by Sophie Davis
At the touch of a button, five flat screen televisions would drop from the ceiling to span across the entire width of the room. The center one was massive, an 84-inch high-resolution screen specially designed and programmed for global video conferencing. The picture was as clear when conversing with employees in Africa as it was when talking to the stockbroker over on 5th Avenue. The other four screens were more modest at 60-inches each. These were usually tuned to various news channels around the world, on mute, while my father worked. Behind the desk, bookshelves ran from floor to ceiling, spanning the entire length of the back wall. A second set of shelves was cattycorner to this one. I disregarded it. The books were of no interest to me.
Persian rugs covered the polished hardwood floors. As a child, I would play Swamp Monster, carefully hopping from one blue swirl to the next, avoiding the deep burgundy swatches in between. The reddish-purple fibers used to remind me of the wine my parents drank at dinner. Now, though, all I saw when I looked down were pools of blood. I shivered and hurried across the expensive rug to my father’s desk.
The flat screen monitor was new, but I imagined everything else looked just as it had when my great-great-grandfather started Kingsley Diamonds. I took a seat behind the desk, sinking into the deep cushion of my father’s chair. The leather seat felt supple and smooth beneath my bare legs, and I struggled to pull my shorts down to cover more of my skin.
It was weird, sitting in the power seat. So many life-altering decisions were made from this very chair. Kingsley Diamonds had never held a public offering, so ownership had never been divided or traded. My father held in his hands the lives of every single person who worked for the company. I could practically feel the excess of power, too great for any single man. It was a power I didn’t want.
Not important now, Lark.
I quickly focused my attention on the task at hand, not wanting to get lost in one of my wandering thoughts. Papers and files were stacked next to the leather blotter in the center of the desk. According to the labels, they were financial documents and vendor contracts. Not what I was looking for.
I scooted back, to reach for the handle of the top desk drawer, and found it locked. This surprised me, and I was almost insulted. I mean, who was he trying to keep out? Mom and I were the only people besides Dad who used the study.
I grabbed the mother-of-pearl-handled letter opener from its holder and used it to jiggle the lock like I’d seen people do in movies. The desk was over a century old, so I figured the low-tech maneuver might actually work. It didn’t. Score one for Dad. I crouched down for a better look, and realized that the letter opener was slim enough to actually fit in the small space between the drawer and the desk’s frame. I slipped the blade into the opening, pushed it slowly backwards until the hilt was all that was showing, and then wiggled up and down. A barely audible click signaled that the locking mechanism had disengaged. Score one for me.
By this point, I was feeling like a cross between James Bond and Catherine Zeta Jones’ character from Entrapment. My elation was short-lived when I realized that I’d yet to actually accomplish anything. I’d opened a drawer. Yeah, Lark, you’re a real cat burglar. Still, I took a moment to revel in my victory before sliding the drawer open.
The side closest to me had a high, shallow shelf for holding office supplies. Among the binder clips, post-its, and loose staples, I felt for a small wooden slide. Our family was obviously big on hidden compartments. At times, it felt a lot like living in a giant Chinese puzzle box, which would have been really cool, if…. Well, if it didn’t make my life so difficult.
I slipped the small slider to the other side of its notch, and the shallow compartment slid back to reveal a hidden compartment underneath. Inside was a small remote control, approximately the size of one used to control a ceiling fan. It had a single button in the center.
Nerves fluttered deep in my stomach. This was really happening. I was really doing it. I swiveled the chair around, depressed the button, and watched as the entire right panel of bookshelves came to life. The panel slid forward two feet before switching gears and slowly moving to the left, coming to a halt only after it sat flush over its mirror image. A second set of shelves, recessed several feet into the wall, was now visible.
Dust covered much of the space. Jeanine didn’t clean in here, nor the service that came in four times each year to give the whole apartment a major scrub-down. I don’t think anyone even knew the alcove existed, besides my parents and maybe a couple of my father’s most senior employees.
I stood and crossed to the shelves, surveying the rows. All the way to the left, right at eye level, was a digital recording device, the size and shape of one of the first blue ray players. A VCR had occupied the space previously, evidenced by a few video tapes still lingering on the highest shelves.
My father recorded every one of his video calls. From the most insignificant conversation to major contract negotiations, they were all here, in stack after dusty stack. There were also a few small plastic cases, holding twenty micro cassettes each. These were the conversations that had taken place here in the office that my father had deemed important enough to record. There was a tiny black button, the size of a pencil eraser, under the middle drawer of his desk, and it triggered the recording equipment. My father felt strongly about protecting himself and the company against the dishonesty inherent in many powerful men. He knew that recording key conversations could mean the difference between a judge enforcing a contract and declaring that no agreement had ever been made.
Of course, corrupt businessmen were not the only threat to my family’s glittery empire. I knew there were more nefarious reasons to save certain conversations. I wish that I didn’t.
The disks were in chronological order, some from before I was born. Luckily, the system had been updated as technology progressed. Back in the early 90s, Dad had the entire collection of VHS tapes, with their white date labels, and small microcassettes all converted to digital formats. The conversations had been saved to CDs as MP3 or video files. I imagine the transition had been as much about practicality as about keeping current; Dad would’ve needed a second, and probably a third, storage space if everything had remained on the large tapes and he’d continued using them.
