by Sophie Davis
“How does the Kingsley Diamond relate to your problem?” he asked, studying me.
Again, I hesitated. How much should I divulge? Asher wasn’t stupid. Asking about the Kingsley Diamond might’ve piqued his curiosity enough that he’d eventually realize my interest lay in Lark’s disappearance.
Averting my gaze, I asked, “Have you read about the daughter’s disappearance?”
For some reason, I felt like I was betraying Lark by sharing her secret with Asher. It was nonsensical, I was aware. I didn’t even know Lark. How could I violate her trust when we’d never met? Still….
“It’s been all over the news. She never returned from a trip with her friends or something, right?”
I nodded. That was close enough. The minute details weren’t really important.
“You know how I found that keycard to that apartment building, The Pines? Turns out, the apartment is rented to Lark Kingsley.”
For some reason, I kept her assumed name to myself.
The food arrived—barbeque chicken salad for me and lobster ravioli for Asher. He dug into the pasta immediately, appearing to mull over my disclosure. I picked up my fork and began eating to cover the silence.
“Raven?” Asher started after he’d swallowed a ravioli whole.
“Yeah?”
“Did you tell the police?”
“No.” I examined a lump of goat cheese.
“Do you think maybe you should?” he asked. “I mean, that seems like the kind of thing they should know. She might still be alive. If you have information that might help them find her….”
Asher trailed off, leaving unspoken the fear that I’d had lodged in the back of my mind since finding her journal.
If I didn’t figure all of this out soon, it might be too late for Lark. Was I really the best person to investigate her disappearance and follow her clues?
No, I absolutely wasn’t. But she’d specifically asked that I not involved the authorities, so I wasn’t sure what else to do.
Shaking my head, I took a sip of water.
“I can’t, Asher,” I said after swallowing. “You don’t understand. I know she was, or is, in trouble, but I think someone close to her was the cause of the disappearance.” I hesitated for a long, awkward moment, and then added in a soft voice, “Lark seemed to think the authorities couldn’t help. She even suggested that there might be some sort of conspiracy or pay-off happening.”
Asher’s gaze landed on the hand holding my fork. It was clenched in a fist. I hadn’t realized how worked up I was.
“Sorry,” I said sheepishly and rested the fork on the edge of my plate. “It’s just that I’ve been reading her journal, and she left all these convoluted clues and–”
“Her journal?” Asher cut me off. “And clues?”
Shit. I hadn’t meant to say so much. “Um, yeah. That’s where I found the key, tucked into her journal. She left a trail of breadcrumbs. I think she wants someone to follow them.”
“Raven–”
This time I cut him off. “Asher, please. I know how ridiculous this sounds. But please, trust me on this? She needs my help.”
My help? Lark needed help, but surely I wasn’t the one she’d intended to find her journal or her apartment or anything else, right? She was probably hoping for someone…competent.
“Okay,” Asher said slowly, drawing out the word to make it sound impossibly long. “Fine. No cops. So, what sort of clues has she left?”
I met his inquisitive gaze with a wide-eyed stare of my own.
“Really? You want to help? You know that we could be arrested for hampering an investigation, right? It happens all the time on crime shows.”
Asher laughed. “I’m the law student, remember? If you feel that strongly about this, then I’m here to help.”
Relief washed over me. I had an ally, a friend. I didn’t realize how badly I needed those until that moment.
“Thank you,” I told Asher.
He reached across the table and took my hand.
“I’m here for you, Raven.” He met my gaze squarely. “Just tell me how I can help you find Lark.”
Seventeen
Lark
The way time passes here…there’s something so off about it. Some days, each step takes an eon to complete. It feels as though I’ve been wandering these halls for an eternity already. Some days, the silver hands of time barely moved. Others, hours pass with each stroke of the brush through my hair. One minute, I’m sitting by the window, admiring the gladiator sandals on a glossy page of a magazine as morning sunlight warms my cheek. The next, I blink and look down to find I’m still sitting in the same chair, the magazine closed and returned to its place atop the side table. The only light now comes from the bulbs recessed in the ceiling.
