Platinum Prey

by Sophie Davis

  It was especially satisfying that we’d found a way to get back on track, because I was feeling like we were finally close to uncovering something pivotal. And I hated dwelling on petty, unimportant matters when Lark was out there somewhere, in need of my help.

  We decided to start with the mail I’d collected the first day I’d come to The Pines, which we split between us to speed up the process. Asher volunteered to go over the newspaper articles, which left me with the small stack of bank envelopes.

  Picking up the envelope on the top of the stack, I ran my finger across the clear, plastic rectangle positioned over the addressee. Lila Queensbridge.

  It seemed safe to assume that Lila was Lark’s chosen alias and not another person helping her. More than anything, I wanted that to be the case, because I couldn’t handle another huge question in need of an answer: if Lila wasn’t Lark’s alias, who was she and where did she come into this story?

  Ugh, this is not a path you want to go down right now, I decided. The speculation alone will kill you, and that’s all you can do: speculate. Move along.

  I opened the first envelope and began studying the single sheet of paper inside. It wasn’t actually a statement, but instead a notification of a fee being withdrawn for the safety-deposit box. As I quickly learned, the rest of the envelopes from First National contained the same notification, one for each month the fee had been charged.

  Just as I was ready to announce my utter failure, a line at the bottom of the page caught my eye: “For more information on your accounts, please visit www.FirstNationalBank.com.”

  Maybe this isn’t a dead end after all. Opening my laptop, I went to the bank’s homepage.

  Asher glanced up, eyebrows raised.

  “Online banking,” I said.

  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 listed on 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?

  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 heart inside. The two words were vague: Your Future. That could only be “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 had one attempt left. What should I try for the final one—Mrs. Greyfield? Mrs. Pattinson? Lark Elgort? Thankfully, I didn’t have to make that critical decision.

  Not caring that Asher was there to bear witness, I pumped my fist in the air in victory. “Yay!” I shouted aloud, 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 together. Seconds later, he let out a low whistle and sat back against the couch. It didn’t take me long to see the reason.

  Lila Queensbridge 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 rental fees for the safety-deposit box.

  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.

  It was a joint account. My name was just beneath Lark’s alias.

  My. Name.

  Holy crap.

  The earth stood still. This wasn’t like the cash in the train locker, which I yet to touch since hiding it beneath my mattress. Lark put my name on this bank account. While still staring at the screen, something else caught my eye. As if I weren’t already overwhelmed enough, my heart skipped several beats when I saw a pending charge.

  Holy crap.

  Lark was using the account? Lark was…no, no way. Except, it had to be…. Without giving myself time to fully consider the ramifications and have a total freak out, I clicked on the hyperlinked words.

  It was from A Little Slice of Pie. It was my charge. My debit card….I…I had…whoa. I had twenty-five thousand dollars. I had enough money at my disposal for a brand-new car, a fabulous new wardrobe, or to take one hell of a vacation.

  Stunned, I let myself fall backwards against the couch. 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 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.

  “Huh?” I asked distractedly.

  “The money in the bank—maybe she stole it from her parents,” Asher repeated slowly, emphasizing each word.

  “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 it’s her from her trust fund,” he suggested. “I’d bet that entire twenty-five grand that she received a payout on her eighteenth birthday.”

  “If that’s the case, where’s the rest of it?” I asked.

  Asher stared at me blankly.

  “Like you said, twenty-five grand is pocket change to a Kingsley.” I shrugged. “Lark’s trust fund likely has a lot more zeros than this.” I gestured to the balance on the screen.

  Asher seemed to consider my point, before saying, “Maybe the trust gets doled out over time. Like, maybe she gets a certain amount every year or on important birthdays.” He met my gaze. “Does it really matter where the money came from?”

  No, it doesn’t, I thought, getting to my feet.

  “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.

  The upgrade in my financial standing put a little extra pep in my step. I’d been reluctant to touch the cash because it wasn’
t mine. There was no note telling me it was okay to spend the money. But finding my name on a joint bank account was much different. That money, that twenty-five thousand dollars, was mine for the spending. And that fact lifted a weight off my shoulders.

  I was drying my hands when I heard a faint knock on the front door. I froze. Who knew about the apartment? Was it possible the mystery man had returned?

  “Raven? You expecting company?” Asher called, his voice muffled by the 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.

  “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 his words. The visitor spoke almost as softly, but I was able to catch parts of the conversation.

  Mumble, mumble.

  “—here?”

  Pause.

  “Okay?”

  Male, definitely male, I thought, pressing my ear to the door.

  “Depends…day…good…confusing,” Asher responded.

  I glanced at the sink, at the ceramic cup beside the faucet. Let’s see if this trick really works, I thought. Or, you could just go out there.

  But something held me back, kept me huddled in that bathroom. I did, however, grab the ceramic cup and press it against the door to amplify the voices in the foyer.