The CDs were stored individually in slim plastic cases, which were then arranged on horizontal racks. In general, one rack held one year’s worth of recordings. Some years, Dad must have been extremely busy, because they needed two racks. Recently, he’d created backups, copying the files to jump drives that he could carry in his briefcase or slip into his pocket. An entire year of conservations fit on one 64GB stick. The portable drives were stored in a case that closely resembled a toolbox. Each individual compartment had a label with a date range. The level of organization was impressive, but it was not why I was here.
On top of the digital recorder was a tablet. It was password-protected, but my father had given me the code on the same day he’d first shown me the secret compartment and explained its purpose. He was hell-bent on passing down the company reins to me, and had been grooming me for a while now.
This particular lesson had come about a year ago. I’d been running on the treadmill that my mother insisted he keep in the corner of the office, just in case he found a spare half hour and felt like breaking a sweat. Wasted effort on her part. I’m pretty sure I used it more than he did. He’d just gotten off of a video conference, and had called me over to show me how the system worked. After each conversation, he recorded in an index the date, the name of the person he spoke with, and keywords about the conversation. I think the purpose behind him telling me all of this was to impress upon me the need to learn right away. But, I was so taken aback by the whole set-up that his words hadn’t exactly registered at the time. Still, I’d caught enough to figure out that this was the best – really the only – way to find conversations on a certain topic.
Turning on the tablet screen, I was greeted by twenty-five dots in a square formation. I sl
id my finger from the one in the lower right-hand corner first to one, then another, then another, and then to the final dot to complete the password sequence. The home screen appeared. I located an app, “Handwrite Sudoku,” which contained the index of keywords. It was incognito, disguised as a game, just in case an unauthorized person had come this far – unlocked the desk drawer, found the switch, opened the hidden compartment, and entered the correct sequence to unlock the tablet. I couldn’t imagine that happening.
Once open, the app offered two options: “Search” and “Browse.” I touched “Search.” A small blinking box appeared. Pressing that brought up a touchscreen keyboard. I quickly typed the word that had been bouncing around in my head like a ping pong ball for weeks: Jurangi. I held my breath and hit “Enter.” “No Search Results” blinked on the screen a heartbeat later. I blew out a frustrated sigh. How anticlimactic. Hitting the back button, I tried again, this time entering Jurangee. Again, the same result. Jurrangee. Juranngee. Jyranjee. My anxiety and nerves had been replaced by annoyance and exasperation. Gyranji. Gyrangee. Seriously?? How was someone supposed to look up a term she had only heard spoken during hushed conversations and had never seen written? You’d think this system was designed to be used by someone who knew what they were doing.
Browse, Lark. Duh.
I hated when my inner monologue mocked my lack of common sense. I returned to the previous screen and, this time, chose “Browse.” The twenty-six letters of the alphabet came up in blue squares. I chose the one for G, scanning through Gu- and Gy- with no avail. This was definitely taking longer than anticipated. My nerves returned. Sparing a glance at the clock, I returned to my task with renewed fervor. This time I selected the blue box for J. Ju- turned up nothing. But then, with the only word that began with Jy-, I struck paydirt. Jyranji.
Seriously? I thought to myself. Could that have been any harder to spell?
I was about to click on the odd word, when I noticed the annotation beneath it: See also – Mines. Well, that answered one of my questions. I touched the word, as foreign to me as if it were in another language. Probably because it was. Suddenly, dates filled the screen, one after another, forming a list that lasted a lifetime. At least, my lifetime. I chose one at random, and a single line of characters appeared on the screen: McAvoy 061095 #14. From first glance, my guess was that this was a conversation with my father’s most senior advisor, William McAvoy, Kingsley Diamond’s Chief Operating Officer. The numbers were most likely a date. At least, I assumed this, since the disks were all organized by date. I had no idea what the final number meant.
Still clutching the tablet, I walked over to stand in front of the shelves once more. 1995, the first year on my list, was just out of reach. Great. I placed the tablet on the edge of one shelf and considered standing on a lower shelf to give me a couple extra inches. A stepstool to the side of the stationary bookcase in the corner caught my eye. Much better idea. I was surprised I’d noticed it at all. It was easy to overlook since it matched the leather and grommet style of the high-backed chairs. I’d never seen the stepstool actually used, either. Weird.
I situated the stool directly underneath the rack for 1995 and climbed the two stairs. Pulling the rack to the edge of the shelf, I began to flip through CDs. Bingo. Though some months had multiple disks, June 1995 had just one. I tossed the CD onto the desk behind me and mentally checked off the first date on the list. Dad was so organized that locating the remaining disks was almost too easy.
Until…one was missing: Conversation McAvoy 112802 #2. There was a single empty slot in the 2002 rack, between the second disk for October and the one labeled December. November was missing. Maybe it fell? I wondered. I pulled out the entire 2002 rack and tried to stack it on top of the 2010 rack. Only 2010 was on the top shelf and there wasn’t enough room between the top of the bookcase and the top of the rack to fit a second rack. That didn’t stop me from trying, though. I shoved hard, my hand knocked the wooden paneling, and the wood paneling moved. I froze. Did that really just happen?
