Platinum Prey

by Sophie Davis

As much as I loved the Eight, compared to Adam, they were new additions to my life. Sure, Adam and I hadn’t seen each other in four years, but ours was a friendship forged in diapers. He’d been there for me through the truly tough times, and apparently had tried to be there for the toughest of them all. It wasn’t Adam’s fault that my mother had excised him from my life like a misshapen mole. It was fitting that Adam show back up now, when ugliness once again plagued my life.

  As Adam and Blake conversed about the future—both headed to D.C. come fall, Blake to Georgetown and Adam to work with his father on the Hill while attending George Washington University—I realized how fortunate Adam’s reappearance in my life truly was. Adam had never been far from my thoughts, but until hearing him and Blake talk about their plans for the following year, I’d forgotten a very useful bit of information about Adam Ridell.

  In order for me to have the future I wanted, I needed both of them. Or should I say, I needed all three of them: Blake, Adam, and Senator Ridell.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  RAVEN

  UNFORTUNATELY, I ONLY managed to get through three additional journal entries that night before sleep claimed me. I dreamed of a boy in a hooded sweatshirt chasing me from one empty subway car to the next. When I reached the last car, I sprinted for the door at the end. My hand closed around the metal handle, but when I tried to push the lever down, it refused to move. Sweat poured down my spine in a never-ending cascade that puddled at the small of my back like a wading pool. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the boy in the sweatshirt, hood pulled low to obscure his facial features, confidently striding toward me as if he had all the time in the world.

  “Open, damn it!” I muttered frantically, yanking the handle so hard that the metal bar came loose.

  “Lark! Stop. It’s me,” my purser called, voice calm and low, sultry even.

  He was less than five feet away when I started beating my fists against the door and screaming for someone to help me.

  Just as the boy in the sweatshirt reached me, the door sprang ajar. The momentum from the moving train carried me through the opening. I stumbled, my left ankle giving way beneath me. Strong arms closed around my waist from behind. My lips parted, a bloodcurdling scream gathered in my throat.

  Before I could let it out, his mouth was next to my ear, breath warm and pleasant on my neck. “Careful, love,” he muttered, lips brushing my skin. “Those heels are high, even for you.”

  I looked down at my feet, which just seconds before I was sure had been wearing sneakers. A pair of gold Jimmy Choos with five-inch, spiky heels shone up at me. Delicate straps, lined with small crystals, crisscrossed my feet and ankles.

  The arms around my waist felt familiar and comforting.

  “Blake?” I whispered, voice breathless and shaky.

  His deep chuckle made his chest vibrate against my back. “Sorry to disappoint, doll. Tonight it’s only me.”

  Craning my neck to one side, I finally got a good look at the boy who’d been chasing me through the subway cars. Or, at least I should have, but he was wearing a Phantom of the Opera mask. Letting loose the scream I’d been holding inside, I pushed off my captor’s chest and tumbled backward off the small platform at the rear of the train. Just before I hit the tracks, I saw his lips move, and though I couldn’t hear his words, they rang out loud and clear in my head: Lark, I’m here to help you.

  I woke with a start, arms flailing as if to fend off an attack. The scream from my dream carried over into the waking world, so loud that I’d scared myself into awareness. Cold sweat trickled into my eyes, and I wiped my forehead with the back of one hand. Tangled strands of hair clung to my skin. My heart beat so hard and fast that my chest ached as a result.

  “Just a dream. Just a dream.” I spoke the reassurances aloud.

  At some point in the night, I’d kicked off the covers. The comforter was now in a heap at the end of the mattress. The silvery-blue top sheet was wound around one of my legs like a vine. And my ankle, the one I’d twisted in the dream, throbbed with phantom pain.

  The bedroom was dark, the sun having yet to rise. Fumbling around in the absence of light, I groped the bedside table in search of my cell. The time on the display read 4:15 a.m. And then I saw the missed calls and texts.

  Asher.

  He’d called ten times and sent five texts, all with the same message: Are you okay? We NEED to talk. While each message contained the same words, Asher showed his increasing worry using exclamation marks.

