“6:30 you say?”
“Thereabouts,” I answered casually, trying to keep the excitement to a minimum.
Using one long, thin finger, Darrell scanned down the entries and frowned.
Seeing his look of confusion and concern, my heart skipped a beat.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“No, I…. Well, possibly. It does not seem as though there were any visitors to Ms. Quattrocchi’s apartment at 6:30 last night. For that matter, there are no visitors to any of our residents listed between six and seven.”
The skin around his mouth puckered as his frown deepened. Darrell flipped to the next page, concern etching more lines in his skin.
“I never allow a visitor entrance without signing in. As you are undoubtedly aware, not even a frequent guest such as yourself. Are you sure about the time?”
The fact that Darrell, formal, by-the-book-Darrell, forgot the “Miss” at end of his question, told me that he was just as upset over this development as I was. Albeit, for an entirely different reason. Darrell probably worried that the oversight might cost him his job. As where I worried it wasn’t an oversight at all, but rather a purposeful omission. As if the visitor had somehow made sure his name wasn’t in that log book.
To put Darrell’s mind at ease, even if not my own, I quickly backtracked.
“Actually, no, I’m not. Deidre wasn’t positive of the time. She just knew it was when she was leaving for dinner,” I explained, forcing a laugh. “You know what, though? Maybe she meant when she was returning from dinner, not when she was leaving. I’ll ask her.”
“Please do, Miss. I hate to think an authorized guest was in the building on my watch.”
“Thank you for checking, Darrell. Really, I appreciate it very much. I’ll talk to Deidre and we’ll get this straightened out. Who knows? Maybe when I talk to my cousin, she can tell me who the guy was. He did have a key after all.”
With that, I turned to leave, anxious to return to the apartment even though I really wanted to ask about surveillance cameras and viewing the footage. Somehow, I was betting Darrell wasn’t going to honor that request.
“If the gentleman had a key, it is always possible he came in through the back entrance or the garage,” Darrell called after me, almost as an afterthought.
Huh?
“There’s a garage? And a back entrance?” I asked, feeling a little stupid for not knowing.
“Yes, miss. The same fob that grants access through the front doors will work on both the back door and the garage. We here at the Pines strongly discourage residents from having their friends use either entrance, since we prefer all visitors sign in for security purposes, of course. But…,” Darrell shrugged. “Sometimes these things are out of our control.”
“Right, I understand. Thanks again.”
Once again, I started towards the elevator.
“Ms. Ferragamo?” Darrell called, a tentative note in his voice, as if already regretting what he was about to say.
“Yes?” I replied, not sure I wanted to hear what he had to say.
“If you are concerned, I can check with management about viewing the surveillance tape. It runs on a seventy-two hour loop, so last night’s feed will not have been recorded over yet.”
Hope soared in my chest. This was just the sort of breakthrough I’d been waiting for. A real, honest-to-goodness lead that might help me find Lark.
“Really? You’d do that for me?” I sounded pathetically grateful.
This time, Darrell’s smile was kind, caring. Clearly, I really was growing on the guy.
Big softie, I thought.
“The security of our residents is very important to us. I hate for a young woman such as yourself to feel anything less than safe while staying here, if even for a short time.”
“Thank you. That’d be great. Can I leave my cell number? You can call if your boss says it’s okay for me to see the tapes?”
“Yes, Miss.”
Darrell produced a pen and paper from beneath the counter and jotted down the numbers as I rattled them off. After thanking him at least ten more times, I finally returned to the apartment.
The previous night, the knowledge that someone had been in the apartment while I was not had sent me running for a butcher knife, as if I was a match for an intruder. But as dawn broke on the new day, my outlook on the situation had a rosy tinge. Finally, I was getting somewhere. Or, at the very least, getting to someone who would lead me somewhere. Hopefully, to Lark.
