by Sophie Davis
“Why wouldn’t I?” I asked, confused.
For several minutes we walked in silence, winding through a maze of exhibits that chronicled the exquisite gifts some French king gave to his favorite mistress. How many of those stones are forgeries? I wondered. How many great treasures in this museum are really great deceptions?
“Gabe is down visiting from New York—he goes to NYU now,” Adam began as a group of elementary school children ran past in matching neon yellow shirts with Central Charter West on the front. “When I got home from dinner, we talked, obviously.”
“And you told him about my issues?” I guessed.
He stopped and pulled me out of the center walkway so we weren’t blocking the aisle. “I’m sorry. Normally, I would have asked first. But this situation isn’t….”
“Normal?” I finished for him.
“Exactly.” Adam’s smile was tentative. “I really am sorry, though.”
“It’s fine. I can’t say whether Lark would care, but I don’t.” I gave his arm a squeeze. “What did Gabe say? Did he have some great insight, some wisdom to impart about my condition?”
“Not quite. Gabe is a smart guy, but psychology isn’t really his forte. Conspiracies involving cabals and shadowy government offshoots that perform mind control experiments on unknowing citizens—that is Gabe’s forte.”
I laughed so loud that a tour group of older women in fuchsia hats turned to stare. Adam, however, didn’t crack a smile. “Wait, you aren’t, like serious? Are you?”
“Oh, very. He loves those Youtube videos that offer ‘proof’ about MK Ultra programming and that the moon landing was faked.” Adam shrugged. “He’s a total believer, and yet, for him, the fun is debunking the conspiracy theorists. He believes that one day he will find unequivocal proof of government brainwashing, and he hates all the tinfoil hats out there who muddy the waters.”
“How does that all work, what with dating the son of a prominent senator?”
“We just don’t discuss Youtube at the dinner table,” Adam deadpanned, and nudged me playfully in the ribs as we moved aside to let a couple view the crown worn by a Russian czar for his coronation that we were standing in front of. “Anyway,” Adam continued. “I mentioned the Montauk Institute, not really thinking much of it, and Gabe had a whole lot to say on the matter.”
We exited the gems and jewelry exhibits, and I spotted a nearly empty café. Having a bad feeling that I might need to sit down to hear the rest of this conversation, I steered us toward a corner table.
“So, he’s heard of it?” I asked once we were seated with two cups of coffee.
“Well, he’s heard of a defunct military base in Montauk, which has supposedly been closed for decades, yet no one is allowed anywhere near it,” Adam said. My eyes widened, and he nodded. “Super fishy, right? I guess there are a lot of rumors about military experiments taking place there back in the day. Gabe went on and on about them for over an hour. After I went to bed, he decided to stay up and do a little digging into both the old military base and what’s going on up there now.”
The cup of coffee was between my hands, but I was too mesmerized to take a sip. Instead, I stared into Adam’s caramel eyes over the rim and waited for him to continue.
“When I woke up, he was still at it.” Adam took a deep breath and shook his head, as though unsure if even he believed what he was about to say next. “The Montauk Institute is located on that old military base. Satellite imaging can’t get a clear picture of that entire area.”
“What does this all mean?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Adam admitted, blowing on his own coffee to cool the liquid. “Maybe nothing. It’s not unheard of for a private company to rent space on government land, but….” He trailed off, again seemingly unable to believe he was repeating Gabe’s findings aloud. “Okay, this is going to sound crazy, but using the name of Lark’s doctor in the city—Rebecca Fullbrook—Gabe worked some magic and found a link between her and a man named Dr. David Weissenhauser. They attended medical school together at the University of Pennsylvania. There’s no evidence that they were chummy in school, but about seven years after they graduated, they coauthored a paper in the New England Journal of Medicine on identity disorders.”
None of this was shocking. I’d assumed Rebecca and David must be in communication about Lark’s treatment. However, I also wasn’t one-hundred percent convinced that Lark’s David and Dr. David Weissenhauser were the same person. It was the logical conclusion, but David was a common name.