  With a sigh, I began typing a reply, before remembering the reason we needed to talk: the damned kiss.

  Sometimes, Raven, you really are an idiot, I thought. What had possessed me to kiss Asher? And, more importantly, what was I going to say to him when we finally did talk?

  Staring blankly at the phone, I pondered all the reasons a girl might kiss a boy and all the reasons he might kiss her back. Asher had kissed me back, at least at first. But then he’d pulled away—or had I pulled away?—as if suddenly waking up from a trance and realizing that what we were doing was wrong.

  Coming up with nothing intelligent to say, I simply sent back: I’m fine. Talk soon. Then, remembering that it was ridiculously early, hit every button on the touchscreen in an effort to stop the text. Which, surprise, surprise, had no effect.

  “Shit,” I swore. “What now?”

  As with most of my dreams, the images were already fading from my mind. Much as I wanted to forget the horrible scene, I felt that it was important that I remember. What had the boy in the mask said to me? Oh, right: Lark, I’m here to help you.

  For the eighty billionth time, I vowed to find lighter bedtime reading material than Lark Kingsley’s journal. Obviously, reading about her troubled life was having a negative effect on my sleeping habits.

  My messenger bag was leaning against the base of the bedside table. Reaching down, I fumbled through the contents until I found my own journal and a pen that worked. Furiously, I scribbled down every detail of the dream that I could recall. The recollection only spanned half a page. I read and reread what I’d written several times, focusing on the part about the boy in the mask being there to help me…err, not me—Lark. Not being the type to hold much stock in the meanings of dreams, I was surprised by how important I felt it was to learn the guy’s identity; how crucial it felt. Just as crucial, in fact, as finding out whom Deidre had seen entering the apartment.

  I flipped to the next page and wrote:

  Baseball-hat boy

  Mask boy

  One and the same?

  It couldn’t be Blake. The boy in the dream had said as much. And I’d already determined that Blake was not the guy Deidre had seen earlier that night.

  A chill ran down my spine. That’s what you need to be doing, I thought, figuring out the intruder’s identity. Dreams aren’t real. The guy in the apartment was flesh-and-bone.

  Abandoning my notes, I tossed my journal onto the bed and started for the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. A girl with bloodshot eyes and dark circles stared back at me from the mirror over the sink. Her face was barely recognizable. It was too thin, too pale. All the shit with Lark Kingsley was taking a toll on me. I needed to solve this mystery. Otherwise, I was going to lose myself in the process.

  Not the least bit tired, and somewhat worried that my subconscious would invent another crazy dream, I decided to start the day off right with a nice, hot shower. It went a long way toward clearing my mind and making me feel human again.

  Figuring out who’d invaded Lark’s sanctuary ranked number one on my to-do list. As I sifted through the mess of clothing I’d left lying on the closet floor, a thought popped into my head: the sign-in book at the front desk. All visitors had to record their name, time of arrival, and the apartment they were visiting. Because the mystery man was not a resident, even if he had a key, the front-desk clerk would’ve made him sign in. All I had to do was look at the log from yesterday, at approximately the time Deidre had mentioned, and I’d
have my answer…hopefully. While I fully appreciated the number of issues—fake names, incorrect apartment numbers, lazy front-desk workers—the log book was the best place to start my search.

  After selecting a khaki skirt and striped tee, as if I would be yachting, I checked the time: 5:02 a.m. Darrell had been on duty last night, if I hurried, maybe I’d be able to catch him before his shift ended.

  Sprinting to the elevator, and then through the main lobby, I grinned when I caught sight of a sleepy-eyed Darrell draped over the welcome desk.

  “Morning!” I called brightly.

  Darrell straightened, eyes going wide until his gaze landed on me. “Ms. Ferragamo, good morning. You are out and about early today,” Darrell said with a tired smile.

  “Yeah, I guess I am. You know what they say, early bird gets the worm!” I cringed. Could you be any more ridiculous, Raven?

  Darrell chuckled softly. “Are you off for a day of fishing, Miss?”

