Fragile Facade (Blind Barriers Trilogy Book 1)

  “You sure? Dad always says red equals power.” Asher admired himself in the trifold mirror, holding each tie in turn to his neck to see how they compared.

  “Positive. It’ll go with the white and grey shirts you picked out. Maybe you should get a striped one, too? Aren’t you getting that pink shirt?”

  “Salmon, miss. The color is salmon,” Hans, the impossibly stuffy salesman, corrected me.

  Asher caught my eye in the mirror and smirked. “Yeah, Raven, salmon,” he said in a poor imitation of Hans’s British accent.

  I laughed. “Whatever. I’m starving, and there is white chocolate raspberry truffle cheesecake calling my name.”

  “I’ll take the green one and the red. And if you have a striped tie that will match the salmon shirt, I’ll take that, too.”

  “Very good, sir,” Hans said and left the dressing room to ring up the purchases.

  When Asher went to change back into his khaki shorts and white polo, I tucked my phone back into my purse next to the notepad that held my notes from the trip to the library. While I was positive that Lark’s clues had been for the Washington Post crossword, I had checked the Times as well to cover all of my bases. Two across and ten down on there had led me to the words Elizabethan and Dusenburg, which didn’t go together at all. Admittedly, I was very proud of my investigative skills, now I needed to figure out what I was supposed to do with the new information. I’d made a list of possibilities; a password for something I had yet to find was high on my list.

  “Ready?” Asher asked, startling me from my thoughts.

  I smiled brightly. “Definitely.”

  Nearly two thousand dollars later, Asher’s suit-buying adventure was complete. Since the suits themselves were to be custom-made, we left the department store with only one bag containing his new shirts and ties. Against my better judgment, I asked him whether he needed new shoes, too. Thankfully, he had black and brown dress shoes that only needed a good polishing to pass muster.

  The Cheesecake Factory was busy with an early dinner crowd, and the hostess asked if we would prefer to wait for a table or sit at the bar. Asher probably would’ve insisted on waiting for a table, but my stomach growled at that moment, prompting him to acquiesce to the bar instead.

  A bartender named Genevieve, who was dressed in the all-white uniform of the establishment, set two cocktail napkins down in front of each of us, along with two large glasses of ice water. Since I’d already read the entire menu on my phone, I knew what I was going to order. The stomach grumbling was growing louder, so Asher asked Genevieve to suggest her favorite dish so I wouldn’t have to wait any longer than necessary to eat.

  “Could you bring us some bread before the meal?” Asher asked, handing both of our menus to the perky bartender.

  “Coming right up.”

  I played with my straw, using it to dunk the lemon wedge below the ice cubes and spread the flavor. I was enjoying spending time with Asher. He was easygoing, fun, and extremely good-looking. I couldn’t help but feel awkward around him, though. Age difference aside, we were clearly from two different worlds. He played down his posh upbringing, but only those with real money can afford to spend two thousand dollars on clothes. I didn’t begrudge him for being privileged; I just didn’t know how to act. He wasn’t like the people back home, no matter how much he tried to distance himself from his family money.

  “Sorry to pull you away from the job search today,” he said to cover the silence.

  I groaned. “Don’t remind me. I’m having no luck whatsoever.” This was, of course, true, if only because I wasn’t making the effort necessary to secure employment. Lark Kingsley was consuming every free moment I had.

  “Where all have you tried? Maybe I’ll be able to think up some more options for you.”

  I hesitated. Telling Asher I’d been job-hunting when I hadn’t was one thing, making up places I’d supposedly applied was just wrong. It might also lead to questions I wasn’t prepared to answer, like what I’d been doing instead.

  “You haven’t applied anywhere, have you?” Asher took my silence for the guilty admission that it was. “Let me guess, you’ve decided watching Bravo is way more exciting than getting a job.”

  I scoffed and threw my straw wrapper at him. He held up his hands to ward off the paper attack. “No, no, I get it,” he laughed. “Working sucks. Believe me, if Dad hadn’t already arranged this job for me, I’d be a couch potato, too.”