Adam must have guessed my doubt, because he was quick to add, “There’s more. Gabe took some liberties with Dr. Fullbrook’s financials, and Dr. Weissenhauser’s, and it seems they frequently stay at the same hotel in New Jersey. Separate rooms. But they both always check in on the third Friday of the month and checkout the following Monday morning. It also appears as though they meet every other Wednesday for dinner at an Italian place in Brooklyn. They take turns paying, so that standing rendezvous is educated speculation.”
“Rebecca and David know each other, got it,” I said, nicely summing up Adam’s diatribe in one sentence. “How does this help us figure out more about the Montauk Institute?”
“Patience, my dear,” Adam said with mock annoyance—at least, I think he was feigning, but one dinner wasn’t enough for me to be positive. “I’m just setting the scene for you.”
“So sorry to interrupt.” I gestured for him to continue. “It won’t happen again.”
“I’ll be honest, this next part is a little confusing, mostly because I don’t understand anything about computers. Try to stick with me.” He sat up a little straighter and sipped his coffee, clearly needing a minute to organize his thoughts. “I guess the short explanation is that Gabe hacked into Dr. Fullbrook’s patient files.”
I’d finally taken a drink of my coffee, which nearly came out of my nose at Adam’s blunt admission.
“Yeah, I know. It’s a huge invasion of privacy and morally pretty shitty, but he was just trying to help you.” Adam’s cheeks flushed. “Anyway, that’s finally how he professionally linked Dr. Rebecca Fullbrook to Dr. David Weissenhauser, the latter of which is head of Montauk Institute. At least, according to Fullbrook’s very detailed patient files. Lark is the only patient she sees at her Manhattan office that is also under Weissenhauser’s treatment. But, she is part of his team up at Montauk, and keeps files on her other patients on her office computers.”
“Are the other patients like me?” I asked.
Adam shook his head. “Don’t know yet. This is where things start to get weird.”
“Start to get weird?” I repeated dryly.
Adam ignored my tone. “Gabe’s still working on cracking the military-grade encryption on all of her files having to do with Montauk patients.”
I sat back in my chair, sloshing some of the warm coffee on my hand in the process. The sting barely registered. Military-grade encryption? That sounded…ominous.
“This doesn’t prove definitively that Montauk is somehow connected to the military or the government at all. Computer experts work in all sorts of fields these days. But it does seem that the people up at Montauk have a vested interest in hiding their files. Normal medical records have nowhere near that level of protection. It’s suspicious. And that’s why I wanted to talk to you immediately. You’re definitely right to wonder what exactly is going on at that institute. Most inpatient treatment facilities have websites. Most welcome new patients. Most aren’t impossible to find using an NSA satellite. How did your parents—um, I mean, the Kingsleys—even know about Montauk?”
It was a great question. With a lot of possible answers. But they were all just guesses.
“I honestly don’t know,” I said. “As far as I know, there isn’t anything about that in Lark’s journal. I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Adam chuckled. “You have nothing to apologize for. Besides, I didn’t really expect you to know. I only asked on the off chance that you di
d.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeated absently, still digesting the new developments.
“Stop apologizing,” he said, shaking a finger in front of my face. “And don’t stress over this. Gabe will get to the bottom of it. He specializes in digging up digital dirt.”
Adam grinned, and I started to smile back when his words triggered a passage from the journal. I froze, my lips slightly parted.
“What is it? Did you just have a vision?” Adam asked
“Huh? A vision? I’m not a psychic,” I replied, which made me laugh loudly.
“Right, sorry. It’s just, all of sudden you looked like someone injected you with way too much botox.”
It was my turn to laugh. “I remembered something Lark found online. It was blog. About Kingstown.” I hesitated—how much had Blake told Adam about…well, everything?
“I’m looped in,” he assured me.
“Good. I don’t think I have the energy for a massive recap right now. Anyway, so this blog….”