Full of excitement, I wanted to share this new revelation with Asher. And I was halfway through a text message to do just that when I remembered the kiss. Somehow, in the excitement, I’d temporarily forgotten the previous night’s blunder. I placed the phone back on the nightstand, the text saved as a draft. Later, I vowed. I’d act like a grownup and talk to Asher, explain that the kiss was a mistake—something I was confident we both agreed on—and we could move past it like adults.
Too wired to go back to sleep, I decided to keep the momentum going and search Lark’s apartment for more clues, certain that she’d left more breadcrumbs for me to find lying around. Well, okay, not lying around exactly. But maybe buried in another wall or sewn into her mattress or something.
Of those two possibilities, I decided to start with the mattress. Did I think it was all that likely I’d find a piece of paper shoved inside one of the coils or stacks of hundreds wrapped in stuffing? No, not really. It was worth a shot, though.
Once in the bedroom, I reached for the covers, intent on stripping the mattress, when the book of Sudoku puzzles caught my eye. The first time I’d seen it, all I’d thought about was how bad I was at playing the numbers game. The second time I’d seen the book it had been lying on the floor, having fallen off the nightstand.
Was it possible the intruder had been looking through the book? Was there something, a clue, hidden inside the pages? If so, was it still there? Or had the mystery man taken it with him?
“Only one way to find out,” I muttered.
Sitting on the edge of the unmade bed, I began flipping through the puzzle book, unsure what I was supposed to be looking for. Unfortunately, I felt even more uncertain that I’d spot the clue if it was still inside. But, hoping that the elusive nugget of inspiration would jump off the page and bite me on the nose, I persisted. Five pages in, I began to see a pattern. And not one that made me very happy. All the puzzles were complete. Someone, presumably Lark, had filled in all the boxes. Every single one.
“Awesome. And the day started out so promising,” I muttered, tossing the book aside with an exaggerated sigh. “Now what?”
Maybe it was because I needed a place to focus all my nervous energy. Maybe it was desperation. Maybe it was a sixth sense. Maybe I am just that stubborn. In any case, I felt certain a clue was hidden in that damned book somewhere. It was so Lark. So her style.
Starting at the beginning yet again, I studied each puzzle carefully, taking care not to miss an empty box or glaring error. Pretty much the only thing I did know about Sudoku was that each number only has one right spot. Repeated numbers and letters within the smaller boxes or along the rows and columns were obvious signs that something was off. Hopefully, they would be easy to spot.
By the tenth puzzle, my resolve was beginning to waver.
Was it too much to ask for a folded page?
Or big stars surrounding underlined words that read: THIS ONE?
One hundred puzzles into my quest—there were a thousand total—I had a massive headache and was seriously considering the vodka still left in the kitchen from the other night. As a compromise, I struck a deal with myself: Get through five hundred, then take a coffee break. Or maybe a vodka break. Screw propriety.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to go that far.
Honestly, I was dumbfounded I’d missed it in the first place. The only boxes with numbers in them on Puzzle 324 were the ones that it started with. Lark hadn’t completed it. And not only that, someone?
??presumably Lark—had used a yellow highlighter to highlight one of the columns from top to bottom.
In my head, angels sang the Hallelujah chorus. Beyond excited, I actually did a little shimmy dance to celebrate. Lark kept tossing up the pitches, and I kept hitting homeruns.
You’re making this scavenger hunt your bitch, I thought with glee.
Then, reality hit. To ascertain any sort of meaning or clue or code, I’d actually have to solve the puzzle.
Well, shit.
“You can do this, Raven,” I gave myself a pep talk. “It’s Sudoku, not rocket science.”
An hour later, I was pretty sure rocket science was easier than Sudoku. Eager for a distraction, I checked my phone for missed calls from Darrell.
None.
I checked the ringer to make sure it was on high so I wouldn’t miss a call from Darrell.
It was.
To be sure my phone was, in fact, working, I called my voicemail.
No messages, but everything appeared to be in working order.
Because procrastination was likely to be my major if I ever went to college, I made a coffee run. The Starbucks barista gave me an odd look when I ordered two extra shots of expresso in my macchiato.
