Fragile Facade (Blind Barriers Trilogy Book 1)

  Stroke of luck, I told myself when I noticed the numerous restaurants and shops lining 7th Street. From where I stood, I didn’t see any immediately apparent Help Wanted signs in the nearby windows. I decided to test my luck. The first restaurant I came across had darkened windows and an orange sign declaring it to be Zanga. The menu outside referred to the cuisine as “Asian Fusion with a dash of fire.” A blast of air conditioning engulfed me when I opened door, icy and wholly welcomed.

  A pretty brunette wearing all black stood behind a hostess podium near the entrance. “Welcome to Zanga,” she greeted me with a smile. “Table for one?”

  “Actually I was wondering if you guys were hiring?” I replied, matching her pleasant smile.

  The girl, Brooklyn according to her nametag, did a once over. Her amiable expression didn’t falter, but I was suddenly very conscious of the fact my capris, tank top, and flip-flops didn’t go with the décor of the space. “Not currently but we’re always taking applications,” she told me pleasantly.

  “Oh, okay,” I replied, knowing what that meant, “well, thanks.” I turned to leave.

  “Hey,” she called after me.

  I paused, mid-turn. “Yeah?” I asked over my shoulder.

  “There is this place over in Capital Hill called Raine’s, it’s a wine bar. Nothing too fancy or anything, but they get a decent after-work crowd – lots of staffers and stuff. You might try there. My roommate is a bartender, and she mentioned they were looking for help. She’s actually working right now. Her name is Caitlyn. Tell her Brooklyn sent you, and she’ll at least give you an interview.”

  “Um, wow, thanks,” I told her. “That’s really nice of you.” It was, too. I hadn’t expected D.C. to be the friendliest place on earth, but so far, everyone had been so helpful.

  “I just moved here last year for school, so I totally understand where you’re coming from. No one gave me the time of day when I was looking for jobs. This place,” she made a spinning gesture with one finger to indicate Zanga, “only gave me a job after my financial aid advisor called in a favor to the manager.”

  I grinned and thanked her a second time for being so helpful.

  Faith in humanity restored, I braved a city bus that purportedly ran from Chinatown to Capitol Hill. The trip across town was fast in the middle of the work week. I paid close attention to the landmarks passing outside the windows to better acclimate to my new city, and spotted a huge stone structure with a line of buses parked out front. When the bus pulled over directly across from it, the same mechanical voice from the metro called out, “Union Station.” Without thinking, I grabbed my bag and followed the other departing passengers down the steps and back into the heat.

  For a long moment, I stood on the sidewalk, staring at the enormous building. When the city bus pulled away, immediately in front of me was a line of people with rolling suitcases in tow waiting to board a big blue bus. In print emblazoned on the side and back, the bus advertised free Wi-Fi and a litany of possible destinations, including New York City. At the bus driver’s destination announcement, my subconscious had obviously jumped right to her and her note. But it took the sight of those three words for the rest of my brain to catch up, drawing my full attention back to Lark. Why had she included an old train ticket with her plea for help? It had to mean something, right? Everything I’d learned and unearthed about Lark seemed so deliberate. She seemed so deliberate. It was as though she had a master plan in mind when she went about her normal activities, taking detours when possible without pause to complete a mental to-do list that only she was privy to. No, the train ticket couldn’t be a coincidence. Caught up in my musings, I stumbled as something knocked into my shoulder from behind and sent my messenger bag sliding down my sweaty arm.

  “Excuse me,” an older woman with unfriendly eyes, a strong accent, and a gaggle of children said, not sounding like she meant it at all. “Tourists,” she muttered under her breath. The rudest person I’d met thus far in D.C. – the man on the train hadn’t actually been rude, only creepy – didn’t even bother to spare me a fleeting glance as she passed. I quickly righted my bag and decided to move from the middle of the busy sidewalk before I was trampled by pedestrians.