Hours after my arrival, I saw my first captor in the flesh. She introduced herself as Joanie, and I felt true panic for the first time since being taken from my family’s Manhattan home. I’ve seen her face. I know her name, I remember thinking. I’ve seen enough movies and read enough books to know that neither of those facts is good for me.
Joanie brings me three meals a day. She appears in the doorway with a tray in her hands and asks whether I’d prefer to eat in the dining room with the others or in the privacy of my room. Why would I want to eat with “the others”? The other wandering souls just remind me how dismal my fate is. I always choose privacy.
I’m scared and alone, but I prefer solitude to people I can’t trust. I’d also prefer Joanie drop the charade. This place is not a luxury spa. I’m not on vacation. I’m being held against my will for reasons I don’t understand. My wrists aren’t bound with rope and my ankles aren’t shackled, and yet I am not free.
It really does seem like they want me to see this place as a little getaway, no big deal. Really, the airs of civility here are almost laughable. Almost. The latest editions of my favorite magazines are procured and arranged on the coffee table in the living room. Movies still in theatres are waiting to be watched beside the eighty-inch flat-screen. In my room, Lululemon’s newest yoga mat—a replica of the one in my bedroom at home—sits in the corner. Copies of the same paperbacks that line my bookshelves are arranged on the ones here, too. It’s as though they’ve been watching me, studying me, learning my likes and dislikes in hopes of bribing me.
For what? I don’t know.
Ludicrous! I want to shout. Stop pretending! I see through the façade! I want to scream until my throat burns from the effort. This isn’t a bed and breakfast. This is the land of the lost.
Yet, I never summon the nerve to say anything of the sort; the consequences would be as unwelcome as the outburst itself. So, we all pretend. I play the part of the well-mannered guest, even as the desire to rage against Joanie and her cohorts eats me up from the inside out.
When I choose to ignore their distractions, I’m permitted to roam within the carefully guarded walls of my prison or write in my diary. This journal is my escape, my getaway, the only place I can express what I am truly thinking and feeling. To do so outside of here would bring all sorts of unimaginable punishments. To my knowledge, no one has ever invaded this space. I carry it with me all day and sleep with it beneath my pillow at night.
Sleeping here was impossible at first, despite the soft, Egyptian-cotton sheets and the fluffy pillows. Joanie tried to “help me.” Every night, the seemingly pleasant woman with beautiful chestnut hair appeared next to the bed with two yellow pills and a cup of water.
“In case you need help sleeping,” she said.
At first, I sneered at her offer, refusing to make myself any more vulnerable than I already was by accepting her “help.” I fought hard against Joanie and her tempting sleep aids, determined not to ingest any substances that would impair my mind. And I fought even harder to stay awake day after day, to stay constantly on guard. It was exhausting. Soon, I was wandering the halls with my eyes half open and my reflexes twitching.
Confusion came next. My thought
s urged me to beware of Joanie and her pills. Don’t crack. Don’t cave. That’s what they want. The mental voice grew louder and louder until I began to wonder if it weren’t in my head at all. That night, when Joanie set her offering on the bedside table, I finally gave in. I didn’t need paranoia of unseen entities clouding my attention. I needed to stay on guard against actual, tangible foes.
The next morning, I realized the pills were actually a gift; a kindness that was unexpected and, perhaps, unintentional. Falling into the depths of a velvety darkness was a blessed break from the anxiety that was persistently tugging at my brain since the moment I was brought here. For the first time since my arrival, I slept through the night. And much of the next day.
Now, I sleep straight through each night, waking refreshed and relaxed, until the reality of where I am comes crashing over me. My nighttime reprieve and these brief moments in the morning are the only times I feel free. And freedom is something I desperately seek.
