Fragile Facade (Blind Barriers Trilogy Book 1)

by Sophie Davis

  As Asher filled me in on his class schedule, I again debated telling him about Lark Kingsley. Maybe he would understand why going to the police wasn’t a good idea just yet. After all, he appreciated how difficult parents could be. And the more I thought about it, the more I was positive that whatever Lark’s secret was, she hadn’t felt safe sharing it with hers. In the end, I left Asher’s apartment without divulging my new status as an amateur sleuth. I did, however, leave with a copy of the Washington Post in hand. Since the door-to-door restaurant thing hadn’t worked out, Asher thought the Classifieds section might provide better leads.

  Back in my bedroom, I set the newspaper on Kim’s desk, fully intending to peruse the Help Wanted ads. But I never got that far. Lark’s disappearance had been downgraded to a short blurb on the bottom left corner of the front page, with a longer article and greater detail in the Society section. Skimming the article and the same pictures I’d seen the other day provided no new information. It was the same plea from her mother, begging anyone with information to call the FBI. Wow, I thought, this case is getting a lot of attention. Her father was offering a handsome reward for any leads that led to his daughter’s whereabouts. Nowhere did the article come out and say that Lark had met foul play, but the insinuation was clear.

  For the briefest of moments, I did consider calling the tip line and explaining the bizarre series of events that had occurred since my arrival in D.C, telling them all about the journal, the apartment and the checks. If any of her items that I was currently in possession of led the FBI to Lark, or Lark’s body, I’d be a very rich girl. I couldn’t do it, though. Capitalizing off of the Kingsley’s tragedy felt wrong. Lark had sent out an S.O.S, and I happened to be the one to receive it. Now I owed her my help.

  I settled in on the queen-sized bed, spreading out Lark’s journal, the letter from her apartment, the poem, and the cashier’s check.

  “Come on, Lark,” I muttered, “what am I supposed to see?”

  Of course, no one answered my non-rhetorical question. I didn’t necessarily believe in ghosts, but I figured it was worth a try. Since that was fruitless, I picked up the letter and read it again. Spend a DAY in my life. Well, I’d done that. Hadn’t I? The train ticket had led me to Union Station and the checks. Was I supposed to pay her rent for her? That seemed strange. I mean, really, how was that going to help me get to the bottom of her disappearance? Then again, the checks were useless to me. They were already made out to The Pines, so it wasn’t as if I could use the money for my own needs.

  First thing tomorrow, I decided, I’d return to The Pines and pay her September rent. That way, if Lark was still alive and just hadn’t reached D.C. yet, she’d have somewhere to live when she did.

  What about this silly poem? She’d jotted down the three lines on slip of paper. Were they important? Why had she left them with the checks if they weren’t?

  Two lips across mine

  Ten fingers run down my spine

  No space between us

  Yeah, still don’t get it, Lark, I thought.

  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 Gatsby. Maybe giving my brain a rest would help reset my thought process, and tomorrow I could attack the mystery with fresh eyes.

  Only, when I settled in under the covers, it was the journal I found in my hands. So instead of a bedtime tale about the lavish life of Daisy Buchanan and her not-so secret affair with Jay, I fell asleep reading about Lark Kingsley and her very secret affair with Blake Greyfield.

  The Pines looked much as it had the previous day. In fact, Darrell was even on front desk duty again, which made life a lot easier for me. On the walk down there – something I now regretted doing since I’d managed to sweat through my tank top in the process, I’d never sweat so much in my life as I did here – I’d concocted a story as to why I, instead of Lark, was paying the rent. Truthfully, it wasn’t a very good story. In my defense, I just wasn’t a great liar. Omissions, however, were something I did quite well. I was used to letting other people, Asher, for example, talk about themselves to reduce the number of questions they asked me in return. But outright lying? Not good.

  The story I’d settled on was this: I was Lark’s cousin, and the moving truck with the rest of her things had been delayed. Since she wouldn’t be making it to the city until after rent was due, I’d volunteered to drop it off for her. Of course, this lie might come back to bite me in the ass come October. If Lark still hadn’t materialized by then and I had to pay her rent again, I had no idea what I would tell them. Truthfully, I was banking on the management of The Pines being more interested in getting paid the exorbitant rent, than who was actually paying it.

  “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–“

  His thin eyebrow raised in question, “I believe you said yesterday that she was your friend?”

  Shit. Leave it to the gatekeeper to remember details. “She is. I mean, she’s my cousin too, our, um, moms are sisters, but we’re very close, so you know, I just think of her as my friend.”

  “How lovely,” he replied, surprising me by sounding like he genuinely thought that was nice, without an ounce of sarcasm. Man, he had this concierge thing down.

  “Anyway, she asked me to come by and pay her rent,” I continued, bracing myself to commence with my flimsy explanation.

  Before I could blurt out the thin story I’d made up, Darrell said, “Ah, wonderful. I’d been wondering when Ms. Quattrocchi would materialize. She did mention that another person might be staying at the apartment around now. I’m guessing that person would be you?”

  I nodded without considering his words fully.

