across the front. How long I stood there, just staring, I will never know. It felt like a lifetime.
Finally, with fingers trembling, I reached for the envelope. Instead of picking it up right away, I traced the two words on the front with my index finger: Read Me.
Taylor Vanderkam always threw the most amazing parties; they were absolute do-not-miss-affairs. Her mother was known within my mother’s circle for the extravagant events she held, from themed dinner parties to lavish black-tie charity galas. Taylor’s grandmother held the same role back in her heyday, and her great-grandmother was practically famous for the wild anti-Prohibition fetes she’d thrown in the 20s. If party planning was found on a DNA strand, Taylor had definitely inherited the gene, and her over-the-top nature had been acquired honestly.
It was the grand matriarch who’d inspired the evening’s 1920s theme. I’d been listening to Taylor discussing the details for a month now, and couldn’t wait to see how it all came together. She knew that it was the small things that really made a party unforgettable; we’d even had an entire conversation over lunch one day about whether or not the teacups the drinks were to be served in should actually be chipped as they once were at many speakeasies. We’d come to the conclusion that it was doubtful her great-grandmother had used anything at all flawed, so we decided on pristine ones after a very serious discussion. Though it was laughable, that was Taylor, and authenticity was important to her when the party was themed. For this one, she was even going so far as to require that all of the male staff working the party grow perfectly groomed mustaches, and she’d ordered them all uniforms that suited the era. It was supposed to be an incredible night.
Rumor had it that it had been an incredible night.
Too bad I couldn’t remember a single moment of the party.
The other three girls in the Eight and I had a pre-party ritual, almost always held at my place. We danced around my bedroom, sang along to Ke$ha’s latest hits, vied for space at my vanity and, of course, had ever-present bottles of champagne that we went through like water. Sometimes, when I was feeling particularly silly, I would rap old-school Biggie or Salt-N-Pepa, much to the delight of the other girls.
I loved our routine. It was a time when it was just us, no judging eyes, and we let loose more than we otherwise would. To be honest, sometimes I had more fun while getting ready than I did once we were actually out at the evening’s destination. I secretly thought that the others did, too; we were never in any hurry to actually get ready. Much to the chagrin of the guys, it always took us several hours before we were all prepared to walk out the door.
But the night of Taylor’s party, I wasn’t feeling particularly social. So, I elected to get ready alone at my apartment. I knew that I would be spending the entire evening “on,” that it would be a draining night, and I wanted to conserve what little energy I had.
I was actually in a really weird mood, feeling very introverted and almost self-conscious. I wanted to just enjoy the process of primping for the night while completely relaxed. Instead of bubbly, I swiped some of my father’s scotch, filling a glass with ice cubes before adding the amber liquid until the glass was half-full, and then topping it off with water from the ever-present stash of bottles in the fridge.
My father always made a face when I did this, grumbling about the expensive liquor being diluted so much, but secretly I th
ink he liked that I enjoyed drinking it. It was a weird sort of pride, that of a father who was pleased that he and his daughter shared things.
I took the glass back to my room and cleared a space for it on the vanity amongst the collection of eye shadows and brushes before settling into my usual nighttime preparations. My evening routine was entirely different from the morning one, but I was well-versed in it by this point in my life. After plugging in the curling iron, I started one of my mellow Spotify playlists. The laidback music would help me relax, if even for just a little while. Eventually I would need to put something peppier on, or I’d end up crawling into bed and never make it out the door. For now, though, mellow fit my mood perfectly.
As I drank the smoothest Scotch money can buy, I savored the warm, tingly sensation that accompanied every sip. My limbs felt lighter. The knots in my shoulders melted away. All felt right with the world.
Once my hair was expertly done in large barrel curls, I flipped my head over to add volumizing mousse to the roots. Upon straightening up again, the world spun just the tiniest bit. Chalking it up to the sudden rush of blood to my head, I returned to my father’s study for a refill.
“Remember that stuff sneaks up on you,” my father warned from his favorite armchair in the corner.
He appeared a little blurry, and I had to blink several times to bring him into focus. “Hence the water,” I told him.
My father raised his own glass in my direction in toast. I mimicked the gesture before leaving the study.
Returning to my room and the vanity, I switched to a slightly more upbeat track list and set to applying my makeup. It was a common misconception that activities after dark dictated the use of a heavier hand with eye makeup. Instead, a lightly applied neutral shade on the lids coupled with the right contouring and lining gave off a much brighter but still appropriate look.
My outfit for the evening was a short, nude slip dress, with the telltale tassels that made it perfect for the night’s theme. Sure, flappers hadn’t actually worn dresses that were this short, but I knew every other girl at the party would be baring just as much leg.