As I rattled off the website name, Adam typed it into his phone and pulled up the blog.
“How did Lark find this?” he asked once he finished reading the post.
I blew out a breath.
“Does the answer involve a massive recap?” he guessed, wrinkling his nose.
I wiggled my hand. “Sort of, but it’s fine.”
It took me about three minutes to explain about the password changes to Lark’s student portal account, and about twenty minutes to answer Adam’s questions, which mostly consisted of: “I don’t know.”
“Someone was screwing with her,” he concluded.
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I think Lila was trying to tell her the truth in a way that wouldn’t overwhelm her. You know, piece by piece, so by the time Lark figured it all out she wasn’t totally shocked.”
“Sort of like they have been doing with you,” he commented.
I hadn’t really thought about it like that, but Adam had a point. “Guess so,” I agreed.
“Do you know if Lark ever found out what happened to the blogger, this DD person?” Adam asked.
“Not that I know of, which brings me to the reason I mentioned the blog in the first place….” Trailing off, I gave Adam what I hoped was a winning smile.
The one he gave me back was wistful, and I wondered if something in my expression reminded him of Lark but couldn’t bring myself to ask.
“You want Gabe to look into it?” he guessed.
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
I should have returned to The Pines after coffee. There was still a riddle to solve and a jeweler to call, and Asher had been suspiciously hands-off since our predawn talk. Touring a museum wasn’t really a priority. But I liked spending time with Adam. It was like being with a friend and, in a way, he was sort of my friend. There was no weird tension, and I felt safe with him. He wasn’t dissecting my every word—which meant I didn’t have to sensor myself as closely as with Asher and Blake—and I could be myself. Whoever she is…
So when Adam suggested taking a quick trip back in time to the Jurassic Ages, I agreed readily. The previous night at dinner we hadn’t spoken much about Lark’s clues, so I gave him the short version of my time in D.C. Because Adam’s easygoing nature inspired trust, I told him about Lark’s most recent letter and the riddles as school children squealed with delight over the dinosaurs and harried looking chaperones tried to wrangle their charges.
“Wow.” Adam’s whistle was long and low. “I’ve got to say, I’m not overly surprised by Lark’s method. A scavenger hunt, cryptic clues, hidden messages—it’s all very Lark. Her parents are into that sort of thing, too.” He smiled at me as we stopped to admire a pterodactyl exhibit. “I guess she’s more like Eleanor and Phillip than I ever knew.”
“Don’t say that,” I said quickly. “Please, don’t say that.”
“Oh, Raven, I’m sorry….” Adam trailed off, looking uncomfortable for the first time in our acquaintance.
I shook my head. “No apology necessary. It’s just, from everything I’ve learned about the Kingsleys, they aren’t good people. Not just because of Kingstown, either. Lark’s parents…it’s like they love her, but more as an accessory than a person. Does that make sense?” I didn’t wait for answer. “That probably sounds super mean and judgmental, I know. And I guess it is—”
“Hey,” Adam placed a hand on my arm, “I get it. I know Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley. Eleanor has zero maternal instincts, and she’s so oblivious to the real world that she doesn’t even realize that most mothers don’t start their daughters on chemical peels and wrinkle cream before puberty.”
I laughed even though it wasn’t funny. “Yeah, that sounds about right from what I’ve read,” I agreed.
“And Lark’s father…well, he loves her very much. She has always been his princess. In my opinion, for what it’s worth, Mr. Kingsley just doesn’t get children. He’s always treated Lark as though she was much older than her age.” Adam took my hand and turned me to face him. “The whole situation with Kingstown is…bizarre, and likely illegal but definitely amoral.” Glancing around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear, he added in a much lower voice, “Covering up a kid’s murder is awful. So don’t take this as me defending Phillip Kingsley, but good people can do very bad things when they’re scared. Allowing an employee of one of his mines to be killed on his watch—that must have scared the shit out of him. Everything he’s done since has probably been to protect his family.”
