Fragile Facade (Blind Barriers Trilogy Book 1)

  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 who was waiting for me tells me to call him David. Just David. Nothing more. David, such an ordinary name. David, the name of a friend at school or the barista in our neighborhood 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 that he’s been wearing that same watery smile for a lifetime. Everything about him screams non-threatening, but I have a definitive feeling deep in my stomach that tells me otherwise. It is as though he has 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, watching me intently, but never saying a word. In a way, this man is more frightening than my other captors. To remind myself that he is always looking, that he is a predator and to be feared, I think of him as the Hawk.

  I’m certain he is in charge; authority and power practically leak from his pores. Despite his silence, he manages to speak volumes. His presence brings heightened stress, and I get flustered when I answer David’s questions. Guessing at what the answers should be, what it is I need to disclose for them to let me go, becomes harder. Somehow, I simultaneously overanalyze every syllable that forms in my head before speaking the words and ramble 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, ‘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 very carefully when I see his other foot come to rest on the plush beige carpet. Twice now, I’ve seen his elbows come to rest on his knees, 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 in purpose. I fear that I will be unaware I have disclosed the magic words until it’s too late to take them back.

  The days I am not summoned to David for questioning are spent in what I can only assume is a drug-induced stupor. I’m asleep for more hours than I’m awake. Sometimes these days pass with hardly a glimpse of sunlight, only knowing the darkness of twilight. Unlike at bedtime, Joanie does not give me choice in the matter; she makes the decision for me. If I were clairvoyant and knew which days these would be in advance, I wouldn’t eat or drink what I’m given. This is how they administer the drugs. At least, it must be, because I don’t notice anything out of the ordinary.

  Clear days, where I make it through breakfast without exhaustion creeping into my room and settling over everything it touches, 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. I make an effort to act as though that this is simply a little vacation, just as they want me to. Or, at least feign an effort. My hope is that if they think I’m playing along with their charade, all of the surveilling eyes might cease their intense scrutiny.

  Today isn’t one of the clear days.

  I attempt to peruse this month’s Vogue, struggling to muster any interest at all in the slick pages. Later, the only thing I can remember about the two-pound edition is the ugly Balenciaga dress that Keira Knightley is wearing on the cover. To be honest, I think I only remember even that small detail because the magazine has been sitting in the same spot since my arrival. Given the way things seem to be around here, it will surely be replaced by next month’s issue any day now. As if that is important to me. At all.

  Some 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. Truthfully, from what I hear in the background, the witty dialogue seems like something I would normally enjoy. But I refuse to let Joanie catch me watching the raunchy comedy. I’m willing to pretend, but the pretense can only go so far. Actually enjoying any of their bribes is where I draw the line. I’m ignoring them and all of their efforts, so thank goodness I have my journal to write in. This feels like a small victory, though a victory nonetheless.

  As I listen to the stepbrother from Clueless and the woman who pukes on Steve Carell in The 40-Year-Old Virgin trade quips, I’m once again reminded that my captors have done their homework. They know me better than some of my closest friends. I have never told the girls that I seriously think guy humor is so much better than sappy love. Under normal circumstances, I find it impossible to not enjoy the action and eye candy that comes with Ocean’s Eleven, which Joanie put on last night. Thank goodness I’d already seen it, since one of the guys got us an advanced copy a while ago. Because being here, held against my will, is the furthest from a normal circumstance as I can imagine. How can I possibly enjoy these things, things I enjoy in my everyday life, when I am here? How do they expect me to sit and watch this as if I haven’t a care in the world?

  Great, Joanie is coming. 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 dishes, consumed with embossed silver cutlery, 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. An outburst, an escape attempt, flipping my shit – any of these would break the veneer wide open.

  “All done?” Joanie asks, as she reaches for the tray holding my untouched food. 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 choices, options. Yes, hypothetically, I am free to do as I please. As long as 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, as though she is actually 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. And she’s a fool if she thinks she’ll be getting any other response.

