Fragile Façade (Blind Barriers Trilogy #1)
Copyright © 2014 by Sophie Davis Books
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means – electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopying), recording, or otherwise – without prior permission in writing from the author.
Printed in the United States of America
Formatting by Inkstain Interior Book Designing
Learn more information at: www.sophiedavisbooks.com
In memory of our precious buddy, Humphrey.
You would’ve made an excellent detective.
Talented (Talented Saga #1)
Caged (Talented Saga #2)
Hunted (Talented Saga #3)
Captivated (Talented Saga #3.5)
Created (Talented Saga #4)
Exiled: Kenly’s Story, A Talented Saga Novel (Kenly Chronicles #1)
Inescapable (Talented Saga #5)
Pawn
Sacrifice
Checkmate
Fragile Façade (Blind Barriers Trilogy #1)
Platinum Prey (Blind Barriers Trilogy #2)
Vacant Voices (Blind Barriers Trilogy #3)
“The secret of a great success…
is a crime that has never been found out,
because it was properly executed.”
—HONORÉ DE BALZAC
Lark. Lark. Lark. Lark. Lark. Lark.
My name is Lark. Of this I am certain.
I don’t know exactly how I landed here.
This place, this place. I was never meant to be in this place. I had everything, everything anyone could ever want. But now I am here, in this place. Things like this don’t happen to people like me.
I am stuck in between, in between now and then, in between my past and what was to be my future. I am imprisoned by barriers I cannot see. Cut off from yesterday and blind to tomorrow. And there is no way out.
I was the golden girl. It is so cliché to say, but I was the one the other girls wanted to be, the one the boys wanted to be with. I am not vain, only realistic. My life before feels like a dream, and now I have woken to a nightmarish reality. If my memories were to vanish, like me, would the girl I was be erased? It would be easy to forget everything that happened, everything I planned to be, and move on to where I am supposed to be now.
But I can’t. I won’t. If I forget, who will be left to remember?
That’s what I’m supposed to do, let it all slip away. But I can’t let go of what I’ve lost.
I was never meant to be in this place, this place meant for other people. Until I appreciate how I came to be here, I cannot leave. If I could just reach out, reach someone, I know that I could make them see who I was, who I am, and who I wanted to be. But that type of comprehension is unfathomable to most. So I am stuck here, waiting for someone to understand me, to remember me, to find me.
My solitary hope is her. I think she could get it. This girl who has so much less than I ever did, but more than I ever will now. I just have to reach her, I need to reach her. I am the lock and she holds the keys. If I can make her understand that, I will not fade and disappear; he will find me.
I know you’re out there. Please, let me make you understand what happened to me….
My name is Raven Ferragamo. Today is my re-birthday.
Too dramatic, I decided as I reread the sentences to myself. I scribbled through the words – small loops of pencil obscuring the writing underneath. My hand smeared the lead across the crisp white page, trailing silver-grey smudges in its wake. It was a constant problem with being a lefty, having your hand drag back over what you’d just written. A twinge of guilt made me hesitate before discreetly wiping the excess pencil lead on the bus seat cushion beneath me. One more stain on its worn blue fabric probably wouldn’t even be noticed.
The woman sitting next to me, whose ample bottom intruded several inches over the crack between our seats, glared down at me from behind square reading glasses when I inadvertently brushed her thigh. Apologizing would have been the polite thing to do, but being forced to sit on half a bus seat because she took up one and a half left me feeling anything but polite. The older woman clucked disapprovingly as she shook her head and muttered something that sounded like, “Young people today,” before returning her attention to the knitting needles in her lap.
I breathed a sigh of relief. A confrontation on a city bus was so not the way I wanted to start my first full day in Washington, D.C.
Resuming my journal entry, I wrote, August 27. Washington, D.C., R52 Bus Route, underneath the scribbles. The heading was for posterity’s sake. One day, when I’m old and my brain is riddled with Alzheimer’s, I can reread these entries and relive the first days of my adult life.