“That sort of day?” he asked knowingly.
“You have no idea,” I said.
The caffeine made me jittery but focused. Forty minutes after returning to the Pines, I was semi-convinced I’d completed the puzzled correctly. All the boxes were filled in, with no repeat numbers. That meant I’d done it correctly…right?
Hesitant, I re-checked every little box, every row, and every column. As far as I could tell, nothing was out of order. Which meant another victory shimmy dance was in order.
Triumphant, I retrieved the notepad where I’d been keeping track of all the clues. Under a crude drawing of the butterfly pendant that I’d found in the backseat of my car, I wrote down the nine digit sequence corresponding with the highlighted boxes: 862439715.
The thrill over finding string of numbers died quickly.
“Now what?” I asked the notepad. “Where do I do with these numbers?”
As always, the possibilities were endless. Maybe it was a bank account number. Or maybe it was the password for the bank account at First National. Maybe it was the password for the online site where my brand new credit card had been issued. Or maybe it was the combination to another safe, or locker, or deposit box. Maybe it went to one of a hundred clues still out there that I had yet to find.
Awesome, just awesome. Disappearing into Lark’s life was supposed to make me less stressed, yet here I was a heart attack waiting to happen. If only I had just one concrete answer. That’s all I really wanted right now. Just one. Was that so much to ask of the universe?
Be careful what you wish for, Raven. Sometimes the truth is the most undesirable thing in the world.
As if on cue, my cell phone rang. Startled, I leapt off the bed. The lid popped off of my to-go coffee cup, and hot liquid sloshed over my hand, the notepad, and the puzzle book. To make matters worse, I then dropped all three. Helplessly, I watched as the rest of my drink soaked into the carpet fibers.
Muttering obscenities worthy of a midshipman, I reached for the phone.
“Hello?” I said, not bothering to check the display to see who was on the other end.
“Ms. Ferragamo? It’s Darrell Mantz. From the Pines,” he added unnecessarily. “Is everything okay? You sound…troubled.”
“Hi, Darrell. Yes, everything is okay, I just spilled something. No biggie.”
Using my shirt as a towel, I attempted to dry my wet skin. Then I remembered it was Lark’s shirt, not mine, and felt horrible.
This is so not my day.
“I spoke with the manger and explained the circumstances. He is happy to allow you to access to the tapes.”
“Oh my…really? That’d be so great. I’m free now, is that okay? Can I come down now?”
Suddenly a little spilled coffee didn’t seem so important.
“If it’s not too much trouble, it would most convenient if you came when I am on duty again. Would that be alright, miss?”
“Um, yeah, I guess so,” I replied, deflating a little.
“I am terribly sorry for the inconvenience,” Darrell said, sounding like he truly meant it. “If you were the resident of record, having someone else show you the tapes would not be a problem, but….” Darrell trailed off, leaving me to read between the lines.
Darrell must have told his manger that the resident wanted to see the tapes. The white lie meant he was risking his job for me. His next shift would have to be soon enough.
“It’s not a problem at all, I understand completely. When you’re back would be great, Darrell. Thank you so much, I really appreciate it.”
“Don’t mention it, Miss. Of course, I mean that literally.”
Unable to help myself, I laughed.
“Not a problem.”
Hanging up the phone, I did my third shimmy shake of the day. Even though I had to wait longer than I wanted to, I was finally going to get a decisive answer. The mysterious intruder wasn’t going to be a mystery for much longer.
DEAR DADDY,
This is by far the hardest letter I’ve ever had to write. I’ve gone over it all a million times in my head, and I still don’t know what to say. Except…I know.
I know about Jyranji. I know about the blood diamonds. I know about the horror and atrocities committed on behalf of our company. What I don’t know is why. Or…how.
You’ve always been an incredible role model for me, daddy. You’ve shown me how to pick myself up when I needed strength, and you’ve given me your hand to pull me up when I couldn’t do it on my own. You’ve always been the voice of reason in my life. The voice of encouragement. The voice of guidance. The voice of love.