  I knew he was teasing me, but I became defensive. I wasn’t wasting away on my couch watching reality television. I was helping a desperate girl expose the reason she’d gone missing. A girl I’d never met. A girl who might be dead. A girl whose world was even more foreign to me than Asher’s.

  “I’m sorry, Raven,” Asher said, turning serious. “I didn’t mean to make fun of you. I was only kidding. Seriously.”

  His big brown eyes were so sincere. He was truly worried that he’d hurt my feelings. I sighed. “I know, Asher. It’s not that. It’s…it’s just that I’ve been a little preoccupied lately. Something sort of came up. This problem I need to solve. It’s sort of time sensitive, you know. And I really need to work it out before I can think about getting a job.”

  Well, that was suitably vague, I thought. I should’ve known that Asher wouldn’t drop the subject. His natural curiosity and need to solve the world’s problems came back to bite me in the ass.

  “Intriguing.” He stroked his chin like an evil mastermind from a cartoon. “What’s this problem? Can I help? I’m great at logic games. Just look at my LSAT score.”

  I tried to smile, but it came across pained. I was in over my head, I knew that. Asking Asher for help might get him tangled in the very complicated web that Lark had woven. I hated the thought of putting him in that position. But being older, and more accustomed to the lifestyles of the obscenely wealthy, he might have knowledge I didn’t.

  “What do you know about diamonds?” I asked.

  The question caught both of us by surprise. Asher actually choked on his water, turning beet red as a result. I wasn’t sure why I led with that of all questions, but now that it was out I decided to run with it.

  “Specifically, the Kingsley Diamond. Have you heard of it?”

  Asher held a napkin to his lips and patted away the water droplets that had escaped. He blinked his eyes to rid them of the tears collected in the corners.

  “Who hasn’t?” he said finally. “I mean, what a find, you know? Red diamonds are so rare. And one that big? Jesus. The thing will probably be more famous than the Hope Diamond in a couple of years.”

  I knew about the rare-factor. I’d read all about diamonds on Wikipedia. And his claims about the Kingsley Diamond surpassing the Hope Diamond were probably true; although the latter had been featured in one of the greatest movies of all time, so maybe not.

  “How does the Kingsley Diamond relate to your problem?”

  Again, I hesitated. How much should I divulge? Asking about the Kingsley Diamond might pique Asher’s curiosity enough that he put two and two together and figured out that my interest had something to do with Lark’s disappearance.

  “Have you read about the daughter’s disappearance?” I said, averting my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see his reaction. For some reason, I felt as if I was betraying Lark by sharing her secret with Asher. It was stupid. I didn’t even know Lark. How could I actually violate her trust?

  “Oh, yeah. 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. “Well, you know how I found that keycard to the apartment building, The Pines? Turns out, the apartment is rented to Lark Kingsley.” Again, I didn’t sweat the small stuff, like the fact she’d rented it under an assumed name.

  The food arrived. Barbeque chicken salad for me and lobster ravioli for Asher. He dug into his pasta immediately, apparently mulling over this latest disclosure. I, t
oo, picked up my fork and began eating to cover the silence.

  “Raven?” Asher said after he’d swallowed a ravioli whole.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think maybe you should contact the authorities? I mean, this seems like the kind of thing they should know.”

  I shook my head guiltily and took a sip of water to wash down the ranch covered lettuce. “I can’t. It’s complicated. I think she was into some pretty bad stuff before she disappeared. I want to figure out what it was before I go to the cops.”

  “All the more reason to go to the cops now. She might still be alive. If you have information that might help find her….” His voice trailed off, leaving unspoken the fear that I’d had lodged in the back of mind since finding her journal. If I didn’t figure all of this out soon, it might be too late for her. Was I really the best person to investigate her disappearance and follow her clues? No, I wasn’t. But I’d done pretty well so far.

  “I can’t, Asher,” I repeated. “You don’t understand. I know she was in trouble, but I think maybe someone close to her was the cause. I know I’m risking her life by not calling the cops, but I really believe, at least for right now, that’s best.”

  I hadn’t realized how worked up the conversation was making me until I followed Asher’s brown-eyed gaze to where my fist was clenched around the fork, using it as a spear to skewer a piece of fried chicken.