  It took me a second before I understood the joke, and then I laughed. “Oh, right. Worms, fishing; I get it. Sorry, haven’t had my coffee yet,” I said. “Anyway, I was hoping you might be able to help me with something.”

  Darrell appeared startled, as if a resident—or friend of a resident—asking him for help was a first. “Of course, Miss. If I can, I would be delighted to help you. How may I be of assistance?”

  “Deidre, in 10B, said that a man stopped by our apartment yesterday. She believes it was around six thirty in the evening. I was wondering if I could look at the log book to see who the visitor was? He didn’t leave a note, and I wanted to let my cousin know.”

  Darrell wrung his hands together, posture growing rigid and uneasy. “Well…you see, Ms. Ferragamo, I really should not give that information out to a non-resident.”

  Wrong answer, Darrell. Come on buddy, work with me…. I hid my agitation behind a brilliant smile.

  “No, no, of course not, I completely understand. It’s just…well, it’s just that this guy has a key to the apartment. And until Deidre told me about him, I thought there were only two keys—mine and my cousin’s. Being that I’m the only one here right now, it makes me a little nervous that someone else has a key. If I had his name, I could run it by my cousin. And truthfully, I’d just feel better knowing who it is.”

  My rambling wasn’t particularly helping my cause. If anything, Darrell appeared more reluctant to let me see the log book now that I’d mentioned another key out there floating around.

  “I can speak to management for you. Cer—”

  “No,” I practically shouted, and then swallowed back any further protests upon seeing Darrell’s startled expression. “Sorry. I just don’t want to make a big thing of this, you know? He’s probably a friend of my cousins, but I’d feel better knowing who I might encounter inside her place. Besides, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”

  A lifetime seemed to pass while Darrell debated my request. Chewing the inside of my cheek nervously, I readied myself to bolt, in case Darrell insisted on involving management.

  Finally, after what felt like hours, Darrell smiled. “I do understand, Miss. You’re right to check. A young girl can never be too careful. Certainly, if this man has a key, he is a friend or relative of Ms. Queensbridge. But it won’t do to have you worrying about it. A quick look can’t hurt.”

  “Thank you,” I said gratefully. “Thank you so much, Darrell. It would really put my mind at ease.”

  “Happy to help, Miss.” Darrell flipped to yesterday’s sign-in page in the log book. “Sixty thirty last night, you say?”

  “Thereabouts,” I answered casually, trying to keep the excitement to a minimum.

  Using a long, thin finger, Darrell scanned down the entries and frowned.

  Seeing his look of confusion and concern, my heart skipped a beat. “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  “No, I…. Well, possibly. It does not seem as though there were any visitors to Ms. Queensbridge’s apartment around six thirty last night. For that matter, there are no visitors to any of our residents listed between six and seven.”

  The skin around his mouth puckered as his frown deepened. Darrell flipped to the next page, concern etching more lines in his skin. “I never allow a visitor to enter without signing in—not even a frequent guest such as yourself, as you are undoubtedly aware Are you sure about the time?”

  The fact that Darrell—formal, by-the-book Darrell—forgot the “Miss” at the end of his question, told me that he was just as upset over this development as I was. Albeit, for an entirely different reason. Darrell probably worried that the oversight might cost him his job. I worried it wasn’t an oversight at all, but rather a purposeful omission.

  To put Darrell’s mind at ease, I quickly backtracked. “Actually, no, I’m not. Deidre wasn’t positive of the time. She just knew it was when she was leaving for dinner,” I explained, forcing a laugh. “You know what, though? Maybe she meant she saw him when she was returning from dinner, not when she was leaving. I’ll ask her.”

  “Please do, Miss. I hate to think an unauthorized guest was in the building on my watch.”

  “Thank you for checking, Darrell. Really, I appreciate it very much. I’ll talk to Deidre, and we’ll get this straightened out. Who knows? Maybe when I talk to my cousin, she can tell me who the guy was. He had a key, after all.”