I hit the paneling again. Nothing happened. Had I imagined it moving before? Get it together, Lark. Third time’s the charm, I thought as I tried to make the paneling move again. A section of the bookcase shifted.
Excited now, I returned 2002 to its own shelf and began pushing on the oak with the tips of my fingers. It didn’t budge. What the hell? I ran my hands over panel, feeling for the slightest movement. Six inches to the right, the wood finally shifted. It was slight, but noticeable.
Intense panic swirled quickly through me, causing momentary dizziness. My hands grasped the edge of the shelf, and I closed my eyes, praying the feeling would pass quickly. You’re just lightheaded from climbing up and down the stepstool, I told myself. Several deep breaths later, I was steady again. I exhaled and returned my attention to the panel.
Clearheaded once again, I pushed the panel up with both of my hands. A square section yielded. Seriously? There was a secret compartment on the underside of the top shelf of a bookcase, located in a hidden cubby in my father’s study, which required finding a hidden remote in his desk to open? What could possibly require all of that? The Hope Diamond? Wait, no, Blake and I just saw that in D.C. Stacks of unmarked, non-sequential twenties? No, we have safes all over the house for that. A go-bag? In case he needed to flee without warning? Doubtful.
Only one way to find out, I thought.
Hope and dread quickly gave way to disappointment when my hand only felt empty space in the compartment. Only a moment from resigning myself to the fact it was empty, my fingertips brushed smooth plastic. Bingo. I pulled out the slim case, the disk inside winking back at me as it caught the light. November 2002.
A quick glance at the clock on the opposite wall made my heart beat a little faster. The evening’s function was considered to be one of the more prestigious of the season, so my parents wouldn’t be returning until well after midnight. Plenty of time, I assured myself. Still, this was already taking longer than I’d anticipated. Pick up the pace, Lark! I would have made a horrible thief.
November 2002 joined the other disks on my father’s desk, the leather desk blotter now covered in an untidy pile of plastic cases. I hopped off the stool. Without concern for the swamp – though some part of my brain still tugged at me to adhere to my childhood rules – I crossed the rug again and left the office. Not running this time, though still moving quickly, I went back through the hallway and up the stairs. In my room, I went straight to my own desk and pulled the laptop from its docking station. I retraced my steps back to the study and, once again, sat in my father’s chair.
Plastic cases were slid out of the way and my laptop was opened and powered on. Picking up a case at random, I inserted the CD into the computer’s drive and waited for it to load. The file drive menu popped up on the screen. After only a second, the window filled with small manila file folders, numbered one through thirty. Glancing at the label on the empty case next to me, I realized that each folder represented one of the days of June 2007. The list on the tablet told me I was looking for 06182007 #29. Clicking on the eighteenth folder brought up another list. The files in here were simply numbered, one through thirty-three. The last number now made sense. My father must have opted for the simplest method, numbering the files in sequential order of when they’d taken place that day. Upstairs, I’d also grabbed a jump drive from my desk, which I now plugged into the side of my laptop. Dragging number twenty-nine from its folder over to the icon for the thumb drive only took a second.
I made short work of the rest of the disks, copying the designated files from the CDs to my jump drive. When I got to the one from November 2002, I paused. I was more than a little tempted to double-click, to see what secrets required the extra layer of concealment. One glance at the clock convinced me that now wasn’t the time. As a compromise, I copied the entire disk.
Two hours later, the front door slammed shut and the unsuppressed giggles of my parents wafted through the apartment. The dis
ks were back in their respective places, the shelves again obscured by the bookcase. The stool was back where it belonged. My father’s desk was straightened, without so much as a pencil out of place. My laptop was back on the docking station, the term paper on Ecuadorian Social Security begun.
Everything was exactly as it should be. Except for the jump drive. Nothing about the information on that jump drive was as it should be. In a game of which of these things doesn’t belong, the darkest secrets of a corporation didn’t belong in the bright, shiny life of an heiress.
“What the hell are you doing?” Asher demanded, the glass that separated us taking some of the edge off his irate tone.
Reflexively, my fingers curled protectively around the butterfly pendent. Its gently rounded edges dug into my palm. This time, when I reached for the door handle, I actually opened it. The sudden movement caught Asher by surprise, and he didn’t react quickly enough to avoid the door. He’d bent over to peer into the window, so it whacked him in the forehead. Had the situation been different, it probably would’ve been comical.
I swung my legs around and stepped out of the car with as much confidence and attitude as I could muster. My bare feet hit rough pavement, and I cringed. Gross. Asher’s anger had me on the defensive, and despite my pounding heart and churning stomach, I straightened to my full height and stared at him defiantly. It was kind of hard to be mad at him when he was rubbing his head where I’d hit him. His eyes were a mix of watery emotion. Still, I did not appreciate being scolded like a child.
“I needed something from my car,” I said haughtily.