So how could the man who taught me about all of those things and so many more have allowed such atrocities to happen?
Did Mother really need another pair of shoes that badly? Did I really need another dress?
The people of Jyranji…they needed you encouragement, guidance, love, and everything else you have to offer. But, instead, you gave them hardship. You gave them fear. You gave them all—no, that’s overly kind…it was more like you condemned them all to—miserable, horrific lives of grave suffering.
So now you’re giving them what you owe them: everything. Not only compassion and kindness and empathy, but hope and promise and a future. You’re giving them schools. Food. Civilized homes. A livable wage. The people of Jyranji will flourish, all because of you and your altruism. And no one ever needs to know that it wasn’t your idea.
Because there is no delicate way to say this, I won’t be delicate: the Kingsley Diamond, the red diamond centerpiece of the necklace in the safe in your closet, is a fake. A replica to be more precise. A great big, shiny cubic zirconia, made just for Mother. Truth be told, I’ve always found it in poor taste for her to wear something so extravagant and valuable around her neck as an ornament when so many people are hungry, sick, and homeless. Now that I know the true cost of that stone…it disgusts me.
You, the shining beacon of love and security in my life…I don’t know how to feel about you. My disgust is for the situation and the general opulence and the greed. But never for you. I think a part of me pities you. I know that’s terrible to say, but the pressure Mother puts on you? It must be the weight of the world on your shoulders. Because that’s what Mother expects—the whole world, just hers for the plucking. And the pressure of people’s jobs…I can’t imagine what it means to run a company that employs so many. To have the weight of all of those lives on your shoulders as well. I’m sure it’s hard. So yeah, I do feel bad for you in a way. But I cannot excuse your behavior.
Then there’s my anger towards you. The fury born of the knowledge that grave injustices are being dealt to thousands of people by your hand every single day. The knowledge that every misery, every ounce of fear, every bit o
f pain and strife those people live through is a direct result of you and your actions. How can you live with yourself, daddy? How can you look in the mirror? I’ve known for six months now and I’ve barely been able to face you. I’ve known for six months that a monster lurks within your loving exterior, and it has torn me apart.
So I’ve been stealing from you. I admit it. I can’t believe I’ve been driven to thievery, but the guilt has been nothing compared to the guilt I’ve felt everyday living in the luxury and opulence of your world when I finally know the true cost of it.
All of this rambling and confessing and purging has a point, I promise. The point is this: I couldn’t live with myself without doing something to right the wrongs you’re committing.
The week after my eighteenth birthday I met with Matthew Nace, an attorney who specializes in founding and running charitable foundations. I signed over my trust fund. Everything that became available to me when I turned eighteen is gone. Every dime last dime. And every other dime of yours that I could get my hands on along with it. Not because of the anger towards you, not because of the disappointment. But because of the life-altering guilt I inherited from you.
And now, the real reason I’m writing you this letter: the aid that has helped the people of Jyranji? It’s just the beginning. In this envelope, along with a copy of the videos that destroyed my world, is a press release that Sotheby’s will be disseminating very soon. I encourage you to play along, and have Kingsley Corp’s PR department send it out as well. The gist of it is this: Sotheby’s will be auctioning off the largest, rarest, red diamond ever mined for an exorbitant price. The proceeds of the sale will be going to the Kingsley Diamond Conflict Relief Fund. How magnanimous of you, right? Just imagine the wonderful press you’re going to get—it will be the largest charitable donation in history. You’re welcome.
Everything has already been put into place and set into motion. The real diamond—by the way, Mother should stop wearing that fake—will be delivered to the auction house in time for the auction. All you need to do is call Cynthia Bailey at Sotheby’s in Washington, DC and assure her that it’s all on the up and up. For some reason she really wants to talk to you. I guess an eighteen-year-old girl with a four-hundred-million-dollar diamond seems a bit sketchy.