  It took a few minutes to navigate my way across what was apparently Massachusetts Avenue, heavy with yellow cabs zipping and weaving between the other cars. Finally, I reached the entrance to the building. Union Station. With its tall white columns and arched entryways, it looked more like an architectural work of art than a transportation depot. The train station in Harrisburg was little more than a dirty cement building with a handful of grimy orange plastic chairs inside. This train station, though, had a marble fountain in the center of a spacious indoor courtyard. The ceiling was rounded and so high that the voices of the many occupants echoed. A café sat to the left with tables set up in an imitation of the outdoor cafes found in Europe. To the right was a walk-up coffee stand with a rapidly growing line. Lattes and macchiatos were being brewed by a man and woman rapidly exchanging orders in a rainbow of unidentifiable accents. All around me an assortment of people swirled in a tide of activity. Some carried nothing more than a briefcase, clearly commuters, while others were saddled with impressive amounts of luggage.

  “Okay, Lark. I’m here,” I muttered, cognizant that anyone passing by would notice me talking to myself. “What now?”

  Unfortunately, the problem with talking to yourself is that no one answers. So standing there in the beautiful atrium, I had no clue where to go next. I tried to recall every detail of her diary that I’d read thus far, cursing myself for not bringing the journal with me. If I had, maybe I’d have been able to understand why she wanted me to come here. Maybe she hadn’t, I thought. Maybe the train ticket had nothing to do with anything. I quickly dismissed that thought. It did. I felt it.

  One passage that stuck out in my mind was about Lark and Blake meeting at a coffee house called Downtown Downs, or something like that. I was surprised by how quickly that fact came to mind. I even remembered that she liked to order hot chocolate. I was more of a caffeinated beverage girl myself, so when I wandered over to the little coffee stand, I ordered a vanilla latte with an extra shot of espresso.

  “Six-fifty,” a blonde with barely passable English told me after I’d placed my order.

  “Six-fifty??” I nearly choked on the words. Reluctantly, I dug a ten dollar bill out of my wallet and handed it over. The girl returned my change and was on to the next customer before I’d moved out of the way.

  There was an empty table right next to the cart holding milk, sugars, and artificial sweeteners, and I decided to sit while I waited for inspiration to strike. Maybe one of the nearby pay phones would ring, an all-knowing mystery caller on the other end ready to provide me with the next clue.

  There was a discarded newspaper on the table that I pushed to the side, replacing it with my bag. I pulled out Lark’s letter and scanned it again, though I could have recited the text verbatim. The last line was conspicuous, where she’d switched from cursive to print. Although it may’ve been because her hand had grown tired of scrawling the elegant loops, the measured letters felt methodical, purposeful.

  Follow my lead, walk in my shoes, spend a DAY in my life, and you will understand.

  I’d done my best to follow her lead, seeing as I was in a train station with no intention of actually going anywhere. And somehow I was pretty sure I couldn’t afford Lark Kingsley’s shoes. The final request didn’t seem feasible either. “Deliberate,” I thought to myself. Suddenly something else was blatantly prominent, so obvious I was sure I must be having a slow day. I didn’t know what it meant, but she’d capitalized day in the last sentence. The whole word. Spend a DAY in my shoes, she’d written. September 23rd was the date on the train ticket she’d given me. That was the day she wanted me to spend in her shoes, I realized. But why? What was so significant about that day?

  Drink in hand, I followed a sign that indicated Amtrak trains lower level. Lark
had ridden an Amtrak train down from Manhattan, so that was as good a place as any to begin my search, I thought. In addition to a food court that served everything from McDonalds to fresh-rolled sushi, I had to pass through an underground mall before I found the Amtrak terminal. Sipping my latte, I stood behind the roped corral and scanned the arrival and departure boards, hoping inspiration would strike. None did. Absolutely none at all.

  This is such a waste of time, I thought to myself. I had more important things to do, looking for Raine’s for one. Brooklyn had said her roommate was working now. If I found the place soon, I could have a job by dinnertime. Then again, maybe Brooklyn was overestimating her roommate’s generosity and influence at the wine bar. Going there could be as fruitless as coming here had been thus far.