Keeping a journal was new for me. Something my best friend, Jenna, had suggested as a way to document my adventures in the big city. Washington, D.C. wasn’t exactly New York or LA, but it was definitely a step up from New Freedom, Pennsylvania. A year of hoarding any extra money I could get my hands on had given me a sizable savings, a chunk of which had gone towards the purchase of an old Toyota Corolla with manual windows, made way before cars had iPod hookups. I’d had to scan through staticky radio stations the entire three hour drive to D.C.
Though, I wasn’t complaining. Despite the vehicle’s lack of luxurious add-ons, I loved every inch of it. It was mine. The first four-wheeled mode of transportation I’d ever owned. Buying it had felt so empowering. I’d grinned like an idiot when I handed the previous owner the small stack of $100 bills. My enthusiasm must have been off-putting because once he’d pocketed the money, he practically tripped over his feet in his haste to get away.
While I’d been quietly planning my departure for the better part of a year, I came to the city without a place to live. In fact, besides building a savings account and picking a destination, I hadn’t really done much planning at all. In hindsight, leaving my old life behind and starting over in a place where no one knew me – clean slate and all that – was a daydream that part of me never thought would come to fruition. It was happening across the Corolla that cemented my decision to go for it. The price was right – inexplicably super cheap – and I took that as a sign. Next thing I knew, I was cruising down I-81 en route to Washington, D.C.
On the drive down I’d fantasized about renting a cute studio in Georgetown close to all the shops and nightlife. Unfortunately my imaginary-self had a much larger bank account balance than my reality-self. One look at Craigslist burst the Georgetown bubble – the average monthly rent was more than the cost of my new car. In fact, the majority of the listings anywhere in the District were out of my price range. And, of course, there was one other problem: Almost everyone wanted paystubs as proof of employment, and references to prove you weren’t a serial killer. I had neither, since I was currently unemployed and I’d never lived on my own.
Despair had been threatening to overwhelm me when I’d come across a listing for a sublet in Petworth. Kim, the girl who’d posted the ad, assured me that Petworth was the next up-and-coming area, gentrification and all that. After Googling the neighborhood, I was optimistic that she was telling the truth. Snapshots of cute cafés, wine bars, and eclectic eateries appeared to populate the city blocks.
Unfortunately, now that I was actually riding up Georgia Avenue, I realized the pictures were somewhat misleading. Sure, there were a few of those cute cafés, bars, and eateries; but they were interspersed among abandoned storefronts, liquor stores with bars on the windows, and a walk-in clinic that advertised free STD testing. Petworth was more on the coming end of up-and-coming.
But self-preservation made this apartment a must. The hostel on 11th Street that I’d slept in the night before would not do any longer. The thirty-dollar-a-night price tag should have been a clue. It was the yellowed sheets and stench of stale smoke that clung to the dingy, threadbare carpets that cinched the deal for me, though. Not to mention that the solitary man who was sharing my room had stumbled in at 3:00 a.m., rolling on ecstasy and screaming about red-eyed aliens. After a sleepless night and a frigid shower in the communal bathroom, I probably could’ve passed for a red-eyed alien. There was no way I was staying there any longer than I had to.
“Next stop, Gibson Street,” a friendly female voice said over the bus’s PA system.
I snapped my journal shut, the one scribbled line the only words decorating its pages. I pressed the yellow strip running next to the window. A moment later, I was rewarded with a soft ping, followed by a mechanical voice, “Stop Requested.” I stood and walked to the set of double doors at the back of the bus, using the overhead handholds to keep from falling on one of the seated passengers.
The exit doors opened and a wave of heat engulfed me. It reminded me of when I was little and I would open the oven door to peek at the dinner inside; the smells wafting from the oven were always heavenly and made my mouth water. The stench of urine and rotten food that assaulted me now made my stomach turn.