  “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 backward, bumped into the sink, and sank to the bathroom floor.

  No. Way. It can’t be.

  “—leave,” was the only word of Asher’s reply that penetrated both the haze in my brain and the bathroom door.

  Quickly scuttling to the door, I scrambled to put the cup back into position. I didn’t want to miss a single syllable of the conversation. Holding my breath, I waited for the other boy to speak again; 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. Even though I’d only heard him speak once before, outside the soccer stadium, I was sure. Blake Greyfield was standing at my door.

  No, Lark’s door, I corrected myself.

  Regardless, he was here. Asking about…well, about what? Lark?

  Why, though? Why was he here? Did he receive the package? Had there been a note inside, telling him to come here? Was it possible he’d known about this apartment 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, and 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 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 two seconds away from stomping my foot in frustration. Blake Greyfield had been so damned close. And I’d let him slip away. More accurately, Asher had let him slip away.

  And then…I saw fingers curl 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 doors. After letting out a shaky breath, I opened my mouth to ask any of a million questions.

  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. That look rendered me speechless. 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 standing in that hallway with Blake, I 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.

  I found myself 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: despondency, but somehow relief; wrenching heartache that I’d never felt before, but somehow joy; anger and anxiety and…love.

  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. Some detective you are.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  LARK

  BRIIING-TING-TING. Briiing-ting-ting.

  “Incoming call from—” Sirius began.

  “Silence,” I groaned.

  But it was too late, the phone call had pulled me from sleep and there was no going back.

  “Sirius, time check,” I muttered, eyes still closed against the sunlight streaming through the part in my bedroom curtains.

  “The time is 11:41 a.m., Lark,” my virtual assistant replied.

  Ugh, I thought and rolled over so that I was facing away from the windows.

  “You have eleven new text messages and five missed calls,” Sirius continued in his polite British accent.

  “Most recent call?” I asked.

  “Most recent missed call from Annie,” he replied. “Would you like me to read the last text from Annie?”

  “Yes,” I said, but only because it was out of character for my best friend to call unless she needed something or had an urgent matter to discuss.

  “Text from Annie: Birthday brunch? Noon?”

  Sorry, Annie. This birthday girl needed her beauty sleep, I thought.

  To Sirius, I said, “Who are the other texts from?”

  “Two incoming text messages from Taylor. One incoming text message from Camilla. One incoming text messages from Ilan. Four incoming text messages from Blake. One—”

  “Read texts from Blake,” I interjected.

  “Incoming text message from Blake reads: Good morning, beautiful. I love you. My dreams last night were of you descending that staircase. You were so radiant, so confident. Let me know if you can get away later. I would love to see you, but I understand if you’re busy. Xoxo.”

  Hearing Blake’s words in Sirius’ voice always made me giggle, and that morning was no different.

  “Do you wish to hear your other messages, Lark?” Sirius asked.

  I started to say no, but curiosity got the better o
f me. He’d said eleven new messages, which was a lot for before noon the morning after a blowout. “Just the senders,” I said instead.

  Sirius rattled off a number with a 475 area code.

  After so much champagne the previous night, my brain was still fuzzy and it took me several seconds to remember that 475 was Greenwich, Connecticut.

  Adam, I thought, finally sitting up in bed.

  Seeing and spending time with him at my party had reminded me of how much I loved and missed Adam. But now, without the alcohol clouding my judgment, I wasn’t sure how I felt about rekindling our friendship. Adam knew things about me that no one in my current world did. Things I sometimes forgot—Connecticut felt like another lifetime—and things I didn’t want to remember. Was mixing my past and present really such a good idea?

  Do you want a future, Lark? If so, you must face the past. The voice of my therapist floated through my head unbidden. You must acknowledge what happened, understand the reasons why it happened, and process your emotions in order to heal. Continuing to hide the past is not healthy and will cause it to manifest in frightening ways—just as it did before.

  Over half of my senior class at Gracen was in therapy and openly discussed their sessions with one another. Cam and Taylor compared notes on a regular basis. Ilan used his to get out of assignments he didn’t feel like doing; “my therapist says” are like magical words in our world that open a treasure trove of perks and possibilities.

  “My therapist says that being forced to run the mile in under ten minutes adds unnecessary stress to my life, and that pressuring children to meet unrealistic expectations during our formative years only sets us up for failure down the road,” Ilan had told our gym teacher.

  “Mr. Avery, are you or are you not on this school’s track team?”

  “It’s different, sir. My therapist says that being a member of the team is a choice that I have freely made. I did not choose to take gym. It is a requirement for graduation.”

  And just like that, Ilan was allowed to skip the assignment.

  Unlike my friends, I was extremely uncomfortable even admitting that I saw a therapist, let alone openly discussing our private sessions and using them to my advantage. I actually needed therapy. My parents hadn’t hired a professional to pick apart my brain solely because it was fashionable.