  No, I decided, I was here. The least I could do for Lark was try to understand why she sent me. If she’d actually meant for me to come here, I reminded myself. I still wasn’t entirely convinced the train ticket was meant to lead me to Union Station. I found a bench and sat down to have another read of her letter. The single sheet of stationary was no longer crisp. Between the heat and my repeated folding and unfolding, it had started to wilt like a dying flower. Odd, I thought, that’s what Lark’s journal entries made her seem like as well: a dying flower. Once so vibrant and full of life, it seemed as if she’d begun to wither in at least the last year. Her words indicated a girl who’d withdrawn, if only mentally, from her very public life. Not that I blamed her. Living under a mother’s constant scrutiny, seeking a father’s approval, being the sun around which the social solar system revolved, it all had to be exhausting. But it was more than that. Something had happened to her. She was missing, and she’d basically known what was going to transpire.

  Sighing, I swapped the letter sitting open on my lap for the train ticket. That was the real clue here. The writing at the bottom, I realized. Knowing what I did now, had she just wanted me to have the train ticket, she probably would have left a clean copy. The writing was important. C908. Confirmation number had been my first thought, but that probably wasn’t right; they were usually much longer. Besides, why would I need a confirmation number for a train ticket purchased and used nearly a year ago?

  The line at the circular Amtrak Assistance booth in the middle of the spacious room was short, only three deep. I decided the best course of action was to do exactly what Lark had done: Ask for help. After all, she’d said to spend some time in her shoes. As well as her outright plea for assistance, her journal entries suggested a girl in need of aid. So I joined the end of the line and waited my turn.

  The woman behind the counter had dark auburn hair fastened with bobby pins at the nape of her neck. She wore the Amtrak uniform: shapeless blue button down over pleated blue trousers. She’d gone off script and added a red, white, and blue scarf around her neck for color. Patriotic, I thought as she waved me forward.

  “How can I help you?” she asked, sounding pleasant but bored.

  I wasn’t sure how she could help me exactly. I slid the e-ticket across the counter and pointed to the handwritten number and letters at the bottom. “Is this a confirmation number?” I asked.

  The woman glanced between me and the paper, green eyes clouding with suspicion.

  “My friend is coming down at the end of next month, and she sent me her ticket so I’d have it, and I was just wondering if this was the confirmation number in case I needed to check on the status of her train.” The lie didn’t even make sense. I pulled the ticket back before the clerk could examine it too closely and realize the date was for the previous year. If she read Lark’s name, there would certainly be inquiries.

  Shit, I thought. I’d just made a huge mistake. I was still unsure whether investigating this on my own was a good idea. The police really needed to know about Lark’s apartment and her letter. They had better resources and were already devoting a lot of manpower to finding her. My decision not to call them was about to bite me in the ass. If this woman put two and two together, she might call them. And then I’d be hauled in to answer questions.

  I turned to leave.

  “It’s not a confirmation number,” the woman said quickly.

  I turned back to face her. I was already screwed, I decided, might as well push forward. “Any idea what it is?”

  The woman’s expression turned from suspicious to thoughtful. Pencil-thin eyebrows drew together as she considered the question. “You know, it might be a locker number,” she said finally. Her gaze raked me from head to toe. Great, she is memorizing my appearance in case she needs to give a description to a sketch artist. “Your friend may have rented one here. They’re down on the platform level.”

  The strange-looking key, I realized, brightening at the thought, it was probably for the train locker.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  I hurried away before she could ask any number of questions that I had no answer for.

  I followed the signs towards the escalators and descended deeper into the bowels of the train station. Down here it actually looked like a train station. Gone were the marble statues and high ceilings and expensive shops, replaced by warm air with a pungent odor of fuel and something I couldn’t put my finger on. I had to stop and ask for directions to the rental lockers, but once I found them I knew the woman had been correct: C908 was definitely a locker.

  I wasn’t sure if her selection had been intentional, but the locker Lark had chosen was neither near the front nor the back. It was unobtrusively situated in the center of a row of identical lockers. I reached into my messenger bag and fingered the key. Tiny teeth bit into my palm as I closed my hand around it. Unlike with her journal and before entering her apartment, my nerves weren’t due to guilt. I was oddly excited at discovering the locker’s contents. It felt as if I was on a scavenger hunt. I had to remind myself that Lark’s life may be in danger, that whatever was in there may explain why she’d disappeared. That thought sobered me fast.