  Sure enough, it took only that long. I don’t know how much longer I can take this shit. For what feels like the millionth time, I consider making a run for it and scan the room for escape routes. Unfortunately for me, the landscape has not changed since the last time I looked.

  A man sits by the front door, reading a leather-bound volume of a classic novel. The wiry muscles of his forearms are at odds with the delicate gold trim on
the book. Everything about him is at odds with 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 tank undershirt, gold chains hanging around his neck. Undoubtedly, those in charge made him clean himself up for this job. Like seeing him in golf attire makes his presence any less ominous. It’s a pointless pretense.

  His dark skin and hair remind me of Don Vito’s men. I think of him as Michael, to remind myself that there is undoubtedly violence beneath his civil exterior. He doesn’t sit there because he finds the armchair exceedingly 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. Any force 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, the impenetrable locks, and the visible wires of what I’m sure is a squealing alarm are the only blatant warnings that attempts to 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, my family, they 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, 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…well, that is where the fear comes in. Every time I pray for this to be over, I chastise myself.

  You want it to be over, Lark? Be careful what you wish for. This ending may be permanent.

  16

  RAVEN

  Confiding in Asher did little to ease my mind. If anything, our dinner at the Cheesecake Factory made me even more anxious about the Lark situation. The phrase “borrowed time” kept running through my head. Progress on my end was slow. I worried that the more I dragged my feet, the less likely we were to find Lark Kingsley alive. The clues I’d uncovered thus far just didn’t fit together.

  “I’m trying, Lark,” I told the mirror, after I’d finished my nightly ritual of teeth brushing and face washing. “What am I missing?”

  No answer came. Thank goodness. The last thing I needed was for the elusive Lark Kingsley to start talking to me from the other side of the reflective surface.

  Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the craziest of them all?

  The apartment was humid, even with the window-mounted air conditioner running on full blast. Cold air materialized from between the slats of the ancient contraption, but lingered like a rain cloud in the living room and failed to circulate throughout the rest of the apartment. To compensate, I was scantily dressed in my favorite Victoria’s Secret pajama set – a lacy tank and a matching pair of tiny white boxers with little pink dogs and “Angel” scrawled in cursive across the butt. My mom hated the shorts. She said they made me look like a walking advertisement for the lingerie company. I smiled. A total perk of being on my own, I thought.

  I’d made my bed that morning, and didn’t bother pulling back the covers now. It was too hot for blankets. Instead, I stretched out in the middle of the mattress with Lark’s journal. Not wanting to fold the pages, I was using the first note I found in Lark’s apartment to mark my place. Flipping to the next entry, I began reading.

  Not all of Lark’s journal entries were particularly interesting. Some days, she wrote about her classes at the over-priced, stuffy private school she attended. Other days, she ranted about her mother and the matriarch’s passive-aggressive critiques of Lark’s appearance. Or her father and his constant refrain that she “look ahead to her future.” My favorites, though, were the entries about Blake. They were real and honest, open glimpses into her heart. I felt how much Lark cared about him. Loved him, even. Her feelings jumped off of the page and left a longing deep in my heart. I hadn’t even felt there was something missing in my life until I began to immerse myself in her relationship. Her pain over keeping it a secret was my pain. The thrill she experienced when they kissed leapt off the page and made me envious. There were a lot of reasons for someone like me – hell, for anyone – to be jealous of Lark Kingsley. She had everything that anyone could ever yearn for in a lifetime: beauty, wealth, power. Love. But she had to conceal the most joyful and thrilling aspect of her life. How sad.

  Tonight’s entry was about Blake, and I settled into my pillows for what I was sure would prove to be a good bedtime story. I was immediately struck by how different this passage was from the others about Blake Greyfield. Lark wasn’t so cliché as to draw hearts over her I’s or doodle Mrs. Lark Greyfield in the margins, but she used a certain tone when talking about her boyfriend. One that conveyed every emotion she could only express on these pages. That was probably why I felt every word so deeply; every ounce of her feelings for Blake were within the pen strokes. Only, that tone was noticeably absent from the first paragraph of tonight’s reading. Even stranger? She seemed to be describing their first meeting. Except, I’d already read about their first meeting. At least, I thought I had.