  With that, I turned to leave. I was anxious to return to the apartment before I began to ask about surveillance cameras and how I could view the footage. Somehow, I knew Darrell wouldn’t honor that request.

  “If the gentleman had a key, it’s always possible he came in through the back entrance or the garage,” Darrell called after me, almost as an afterthought.

  “There’s a garage? And a back entrance?” I asked.

  “Yes, Miss. The same key card that grants access through the front doors will work on both the back door and the garage. The Pines strongly discourages residents from having their friends use either entrance, since we prefer all visitors sign in for security purposes. But…,” Darrell shrugged, “sometimes these things do happen.”

  “Right, I understand. Thanks.” Once again, I started toward the elevator.

  “Ms. Ferragamo?” Darrell called, a tentative note in his voice, as if already regretting what he was about to say.

  “Yes?” I replied, not sure I wanted to hear it.

  “If you’re truly concerned, I can check with management about viewing the surveillance tape. It runs on a seventy-two-hour loop, so last night’s feed will not have been erased yet.”

  Hope soared in my chest. This was just the sort of breakthrough I’d been waiting for: a real, honest-to-goodness lead that could help me find Lark.

  “Really? You’d do that for me?” I sounded pathetically grateful.

  Darrell’s smile was kind. “The security of our residents is very important to us. I would hate for you to feel anything less than safe while staying here.”

  Clearly, I was growing on him. Big softie, I thought.

  “Thank you. That’d be great. Can I leave you my cell phone number? You can call or text if your boss says it’s okay for me to see the tapes.”

  “Of course, Miss.”

  Darrell produced a pen and paper from beneath the counter and jotted down my cell phone number as I rattled it off. After thanking him at least ten more times, I finally returned to the apartment.

  The previous night, the knowledge that someone had been in the apartment while I was not had sent me running for a butcher knife. But as dawn broke on the new day, my outlook on the situation had a rosy tinge. Finally, I felt as if I was getting somewhere.

  Full of excitement, I began to compose a text message to share the news with Asher. And then I remembered the kiss. In my excitement, I’d temporarily forgotten the previous night’s blunder. I placed my phone on the nightstand, the text saved as a draft. I vowed I would act like a grown-up and deal with the whole situation later. I’d explain to Asher that the kiss was a mistak
e—something I was confident we both agreed on—and we could move past it like adults.

  Too wired to go back to sleep, I decided to keep the momentum going and search Lark’s apartment for more clues. I was certain that she’d left more breadcrumbs for me to find. I decided to start with the mattress. Did I think it was likely I’d find a piece of paper shoved inside one of the coils or stacks of hundred-dollar bills wrapped in stuffing? Not really, but I had to start somewhere.

  Once in the bedroom, I reached for the covers and the book of sudoku puzzles caught my eye. The first time I’d seen it, all I’d thought about was how bad I was at playing the numbers game. The second time I’d seen the book, it had been lying on the floor, having fallen off the nightstand. Was it possible the intruder had been looking through the book? Was there a clue hidden inside the pages? If so, was it still there or had the mystery man taken it with him?

  “Only one way to find out,” I muttered.

  Sitting on the edge of the unmade bed, I began flipping through the puzzle book. I didn’t know what I was supposed to be looking for. But, hoping that the elusive nugget of inspiration would jump off the page and bite me on the nose, I persisted. Five pages in, I began to see a pattern, and not one that made me very happy: all the puzzles were complete. Someone, presumably Lark, had filled in every single box.

  “Awesome. And the day started out so promising,” I muttered, tossing the book aside with an exaggerated sigh. “Now what?”

  Maybe it was because I needed a place to focus all my nervous energy. Maybe it was desperation. Maybe it was a sixth sense. Maybe I am just that stubborn. In any case, I felt certain a clue was hidden in that damned book somewhere. It was so Lark’s style.

  Picking back up the puzzle book and starting at the beginning yet again, I studied each puzzle carefully. I took care not to miss an empty box or glaring error. The only thing I knew about sudoku was that each number can only appear once in each line and box. Hopefully, an error would be easy to spot.