Humidity curled the dark bangs covering my forehead. Sweat instantly slicked the back of my neck and began trickling down my spine like a slow-moving hot spring. I held my lacy tank away from skin as I walked, hoping to keep it as dry as possible.
Two minutes later I stood in front of 405 Gibson Street, a brick row home wedged between two other identical façades. The front porch was in need of a paint job, but it looked cleanly swept. Three mailboxes were arranged beside the front door with three corresponding doorbells. I rang the one labeled “3” and waited. I stood there hesitantly until the pounding of feet on wooden stairs let me know that the bell did in fact work.
An impossibly tall, model-thin girl close to my own age opened the door a moment later. Her skin was the color of hot chocolate and she wore her hair extremely short, nearly shaved. The look suited her and made me envious. I’d had several inches taken off of my locks earlier in the summer to lessen the weight. Shaving my head, though, would probably just make me look like a cancer patient instead of being chic like hers.
“Kim?” I guessed.
The smooth skin around her mouth puckered, revealing a dimple on either side when she grinned, a gesture that lit up her caramel eyes. She held the door open and motioned me inside. “Raven, I presume?”
“Yep.”
“Apartment is up two flights.” She pointed towards a dimly lit staircase with a questionable wooden handrail. “Follow me. I hope you like the place. You’d be doing me a huge favor by subletting.”
During our brief email exchange, Kim had explained that she’d originally been turned down for the extra financial aid from Howard University needed to spend the fall semester abroad in Paris. At the last minute the funding had come through, but she’d already signed the lease for another year and was now desperately trying to sublet.
Her situation was a blessing for me. She was flexible on the price and unconcerned with references and paystubs since I’d offered to pay her three months of rent up front.
Kim led the way, taking the stairs two at a time. I followed close behind, observing the faded floral wallpaper. So far the place was not what I’d envisioned when I’d dreamed about living in the city. But, until I got a job that paid well, it was likely the best I’d get.
“Next flight is me,” Kim said when we hit the first landing. “You get used to the stairs after a couple of weeks. And on the plus side, it’s a great butt workout.”
I laughed politely at the joke; although, my glutes were already burning, so I figured she was telling the truth.
“You said in your email that you’re new to the city? Are you going to school?”
“Not yet. I’m going to work for a year first.”
I’d dutifully applied to colleges for my parents’ sake, but my heart had never been in it. College was definitely in my future, just not my immediate future. The pressure of declaring a major that would dictate the course of my life was too much. Working and interacting with people outside of my hometown for a year or two would hopefully give me some real world perspective. At least, that was my justification for the sabbatical.
At the top of the final flight of stairs was a cracked door with a metal “3” hanging slightly askew beneath a small peephole. Kim pushed it open with one hand. “Welcome to your new home!” she said, making a sweeping gesture with her free arm.
The apartment was small. Extremely small. The kitchen, with appliances two-thirds the size of standard ones, was nothing more than an alcove to the left of the door. Kim had arranged two high-backed bar stools at the counter separating the space from the living room. A floral loveseat and worn red suede chair were arranged around a wooden coffee table next to the bay window. The television was mounted on the wall, the focal point of the living room.
“I would love to leave the furniture, if that works for you?” Kim said, closing the door behind us. “Storage is mad expensive.”
“That would be great,” I told her, only half meaning it. I had no furniture, so on the one hand the mismatched pieces would be nice. Otherwise, I’d be eating ramen noodles while sitting on the scarred wooden floorboards. On the other hand, the furniture wasn’t anything to write home about. If Kim had told me she bought it at a Salvation Army store, I wouldn’t have been surprised.
“The bedroom and bathroom are down that hallway,” Kim said, pointing off to the left.
“Hallway” was a generous term for a two-by-two square space off the living room. At least the apartment would be easy to clean.
I opened the door on the right. Inside was the smallest bathroom I’d ever seen. The shower stall was just that, a stall. No tub. But the porcelain toilet and pedestal sink basin were bright white and clean. A pretty blue rug covered the off-white floor tiles, but it didn’t quite hide the fact that several were cracked.