  Darrell leaned over the desk, and in a conspiratorial whisper said, “This sort of thing goes against our policy. All occupants are supposed to be on the lease, but you do already have a key and you are only planning on a brief stay, correct?” It wasn’t so much a question as a firm suggestion.

  “Definitely,” I agreed. “Actually, I already have my own place. My cousin just wanted me to have the choice in case I couldn’t find something right away. So I’ll probably just stop by occasionally to check on things for her until she gets here. Don’t worry, I doubt I’ll actually stay the night or anything.”

  Shut up, Raven, I thought to myself. Rambling like an idiot only made me seem like more of a liar. Wasn’t that what guilty people did on all those cop dramas? Talked and talked, offering more and more information that wasn’t relevant?

  Darrell straightened and rearranged his jacket even though it looked just fine to me. “Excellent, miss. Why don’t I give you a mailbox key then? The boxes are quite small, and tend to fill up quickly. Even if it is only advertisements and solicitations, I am sure the box 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.

  While Darrell busied himself with finding a spare mailbox key, I thought about the fact Lark had advised him that someone else would be staying in the apartment. So, she’d intended for someone to find that journal with the apartment key. But, how could she know that the person would end up in D.C.? There had to be a million places called The Pines in the country. Probably even several in Pennsylvania. Even if someone else had found the journal and the key, that person would’ve assumed the apartment was closer to where they’d purchased the car. For a moment, I wondered if she’d rented apartments in several buildings called The Pines. The thought was quickly dismissed since the key opened this apartment. For someone who’d left a trail of clues behind, she sure was leaving a lot up to chance.
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br />   “Ah, here we go.” Darrell stood from where he’d been crouching behind the counter, a small brass key in the palm of his hand. He held it out to me, and I quickly grabbed it up, grateful our exchange was coming to an end. I was worried he might be feeling chatty, and start asking questions that I had no answer for.

  I thanked him again before heading to the hallway towards the back of the lobby, where I’d caught a glance of the mailboxes the day before.

  “Excuse me, miss?” Darrell called after me.

  I swore under my breath. So close, I thought.

  I turned slowly. “Yes?”

  “You mentioned the rental payment?”

  I breathed out a long sigh. “Yes,” I said, relieved. “I did. I mean, I have the check right here.” Reaching for my messenger bag, I kept the envelope inside of it – no need to make myself look any more suspicious by pulling it out and showing him the whole stack – and retrieved one of the cashier’s checks.

  Darrell gave the check a cursory glance, probably to make sure the amount was correct, before placing it into one of the cubbyholes behind him.

  “Thank you, miss. And please let me know if there is anything we can do to improve your…stay here.” I’d already started across the lobby again, but the inflection in his voice conjured an image of Darrell giving me a conspiratorial cartoonish, over-the-top wink.

  I resumed my search for the mailboxes. Luckily, they were exactly where I’d thought I’d seen them: tucked back in an alcove down the clinically white hallway. Rows of small, square metal doors were meticulously labeled with the renters’ last names. I found the one labeled “Quattrocchi” and inserted the key. Just like every other time I’d slid slightly further 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 gruesome, like a dead body or something. Unless it was a mob hit, and they’d only returned a hand. More likely, there would just be another cryptic clue that I needed to follow.

  “This is stupid,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Oh, I agree, dear,” a voice behind me said.

  I jumped, not realizing there was anyone nearby. I really needed to find some friends so I’d stop talking to myself, I thought.

  “The amount of credit card offers I get per week is criminal in this economy. You’d think the credit card companies would’ve learned a lesson from the mortgage companies and stop offering credit to people indiscriminately.”

  Personally, I thought it was her outfit that was criminal, but I smiled politely and nodded in agreement while the older woman ranted. She was tall and thin, dressed in a stretchy pink tank top, neon yellow running shorts, and high-tech Nikes. Despite the heat, she only had a light sheen of sweat around her hairline, making me suspect that she hadn’t actually worked out recently. Or even stepped outside.

  “Are you new to the building? I don’t think I’ve seen you before. I’m Deidre, 10B. My husband’s Sam and our daughter is Mabel. Don’t ask, it’s a family name.” Deidre rolled her big blue eyes. Apparently the name Mabel came from her husband’s side of the family.

  “Um, kind of,” I said, waiting until I was positive she’d finished speaking. “I’m, uh, sort of…house-sitting for my cousin.”

  Keep the story straight, I reminded myself. Not that Darrell and Deidre were likely to compare notes or anything, but just in case, I didn’t want anyone looking too closely into my relationship to Lark, or Ms. Quattrocchi, or whatever her name was.

  “Oh, your cousin is the Quattrocchi person, I see.” Deidre nodded to my hand. It was gripping the mailbox key, still inserted into Lark’s mailbox.

  “Um, yeah. Do you know her?” I was torn between hoping she did and hoping she didn’t. If she’d seen Lark, then maybe she’d recognized her and had already tipped off the police to the apartment. That wouldn’t be good. On the other hand, maybe she knew something about why the socialite from New York had rented an apartment in D.C. Or even possibly where she was, without a clue that people were looking for her. Would it even be possible for someone to not know about Lark’s disappearance? The news had been plastering her face everywhere for what felt like ages now.