  “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–”

  Asher cut me off. “Clues?”

  Shit. I hadn’t meant to say so much. “Um, yeah. She left a trail of breadcrumbs kind of. And 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. Was that true? Not really. Lark needed help, but surely I wasn’t the one she’d intended to find her journal or her apartment or anything else.

  “Okay,” Asher said slowly, drawing out the word to make it sound impossibly long. “Fine. No cops. Yet. What sort of clues?”

  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 am the law student, remember? If you feel that strongly about this, then sure, I’ll help. But,” he gave me his best attempt at sternness, “if it looks like we’re in over our heads, we call the cops. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  I was pretty sure I’d already passed over my head, and moved on to chained at the bottom of a watery abyss.

  The way time passes here…there’s something so off about it. Some days, eons seem to pass with each step I take. It feels as though I’ve been wandering these halls so long that my feet should ache. Yet, when I look, the silver hands of time have barely made one rotation. Other days, I live in a fog that only I can see. I attempt my morning routine, only to get lost trying to find my reflection; hours pass with each stroke of the brush through my hair. One minute I’m sitting by the window, admiring the gladiator sandals between the glossy pages of this month’s InStyle as morning sunlight warms my cheek. I blink and a chill runs through my bones. I 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 above.

  Hours after my initial arrival, I saw my first jailer 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 every 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 the fuck would I want to eat with “the others”? I always choose privacy.

  I’m scared and I’m alone, but I prefer solitude to people I’m too scared to trust. I’d also prefer Joanie drop the charade. This place is not a luxury spa. I’m not on vacation. No, I’m trapped, being held against my will for reasons I don’t understand. My wrists aren’t bound with ropes and my ankles aren’t chained to a chair, but that doesn’t mean I’m free. My inability to leave is exactly the same as if my restraints were visible to the naked eye.

  It really does seem as though they want me to treat this like a time to relax; just 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 sits in the corner. It’s an exact twin of the one in my bedroom at home. Copies of the same paperbacks that line my bookshelves at home 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 the truth until my throat burns from the effort. This isn’t a homey bed and breakfast. I am a prisoner. Bind me up, I want to tell my captors, act like the jailers that you are!

  Yet I never summon the nerve to say anything of the sort. Because, obviously, the results of such an outburst would be as unwelcome as the outburst itself. So, we all pretend. Or, at least, pretend to 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. The 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 of the sheets and the fluffy pillows, despite all of their attempts to put me at ease, I refuse to pretend that this is a temporary home-away-from-home. That is absolutely absurd. Insomnia is the result of my stubbornness. Instead of drawing satisfaction from my sleepless nights, Joanie tries to “help me.” Every night, the seemingly pleasant woman with beautiful chestnut hair appears next to the bed and places two yellow ovals and a paper cup of water on the side table.

  “In case you need help sleeping,” she says.

  At first, I’d only sneer 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. Still, I remained unwavering in my resolve to stay awake and alert to defend myself, if needed.

  Confusion came next. My thoughts became like voices in my head, urging me to beware of Joanie and her pills. Don’t crack. Don’t cave. That’s what they want. The voices grew louder and louder until I began to wonder if they 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 had been persistently tugging at my brain since the moment I was brought her
e. For the first time since my arrival, I slept through the night. And much of the next day.

  Now, I sleep straight through every night, waking refreshed and relaxed, until the reality of where I am comes crashing over me. My nighttime reprieve and these 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 this happened, she stood in front of me for several moments before speaking. We engaged in a game that I’ve seen my mother play at many a social gathering. 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. If they ever started.

  She wrinkles her nose as though the room smells like a hot yoga studio, and I can guess what judgment she has made about me. The feelings are mutual.

  “He is ready for you.” She has a thick Russian accent, and I stare at her blankly, having heard, “Key ees veddy fortu.”

  Luckily, her expectant, no-nonsense expression tells me that when she turns suddenly and begins to walk away, I am supposed to follow. Nerves make me clumsy, and it is 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 and nonchalance. As if this is a situation I find myself in every day. I am not so out of touch with reality that I think this is what I actually look like. Even now, I cannot muster the attitude I was longing for then.