“I know it’s not much,” Kim said hesitantly, as if sensing my dissatisfaction.
“No, no, it’s great,” I assured her quickly.
When I turned and met Kim’s caramel eyes, they showed pure relief. I wondered how many others had turned down the apartment already.
“The bedroom is here,” she said and grabbed the knob on the door directly across the hall. The bedroom was actually a decent size, big enough to hold Kim’s queen-sized bed, a dresser, and a roll-top desk. Kim’s laptop was open on the desk, surrounded by scattered papers, colored pencils and stubby oil pastel sticks.
“Art major,” Kim said sheepishly when she noticed me eyeing the art supplies.
“Cool,” I replied absently, my eyes having already traveled to the built-in shelves in the closet that ran the length of the far wall. I took another step in and rotated slowly, a full 360-degree turn, acclimating myself to what was going to be my new bedroom.
I liked it, I decided. It was nothing special, but it had a quaint, lived-in feel to it. I could picture myself sitting at Kim’s antique desk, reading the news on my own MacBook. Or lying atop the fluffy checkered comforter, one foot resting on the opposite knee with my dog-eared copy of The Great Gatsby propped on my stomach. My meager wardrobe would make the closet appear cavernous. I’d left most of my clothing at my parents’ house, only taking my favorite pieces. A new life meant starting over completely.
“So, what do you think?” Kim asked, her voice breaking into the pleasant mental image I was conjuring.
“I’ll take it,” I said decisively.
I spun to face Kim, the same overeager grin I’d given the car salesman on my face. She beamed back, exhaling a long breath that she’d probably been holding since greeting me at the front door. Clearly we were both relieved that this arrangement was going to
happen.
“Excellent! I’m supposed to leave next week. I was planning on visiting my parents first, though – thought I’d leave tomorrow,” she said. “Would it be okay if I gave you the keys now? You can move in any time tomorrow afternoon.”
“Sounds good,” I agreed.
Kim led the way to the kitchen. She gestured for me to sit at the counter, which I did.
“Coffee? Water? Sorry, that’s all I have to offer,” Kim shrugged, almost embarrassed.
“Some water would be great,” I said, thinking of the heat I’d be heading back into soon.
Kim removed two glasses from the scratched oak cabinet above the sink and filled them with water from a Brita pitcher she pulled from the small fridge. She placed one glass in front of me and then turned and began looking through a drawer next to the stove. I sipped my water, tracing the ring of condensation the glass left on the countertop, and noticed the Washington Post sitting off to the side. A photograph of a teenage girl, no older than I was, stared up from the newspaper. The headline above the image read, “Jewelry Heiress’s Disappearance Still Baffles Police.”
Kim was still searching for the keys, so I reached for the paper absently while she continued to rummage around. The picture of the girl looked like the kind taken by a school as a senior portrait. Her blonde hair was perfectly parted down the center, shining even in the grainy newspaper photo. Her incredibly straight white teeth peeked out from behind pink lips that were glistening with a light layer of gloss. A collared shirt, crisp and starched, had two buttons undone, revealing a small gold heart hanging from her slender neck.
I didn’t need to read the article to know she was one of those girls: the privileged, indulged offspring of equally beautiful, ridiculously wealthy parents. There had been girls like that in my high school, though probably on a lesser scale. Entire cliques of them. I’d never felt comfortable in their presence and always kept my guard up around them. Despite that, there was something in this girl’s wistful gaze that pulled at my heartstrings. The way she smiled beatifically at the camera was almost sad; it didn’t come close to touching her big blue eyes, eyes that looked as though they held secrets she was too young to have. I knew that look. My hair was shorter than hers, darker than hers, with bangs and spiky pieces artfully styled with Bed Head hair gel. Nothing like her pale, flat-ironed strands. My eyes were dark brown, and hers were cornflower blue. But my senior picture, the one prominently displayed on my parents’ mantel, showed a girl with the same expression.