  “No, sadly I haven’t had the pleasure. Sam and I moved in last month, and we haven’t seen her once yet. We live in 10B, and I haven’t heard so much as a peep from next door. I am mighty curious, though. Hers is the only other apartment on the floor, and I’ve been wondering when she’d show her face.”

  “Soon,” I said vaguely.

  Deidre looked at me expectantly, as if she was waiting for me to elaborate.

  “Well, it was nice meeting you,” I said, then pointedly turned my attention back to the mailbox and opened it. Inside was a handful of envelopes. With the older woman hovering so close by, I didn’t bother rifling through the contents. Instead, I stuffed them into my messenger bag and hurried out of the mailroom, mumbling a quick, “See you around,” as I passed Deidre.

  Back in the lobby, I hesitated. Should I go upstairs to the apartment? I had told Darrell I was here to check on the place. But what if I got stuck in the elevator with Deidre and she started babbling or asking questions?

  I glanced over my shoulder. The other woman hadn’t followed me out of the mailroom just yet. If I hurried, maybe I’d beat her to the elevator. Decision made, I race-walked to the elevator bank and followed the same routine Darrell had taught me the day before. Luck must’ve been on my side for once, because this time I had no trouble getting the elevator to work for me.

  “Come on, come on, come on,” I chanted in a low whisper as the doors slid closed.

  Once the car was racing towards the tenth floor, I sighed with relief. One minor obstacle averted, I thought.

  Using Lark’s key, I let myself into the apartment. The purpose of going to The Pines had been only to pay the rent; I’d never intended to actually set foot in the apartment again. Now that I was here, I wasn’t sure what to do, but I couldn’t exactly go straight back downstairs. I stood in the small entryway, tapping the toe of my flip-flops and weighing my options. Obtaining a job was still high on my list of priorities, and I did have Asher’s copy of the Washington Post with me. So, I could use this time to do that. Or, I could see what treasures had been locked away in Lark’s mailbox. Too curious for my own good, the latter option won out.

  I made my way to Lark’s living room and settled in on her plush sofa. The leather was higher quality than I’d ever felt, all buttery-smooth and soft underneath the layer of dust. Even the throw pillows were high-end, not the kind that you buy at Target or whatever. For a moment, I just sat there, luxuriating in the feel of a life that wasn’t mine. Tiny slivers of guilt started to breakthrough and dampen my bliss. Here I was pretending like I had a right to be here, in this apartment, living someone else’s life, when that someone else was missing…maybe even dead.

  You’re only here because you want to help her, I reminded myself. Lark Kingsley may have died for her secrets. She’d wanted, if even posthumously, for those secrets to come to light. Had our roles been reversed, I’d have liked to think she’d be spending every spare moment working out my clues.

  Reluctantly, I sat up and retrieved all of Lark’s possessions from my messenger bag. Having learned my lesson the day before, I’d brought along everything I had that was linked to her. I spread them out on the coffee table in front of me, creating a timeline of when I came across each one. The journal was the most solid lead into what her life had been like prior to her disappearance. Unfortunately, the only secret I’d found in it so far was Blake. Tucked in its pages had been the key, which brought me to the apartment. The cryptic letter and train ticket had led me to Union Station, though I had the distinct feeling that I was missing something there.

  Spend a DAY in my life. Walk in my shoes.

  The date on the train ticket had to be important. Didn’t it? The key to the train locker alone might’ve been enough for me to figure out the locker thing. Or maybe no
t. It was nondescript, no markings to indicate the lock it fit. So yes, the train ticket itself had been a vital hint. Regardless, Lark had capitalized DAY in her letter, and she wouldn’t have needed to do that for me to put the key together with Union Station; the ticket alone would’ve sufficed. No, the emphasis on that word most likely pointed to the actual date on the ticket, which had nothing to do with the locker.

  My headache from the previous night reappeared with a vengeance. Seriously, why couldn’t she have just left a detailed letter explaining what she needed from me? If I ever needed to disappear, I was definitely going to do that. None of this follow-the-convoluted-treasure-map bullshit. Sure, if I had pursuers they would get all of the information they needed from that one letter. But at least I’d be certain that my life wasn’t hanging from a thread of indecipherable clues.

  Okay, moving on, I decided. The poem. Again, no ideas. I read it out loud.

  “Two lips across mine. Ten fingers down my spine. No space between us.” I repeated it several times, putting emphasis on 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? No, there wasn’t a third number, and all combination locks I knew of had three numbers. Unless twenty-three was the final number? Or nine? But that was four numbers, not three. And I had yet to find any combination locks. Ugh, again, moving on.

  I began flipping through the stack of mail. Besides advertisements and promotional offers, there were several correspondences from First National Bank of Washington addressed to Lila Quattrocchi. So that was her full alias, I thought. Several plain white envelopes with no return addresses were also in the pile. The postmarks, though, were from the Boroughs surrounding Manhattan, and one from Greenwich, Connecticut. No two postmarks were the same. Interesting.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” I muttered, breaking the seal on the letter with the oldest postmark.