  Open the locker. Hand the contents over to the police, I resolved.

  The key slid into the lock and turned effortlessly. Mentally I counted to three and opened the locker. Having not taken the time to consider what I might find, I was surprised by how deflated I felt when the sole contents was another envelope. This one was ordinary, just a run of the mill generic white envelope. It was thick, though.

  I used my nail to break the seal. Inside was a small stack of cashier’s checks, each one made out to The Pines.

  I sat straight up the instant my eyes opened, aware that something was not right. What just happened? What happened?

  Check the time. 8:06. The sky outside my bedroom windows was the bright blue of morning, signifying the beginning of a day full of promise. I racked my brain for a memory that refused to come.

  Think Lark, think.

  Slowly, the pieces clicked into place like one of those Chinese puzzle boxes. Through the pounding in my head, I recalled one detail after another. I’d been getting ready for Taylor’s party. Primping at my vanity, dressing in my flapper-style dress, sitting down to finish my pre-game drink, and then…nada. Did I make it to the Vanderkams’? I didn’t know.

  Had I seriously had so much to drink last night that I blacked out?? I inwardly cringed when considering the possibility; that was so not okay. Sure, it happened more often than anyone would admit within our crowd, people letting off steam and all, but it was absolutely not my style. Lush was not a category I fit in.

  Groaning, I glanced over at my phone, sitting next to me on top of the duvet. It was vibrating softly, the caller I.D. not visible since the phone was upside down. I wasn’t ready to face any gleeful retelling of stories from the night before, so I chose to ignore it. Feeling kind of grimy, I decided that a shower was in order. And coffee, lots of coffee. My head was killing me.

  I threw back the covers, and froze when I saw the dark jeans and black t-shirt I had on…not exactly Gatsby party attire. Falling asleep in my clothes after a night out was nothing n
ew, but I didn’t remember putting on these clothes. Looking around the room, I spotted the strappy nude dress with tassels draped over the arm of the chair in the corner. I loved that dress, and couldn’t imagine why I’d choose to forgo an event that was perfect for it. And there was no way I’d gone in the jeans and tee. Right?

  I grasped for even a sliver of a memory, anything at all to provide a clue as to how I’d spent the previous evening. Nothing.

  With a sigh, I decided to go about my day as if exactly that had happened – nothing. Nothing at all. Clearly, I decided to skip the party, and changed into something more appropriate for lounging around the house, I told myself. Even as I thought it, I knew that it was unlikely; yoga pants were my usual lounging attire, there was no way I’d put on a pair of Citizens for that.

  Padding my way over to the bathroom, I spied a pair of black patent flats sitting on the floor next to my vanity. Jeanine, our housekeeper, never left anything out of place, which meant I must’ve worn the shoes the night before. The absolute lack of memory was beginning to set me on edge.

  I approached the shoes with trepidation. Why had I chosen flats on a Saturday night? The only reason I ever opted against heels for a night out was if a lot of walking was involved. Picking up the flats, I quickly flipped them over before I lost my nerve. They happened to be my new Tory Burch’s, and I’d worn them only once before, to a charity committee meeting. That had involved minimal walking – only from my apartment to the car, from the car to a meeting room in the New York Public Library, and back. But the shoes told a different story; the soles were scuffed, the small emblem bearing a cross in the middle of a circle barely visible.

  Tossing them aside, I headed for the shower. Just call me Cleopatra, I thought, Queen of Denial.

  The dining room table was set for brunch, a rarity since both my mother and I usually had standing plans with our respective friends on Sunday mornings. I paused in the doorway before entering, taking in my mother and father sitting together, the Sunday morning Times split between them. She was wearing camel-colored velvet skinny pants, a billowy silk top the same ivory as an elephant’s tusk, and a houndstooth jacket with leather detailing. My father’s version of casual was much more classic and understated; his khaki pants and checkered oxford and navy sweater were straight from the Vineyard Vines catalogue. Together they were the perfect picture Manhattan couple on a weekend morning, an ad for high society.