  They’d met for the first time at the Met Ball. She’d described it like a scene from an unrealistic film about love. It had been picturesque, a modern day fairytale. To experience something akin to love at first sight – a connection at first sight, though it didn’t sound as good – had seemed magical when told by Lark’s pen. It wasn’t at all cheesy or unbelievable, only able to exist within the idealized words of fiction, the way it did in romance novels. Reading it for the first time, the effect was a mix of sugar shock and longing.

  What I was reading now, though, was no Jasmine and Aladdin story. I was confused beyond belief. This left me wondering if maybe the first version was a fictitious, Disney-inspired fable. Would Lark have really made up a romanticized version of their first encounter? This one was the polar opposite. It was normal, ordinary, the way two average teenagers might meet in real life.

  Summer was just becoming fall, and it was the first truly cold Morning Manhattan had seen in months. I’d planned on using the treadmill in Dad’s office for a morning Run, but when I went downstairs, I found the office was already occupied. Dad was on an early morning conference call with an auction house in London. Seeing me dressed in my navy Lululemon stretch pants, blue tank, and Nikes, he’d waved me inside, mouthing, “come in.” I knew nothing would make him happier than if I went in and listened to the call. He was always advocating my taking an interest in our company. Kingsley Diamonds wasn’t publicly traded. It was still a family run business. As the only child, the responsibility would one day fall on my shoulders to take the helm.

  But, unlike my parents, I didn’t exercise to stay in shape or sweat out last night’s Champagne calories. Running was my great escape. It gave me the opportunity to be truly alone with my thoughts and block out the rest of the world. Listening to Dad berate the guy on the other end of the conference call would be anything but relaxing.

  I whispered “That’s okay, thanks,” to Dad before closing the office door. I didn’t want to risk running into my mother and being detoured from going out to the park, so I headed straight for the front door without bothering to grab a jacket. Best decision ever. Because if I hadn’t gone, or the timing hadn’t been exactly what it was…I never would have met him.

  I’d just finished a lap around the Reservoir, my iPod blasting hip hop music. I stopped to stretch on the steps. Lost in Biggie’s world of the mid-nineties, I was singing under my Breath, head bent over my leg so that my forehead was touching my knee. The deep pull in my hamstring felt good. I held the position through the refrain of “Juicy”, and then switched legs.

  The steps were slick with morning dew, and the tread on my sneakers was worn. I lost my Footing. In the most ungraceful moment of my life, I flailed wildly, willing wings to replace my
arms and keep me upright.

  It happened in slow motion. For one impossibly long instant, I was free-falling backwards, rushing for a date with the pavement. I remember thinking about how pissed my mother would be if I cracked my skull open. Stitches and gauze bandages were not the season’s must-have accessories.

  And then his arms were around me.

  That first touch was Electric. Tingles raced up my arms and down my spine. My face felt flushed. One heartbeat flamed hot, the next icy cold. In my ears, Beyoncé was screaming “Your love’s got me so crazy, so crazy right now.” And I knew. Even before those impossibly green eyes appeared above me, I knew that this moment was a turning point in my life.

  His full mouth, inches from mine as he leaned over me from behind, formed words I didn’t hear. I was lost watching his lips move and wondering what they would feel like on Mine. It wasn’t until he yanked out my earbuds that I heard his rich, amused voice asking me, “Are you okay?”

  I nodded dumbly, but didn’t attempt to break free from his hold. Looking back, I should be embarrassed by how badly I wanted those arms to hold me forever. But he wasn’t too quick to let me go, either.

  He guided me upright, though he left his hands resting on my hips. I felt his warm breath on the side of my neck. It was still fairly early, but other joggers were gliding past us on the path above. I barely noticed. The weight of his hands was All that mattered.

  “Um, yeah. I’m fine. Just lost my balance for a second,” I said, finally remembering that he’d asked me a question. Somehow, I knew that the introduction of this guy into my life would mean I’d never be balanced again. Or maybe that I’d finally found the equilibrium I’d been searching For.