The phone buzzed again in my hand.
Answer it. Get this over with now.
Taking a deep breath, I put on a smile, hoping the expression would come through in my voice. I hit the answer button.
“Hey, Asher,” I said. “Way to leave without so much as a note. I was worried.” Impressed by how calm and collected I sounded, I smiled for real.
Asher on the other hand sounded hurried and strained when he spoke. “Listen, Raven, we need to talk,” he said, without preamble.
Yes, yes we do, I thought. “That’s funny, I was thinking the same thing,” I replied evenly.
“I know you’re supposed to meet with Darrell soon to look at those tapes, but I’m stuck on campus right now and can’t get away. Do you mind waiting until tonight, so we can view them together? I’d really like to be there.”
I bet you would. “Sure. What time will you be free? I’d like to give Darrell a heads-up.”
“Um, I have a study group until two. I can meet you at The Pines around three?”
I cut my eyes to the clock on the microwave: 11:22 a.m. That leaves me roughly three and a half hours to devise a plan. “Sounds good. You said you have a study group? Where are you guys meeting?”
“Downtown. There’s a little coffee shop at 21st and K Streets.”
The answer was so quick, without the slightest hesitation, that it had to be true. Whether Asher was meeting with a study group, though—that was an entirely different story.
“Cool. What time are you guys meeting?”
“One o’clock…. Why the twenty questions? You never ask about my classes and stuff.” Though Asher chuckled—you know, because teasing usually required mirth—the sound was brittle and forced.
If this exchange took place even twenty-four hours ago, his dig about my lack of interest in his classes would’ve made me feel guilty. Asher was right about that; I rarely asked about his life outside of me and the investigation. But it wasn’t because I was being rude, and he knew that. Maybe he even took advantage of it.
The search for Lark consumed every moment of my day. It was all I ever thought about. Now I realized how shortsighted I’d been. Looking for Lark’s clues had blinded me to the ones Asher was leaving behind, and I began to realize just how many there were. For instance, his erratic class schedule, and Jessica, the girl from the coffee shop.
At the time, I’d thought Asher’s behavior toward her odd. He’d been standoffish, rude even, to someone who was supposed to be a classmate. Now I understood why: he wasn’t uninterested in making friends at school; nothing about her had been grating to his nerves—Asher was worried about saying the wrong thing. She talked about assignments, classes, and professors, and he gave clipped one-word answers. Had she persisted, she might’ve inadvertently exposed that he wasn’t in law school.
And the surveillance tape—he had been so adamant that I not watch it. He went so far as to invent some FBI friend of his father’s. What about his father—was he even a lawyer? Or was that just a convenient lie since we were in Washington, D.C.?
“Raven?”
“Huh? Yeah, I’m here. Sorry, I was lost in my head,” I said, realizing that I’d grown silent. Luckily I was in shock, so my voice didn’t quiver with fury. I probably should’ve been scared, but my rage toward Asher was trumped that instinct.
“And I’m sorry I don’t ask about your classes more. I’ve been really selfish,” I added. “I know how important school is, and you’re right, I really should ask you about it more often. I’ll be better about it, I promise. Starting today, in fact. You can tell me all about your study group when I see you later.”
Even over the phone, I felt Asher grow uneasy. I could just imagine him squirming on the other end of the line. Though, maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part.
“You don’t need to apologize. Finding Lark is your number one priority right now. I get it. It should be.”
“Thanks for being so understanding, Asher. I couldn’t do all of this without you.”
“So, three at The Pines?”
“See you then,” I said, about to hang up when I realized he’d never gotten around to the reason he’d called. “Oh, wait—what did you want to talk about?”
Asher hesitated. There was a low hum of conversation in the background. I pressed my ear against the phone. Was that a radio? Was Asher in a car?
“It can wait until later,” he finally said.
“You sure?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“Cool. See you at three.” With that I hung up.
Now what? I thought.