Some days, they want to talk to me. Or rather, they want me to talk to them. There’s no routine to this, no warning; a tall woman wearing a frown will simply appear. The first time, she simply stood in front of me for several moments before speaking. We engaged in a game that I’ve seen my mother play at many social gatherings. It is a time-honored tradition among our circle: we weigh, we measure, and we pass judgment immediately upon meeting a newcomer.
The tall woman, my opponent, may have once been beautiful. With her round face, long blonde hair, and endlessly long legs, she reminds me of an aging supermodel. The lines around her flat eyes, the deep trenches extending from the corners of her downturned lips, and the extra ten pounds she carries tell me her days of catwalks have long been over.
“He is ready for you.” She has a thick, Russian accent, and I stare at her blankly.
I heard, “Key ees veddy fortu.”
Luckily, her expectant, no-nonsense expression tells me I should follow when she turns suddenly and walks away. Nerves make me clumsy, and it’s all I can do to keep my feet from tangling together as I trail behind her. Transferring the slight sheen of dampness from my hands to my jeans, I take deep breaths and steel myself for whatever comes next. I picture myself standing tall, exuding confidence. Yet I am not so out of touch with reality that I think this is what I look like.
The meeting takes place in a front room that looks more like a parlor than an interrogation chamber. This does not comfort me. After pleasantries that belie the severity of the situation, the man behind the desk tells me to call him David. Just “David,” nothing more.
David, the name of a school friend or barista in a coffee shop. David, as though my life isn’t held in the palm of his hand.
There is a small paunch in David’s abdomen, like a woman in her second trimester. The crinkles around the corners of his muddy eyes tell me he’s been wearing that same watery smile for a lifetime. Visually, everything about him screams non-threatening. But I have a definitive feeling deep in my stomach that tells me otherwise. It’s as though he’s practiced being good-natured. He is the hospitable face of the very inhospitable organization holding me hostage.
The scribble of his pen grates on my nerves. That smile causes acid to rise in my throat. And still, I strive for indifference, as though anyone is fooled by my apathetic mask.
That first meeting was just the two of us. This is not always the case.
Occasionally, another man will sit in a wooden chair in the corner, observing me intently but never saying a word. In a way, this man is more frightening than my other captors. Like a predator, he is always watching. I call him the Hawk.
I’m certain he’s David’s equal; authority and power practically leak from his pores. Despite his silence, he manages to speak volumes. The man’s presence brings heightened stress, and I get flustered when I answer David’s questions. Guessing at what the answers should be becomes harder with the audience. I vacillate between overanalyzing every syllable that forms in my head before speaking and rambling incoherently under the Hawk’s penetrating gaze.
He has this habit of leaning back in his chair, resting his elbows on the wooden arms, and placing an ankle upon the opposite knee. This is the Hawk’s casual pose. I have one, too. For both of us, though, “casual” is an act. There is nothing casual about these meetings.
Sometimes, when I’m answering David’s questions, the Hawk tilts forward ever so slightly, as if he can’t help himself. Intensity and interest radiate from him. I pretend not to notice, but I can see him in my peripheral vision when I look directly at David. I always choose my words carefully when I see his other foot come to rest on the plush, beige carpet. Twice now, I’ve seen his elbows rest on his knees with his chin propped on the back of his laced fingertips. Alarm bells went off in my head both times, and a stern whisper in my head told me to lie.
His absence is almost worse. It carries a whispered warning.
Did you tell him what he wanted to hear last time? Have you sealed your fate?
I don’t know what will happen to me when the Hawk hears the words he’s waiting for. David’s questions are always innocuous, sometimes downright confusing. I fear that I’ll be unaware I have disclosed the magic words until it’s too late to take them back. When that’s done, which way will I be cast?
The days I am not summoned to David for questioning are spent in what I can only assume is a drug-induced stupor. Unlike at bedtime, Joanie does not give me a choice in the matter. If I were clairvoyant and knew which days these would be in advance, I wouldn’t eat or drink what I’m given. Some days, I’m asleep more than I’m awake. Sometimes these days pass with hardly a glimpse of sunlight.