“And himself,” I interjected. “Don’t forget that part of the equation.”
I released Adam’s hand and started walking again. Maybe I was being too harsh on Lark’s parents, but I didn’t think so. Objective, you’re being objective. Like any good third-party would be, I told myself.
Is that part of the reason you needed me, Lark? I wondered. Did you need someone objective to deal with our family? Someone not blinded by blood loyalty? Someone who didn’t remember the good times with our parents? Someone detached enough to expose Kingstown and bring down Kingsley Diamonds and its wicked sense of justice?
No one answered the questions running through my mind, and I was left wondering if I had the courage and the strength to bear such a weighty burden.
CHAPTER TWENTY
RAVEN
On X-Pedite ride back to The Pines, I tried to find a number for Navid the jeweler. Unfortunately, there were quite a few jewelers in New York that shared the first name and, like with David, it was impossible to pinpoint the right one without more information. Should I call all of them? I wondered as my driver laid on the horn.
I glanced up from my phone and realized all of the traffic around us was at a standstill. “What’s going on? Is there a problem?” I asked the driver, Steve, according to the app.
“No, no problem.” He gestured to the front windshield where, up ahead, I saw police officers directing traffic and blockades setup. “Presidential motorcade is probably about to come through. Might as well make yourself comfortable, this could take a while.”
I took it as a sign and hit the phone icon for the first search result still up on my cell’s screen. Ten Navids later, I was almost out of jewelers and no closer to figuring out whether the one Lark hired had completed the forgery.
“Thank you for calling Taslimi & Sons, my is Bouchra how may I be of service to you today?” asked a pleasant female voice.
Taslimi & Sons was eleventh and final hope. I put on a bright smile, praying Bouchra would hear it in my voice and respond favorably. “Hi, Bouchra. I am a client of Mr. Taslimi. He performed some work for me about two years ago, and I just had a few questions for him about one of the pieces. Is he in?”
I held my breath and crossed my fingers.
“May I ask your name, ma’am?”
With a quick glance at Steve the X-Pedite driver, I said, “Lark Kingsley.”
“Ah, yes, of course, Miss Kingsley. How are you? It has been so long since your last v
isit,” Bouchra commented, her tone even more congenial than before.
“I have been well, thank you,” I replied, in what I hoped was a dignified voice. Did I ask her the question back? Or do the super rich not care about social niceties when speaking with service workers?
But before I made the decision, Bouchra spoke again. “Navid is just finishing up with another client, but he will be most pleased to hear from you. Would you mind terribly if I placed you on hold for a few moments? Or would you prefer he return your call?”
“I’ll hold,” I replied hurriedly.
“He will only be a moment,” she repeated, and then soft classical music began to play in my ear.
I didn’t let my hopes soar too high just yet. Lark and I might be the same person, but our voices were not identical. Navid might refuse to speak with me over the phone if he thought I was an imposter. Also, the subject was delicate and getting information out of the jeweler would be tricky since Lark should know the answers to the questions I wanted to ask Navid.
“Hello? Who is this?” The voice that came on the line was distinctly male, and very distinctly suspicious.
“Hi, Navid? This is Lark Kingsley, I had a few—”
“Is this a joke? If so, you are not funny, girl,” Navid, or a man I presumed was Navid, spat.
“Excuse me?” I stuttered.
I’d barely spoken and yet he already knew I wasn’t Lark.
“Lark Kingsley disappeared over one year ago.”
I’m so stupid.
How could I have overlooked such a crucial, not to mention obvious, fact? Lark’s disappearance was known. It had been headline news. Tabloids probably carried outlandish, fabricated stories about her and her whereabouts. Until finding out the truth about the day she’d gone missing, I’d been so careful when investigating the clues. I never mentioned her by name and I even invented stories to cover my ass in case anyone remembered meeting Lark while she was in D.C. scattering her breadcrumbs. And yet, since learning that she and I shared a body, I’d forgotten that she was missing.