There was a lot to figure out in the next three hours. I had to decide how to handle things with Asher. Did I come right out and confront him? Tell him that I’d seen the tapes and knew he’d been the one Deidre saw entering Lark’s apartment? What other option did I have? Was it time to turn over the evidence to the professionals and let them handle Asher?
Sorrow suddenly overcame the anger, and I was adrift in a sea of uncertainty. The one person I trusted, the only person I could count on, wasn’t who I thought he was.
The most brilliant deception is a mask of friendship hiding a foe in plain sight. And Asher had played the part with exceptional skill. He’d been lying to me for weeks. I couldn’t even begin to guess the extent of his betrayal. Was anything true? Was every word he uttered a lie?
There’s one way to find out, I decided.
Asher was scheduled to meet his supposed study group in just over an hour. Although I had serious doubts about what he was actually doing at the coffee shop on 21st and K Streets, I was fairly sure he’d be there. The best lies are built with bricks of truth. If I hurried, I could be there when Asher, and whomever he was meeting, arrived. Incognito, of course.
Quickly collecting my computer from the coffee table, I shoved it into my messenger bag. And then it hit me: the flash drive was missing. It was no longer plugged into the USB port.
“You little asshole,” I muttered, knowing exactly who was responsible for the theft.
Angry and distracted, I slid on a pair of flip-flops and retrieved my car keys from the table near the door. A creamy, white envelope caught my attention. Had it been there before? No, definitely not. It was too large to go unnoticed for long.
The front of the envelope was blank, the flap on the back hanging loose. I glanced around the apartment, as if the sender would materialize in the small foyer. No such luck. Reaching inside, I felt several thick pages of stationary.
More curious than nervous, I unfolded the top sheet and scanned the document. It was a letter, written in a loopy scrawl that I knew well. Just in case I was somehow making this all up, I read the signature at the bottom: Lark Kingsley.
But that wasn’t what made my fingers go numb, what caused the sheets to fall from my trembling hands: my name was at the top.
The letter was addressed to me.
Gulping for air, I took several steps backward, as if the letter had teeth it wanted to sink into my leg.
Where did the letter come from? Who left it? Lark? Asher? Blake?
No. No, no, no. I cannot deal with this right now. One problem at a time. First, Asher. He’s going to be at the coffee shop soon. He’s the most immediate concern.
But…what if he wasn’t? What if this letter, a letter from Lark to me, meant she was alive? Possibly even in the District?
Regardless, Asher has been lying to you, I thought.
Right, and confronting him is probably stupid and dangerous, I countered my own argument.
Kneeling down to retrieve the stationary, I shoved it into my bag. Besides the letter itself, there were still three pages inside the envelope. Without bothering to check what they were, I left the apartment. I needed to get out and clear my head. Things were happening too fast. It was all too much. I needed a pause button on my life so I could take a minute and digest everything.
But that wasn’t an option. Not if I wanted to find out whom Asher was meeting.
Get it together, Raven.
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Okay. I was okay. I’d go to the coffee shop and read the letter from Lark while waiting for Asher and his friend to show up. Two birds, one stone, so to speak.
Parking downtown in the middle of the day was a nightmare. After circling the block three times, I sucked it up and paid twenty-five dollars to valet my car. Otherwise, I was going to miss Asher arriving at the coffee shop. And I really wanted—no, I needed—to be hidden in the corner before he arrived.
Going the classic spy route, I donned a pair of oversized sunglasses that obscured half of my face. Unfortunately, it didn’t occur to me until I was already there that wearing shades inside was going to draw attention, instead of acting as a disguise. Luckily, there was a man selling Washington Nationals paraphernalia on K Street. Jogging over to the little stand, I handed him a ten in exchange for a baseball cap.
Not exactly the best camouflage, but it was something.