Coherent days, where I make it through breakfast without exhaustion creeping into my bones, put me on edge. I’m left to wonder when they’ll come for me and what they’ll want when they do. I miss my old life. The longer I am here, the more I am convinced that it’s behind me for good.
Today isn’t one of the clear days.
I attempt to peruse another magazine, struggling to muster interest. A new movie plays on the television with the blonde from Grey’s Anatomy and a heavyset guy with curly hair who looks vaguely familiar. Joanie took the liberty of putting it on for me. From what I hear in the background, the witty dialogue seems like something I would typically enjoy. But I refuse to let Joanie catch me watching the raunchy comedy. I’m ignoring them and their efforts. Thank goodness I have my journal to write in. However small, it feels like a victory.
Listening to the movie, I’m once again reminded that my captors have done their homework; they know me better than some of my closest friends. I’ve never told the girls that I think movies with guy humor are much better than sappy love tales. Under normal circumstances, I find it impossible to not enjoy the action and eye candy in Ocean’s Eleven, which Joanie put on last night. But being here, how can I possibly enjoy these things I used to enjoy in my everyday life? How do they expect me to sit and watch this as if I haven’t a care in the world?
Great, here comes Joanie. If she thinks I’m touching anything else she gives me today, she’s nuts. I’m barely awake as it is.
My lunch is served on bone china, the food’s presentation as careful as Colicchio’s. This is just another facet of this place’s diamond-encrusted façade. The joke is on them, though, because impure diamonds crack easily under relatively low pressure. Between the guards, the interrogation sessions, and the drugs, this place is more flawed than a heavily blemished stone. A major outburst or escape attempt from me, and the veneer would break wide open.
“All done?” Joanie asks, reaching for the untouched food tray. She’s obviously gotten the memo: I’m not eating it. “How does a walk sound? Or maybe you want to read for a bit?”
I respond with a blank stare.
“Well, Ms. Kingsley, how would you like to spend your afternoon?”
There she goes again, pretending as though I have options. Hypothetically, I am free to do as I please. If it doesn’t involve
going within fifteen feet of the alarmed doors.
I don’t tell Joanie that I’d like to spend my afternoon anywhere besides here. That I want to sleep in my own bed. That I want to never see her fake smile again as long as I live. She grins down at me expectantly, waiting for an answer to her ridiculous question. If I ignore her and keep writing, eventually she’ll give up and go away. I’ve used this tactic before. She’s a fool if she thinks she’ll be getting any other response.
A man sits by the front door, reading a leatherbound volume of a classic novel. The wiry muscles of his forearms are at odds with the delicate, gold trim on the book. The pique knit of his polo strains across his chest. Outside of these walls, I am certain that’s not his attire of choice. He looks like he’d be far more comfortable in a tight, white undershirt and gold chains hanging around his neck. Undoubtedly, those in charge made him cleanup for this job. Like seeing him in golf attire makes his presence any less ominous. It was another pointless pretense.
His dark skin and hair remind me of Don Vito’s men from The Godfather. I think of him as Michael Corleone, to remind myself that there is undoubtedly violence beneath his civil exterior. He doesn’t sit there because he finds the armchair comfortable. The chair itself is not situated there because an interior designer decided it should be. He will stop me if I try to leave. He will use force if necessary.
Michael has a nighttime counterpart with dark, menacing eyes and the look of someone who enjoys inflicting pain. I think of him as Carlo.
The guards and impenetrable locks are the only blatant warnings that escape will not be tolerated. But I don’t need to see these reminders to know I’m a prisoner. That fact is a weight deep in my soul, punctuated with every heartbeat. I am confined, I am trapped. I don’t know if I will ever see my home again. My friends and family may all be lost to me for eternity.
Indeed, the existence of eternity is what I face here. This is my biggest fear. It is as though David and his questions are an interview—or an audition—for my life. Tell us what we want to know and we may allow you to continue existing. But if I don’t get the part…