Since Asher didn’t give me the name of the coffee shop, I was flying semi-blind. Luckily, there were only three choices and two were chains: Starbucks and Così. The third was a place called Don’t Sleep the Day Away. Gamble though it was, I went with the mom-and-pop shop. Not only because Asher had offhandedly mentioned several times that he preferred patronizing non-corporate establishments—truth? lie?—but also because it was the only one that was physically on the corner of 21st and K Streets.
I checked the time on my cell: 12:48 p.m. Twelve minutes. Though I was worried he might show up early, I didn’t want to be kicked out of the restaurant for not ordering anything, so I risked grabbing a cup of coffee. Thankfully, the line was relatively short, and I had my mocha in hand in less than five minutes. My luck continued when I spotted a vacant two-person table in the back corner by a hallway to the bathrooms. From there, I had the perfect view of the entire place. Plus, no one could sneak up behind me.
Rushing over to the empty table, I sat down and opened my laptop. It was the perfect item to hide my face behind, since many other café patrons were doing the same. Meanwhile, I’d been scanning the crowded coffee shop for signs of Asher ever since I’d set foot inside. Still no sign of him.
Lark’s letter was calling to me from inside the messenger bag, but I ignored the summons. One thing at a time, I told myself. Truthfully, I was worried that I’d get so caught up in reading it—Lark’s first words to me—that Asher and the Dalai Lama could show up, and I wouldn’t notice.
The clock in the corner of my computer screen read 1:01 p.m. Asher was late. Or maybe I was wrong about the place. Or maybe Asher had lied about the meeting altogether. Or maybe….
Give it ten minutes.
At 1:04 p.m., the front door opened. My involuntary gasp drew a strange look from the guy at the next table. The newest patron, a guy with dark, curly hair and gold aviators, paused briefly inside the doorway. He pushed the sunglasses up onto his head, revealing piercing, bright-green eyes.
Blake Greyfield gave the room a once-over.
Slinking down in my chair, I concentrated all my energy on making myself as small as possible.
W.T.F. Could that possibly be a coincidence? What were the odds of that?
Slim.
Blake ordered a cup of coffee and found an empty table in the middle of the café. He didn’t get out a book or computer. Instead, he sat perfectly still, muscles rigid and tensed. Though his hands were wrapped around a mug of steaming liquid, he didn’t take a single sip.
Was Asher coming here, somehow knowing that Blake would be here, to confront him? About what?
Blake was sitting in such a way that only his chiseled profile was visible from my vantage point. All the same, I could tell he was deeply entrenched in watching the door—that single point consumed all his focus.
So, I watched him watch the door. My eyes darted between Blake, the clock on my computer, and the front entrance. I repeated the circuit over and over again, until I was dizzy from the effort. And still I kept an eye on all three.
And then, at precisely 1:12 p.m., Asher strode into the coffee shop.
Blake Greyfield stood and waved Asher over to his table.
No uncertainty remained: this was a planned meeting.
With a quick nod of his head, my faux friend wove his way through the sea of tables to join Blake. I didn’t bother to hide the fact that I was openly gawking. In total and complete shock, I couldn’t bring myself to care. Maybe I even hoped that one of them would notice me.
Asher sat, withdrew something small from the pocket of his khaki shorts, and placed it on the table. I strained to see the object, but too many obstacles were in the way. Neither guy looked in my direction. They began speaking, in tones too low for me to hear five tables away.
It was like my feet had a mind of their own; they were underneath me, one moving in front of the other at a steady pace, carrying my body toward Blake and Asher before I even registered what I was doing. Suddenly, I was standing beside their table, pulling out a chair, when Blake finally realized they were no longer alone.
Those emerald eyes shone from beneath inky-black lashes and, for a moment, I was lost in their depths. Emotions I didn’t understand swirled inside of me, making my chest ache. Tears prick my eyes.
“R-R-Raven?” Asher stuttered.
My head snapped to the left when he spoke. The spell that had temporarily come over me dissolved. “Hello, Asher,” I said, my voice as cold and hard as ice.
Dismissing him, I turned to face Lark’s boyfriend again. The hard edges of the ice instantly melted as I spoke to him. “It’s Blake, right?”
Blake Greyfield stared, seemingly unable to speak.
Folding my hands on the table, I glanced back and forth between the two guys. “So,” I said, “who wants to tell me what the fuck is going on?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
LARK
I don’t understand. Nothing makes any sense. I feel like the whole world is conspiring against me. I left. I know I made it out. How is it possible that one minute I was sitting in a coffee shop, gleefully writing about my newfound freedom, and the next I woke up back in this bed, back in this dreaded hellhole? As if I’d never left.
The calm, the forced pleasantness, the pretending—I couldn’t physically take it. So I went to David. I confronted him. I demanded answers, demanded to know the truth. And I’m terrified by what he said. Terrified that I’ll forget what he said. Because I know it’s important. Incomprehensible, senseless…but important.
I’m going to write it all here so I’ll remember.
Let me start at the beginning….
I ran to David’s office, sprinting past alarmed people who were poised to take me down. Screw them. I didn’t stop. I went straight to the top. I went straight to David, and I yelled.
After months and months of keeping my cool, never once raising my voice, I lost it. Every fiber of my being screamed at him to hear me, to answer me, to stop dodging the questions and finally give me what I deserved: the truth.
For months I’ve craved those answers like a junkie craves their next fix. The bits and starts and vague comments in response to my pleas were just as cruel as waving a baggie in front of an addict; keeping the sweet relief in sight but out of reach.
A girl can only take so much.
As I yelled at David, I felt my control slipping through my fingers. I surrendered to the release. For the hundredth time, I asked why I was here. But gone were the polite girl and her gracious inquiries. Long, pent-up desperation bled from my words, splattering us both in rage and despair.
“You know why,” he said, infuriatingly clam.
“I don’t!” I bellowed. “I don’t! I don’t know!”
“Lark, be honest with yourself. You know why,” he said, his calm demeanor never wavering.
That calm was like a needle upon which the balloon of my emotions sat…I could still myself to prevent an explosion—or I could push back. Shove back with all my fury and a
ll my might, until every ounce of emotion that I’d bottled up during my captivity burst forth like lava from a volcano.
Would I be able to pick up the pieces if that happened? Would pulling myself back together even be possible? The thought terrified me. Once the darkness swallowed me, I doubted if I’d ever be able to claw my way back to the light.
Seething, I said the thing I wasn’t supposed to say; mentioned the unmentionable; turned the volume to an ear-splitting roar on the whisper that haunted my every minute here.
“My. Parents. Cannot. Keep. Me. Here.” I practically spat the words at David, every syllable carrying the weight of the truth that no one acknowledged but everyone understood.
It wouldn’t be so hard, just opening their mouths and letting the truth slip through. Deep down in the depths of my soul, I knew it would set me free. I just needed to hear David say it.
When I decided to fling that figurative door open, I never expected for it to be slammed shut behind me. To be faced with another door, equally locked and sealed and impenetrable.
“Your parents may have brought you to Montauk, but they are not the reason you’re still here, Lark.” David’s reply was simple and matter-of-fact.
I saw the truth in his watery eyes. He met my gaze full-on, dared me to find a hint of deception. But I didn’t. Because there wasn’t any.
Falling. I was falling. Instead of being elevated to freedom, I landed in another circle of hell. This one was below the hell where I’d believed my parents were responsible for my captivity. New depths of desperation swirled around me, pulling me deeper and threatening to swallow me whole.
With tears streaming down my face, I whispered the question again, for the hundred-and-first time. “Why am I still here?”
David answered my question with one of his own. “You don’t remember?”
The last thing I remembered from my life before was the butterfly; the necklace, the files. After months of indecision, I’d decided to put my plan into action. Sitting at my desk, I transferred the files to the necklace to keep them close to me, to carry the weight of the truth, the reality of everything I had and everything I was, around my neck every day. Whether it was for penance, or to protect the answers, I wasn’t sure.
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