Whoa there, girl. Slow down, I chastised myself. You and Asher are friends. Nothing more. Don’t get carried away.
Rolling over, I mentally prepared myself for what was sure to be an awkward encounter with Asher—and froze. A wave of panic, that had nothing to do with my appearance, seized me. At five-foot-six and relatively slender, I am not a large girl. But by no means was I small enough to make cover-angels on a daybed with only a twin-sized mattress.
Shit.
Slowly, I sat up and scanned my surroundings. My heart began to pound painfully against my ribs.
No, no, no. Not again….
Footsteps in the hallway sent me scrambling out of Lark’s king-sized bed. Still disoriented and now slightly panicked, my hip knocked the nightstand and sent a manila envelope crashing to the floor—the manila envelope from the safe that I never wanted to see again.
“Shit,” I swore, audibly that time.
Apparently I’d forgotten to fasten the little metal clasp on the envelope, because the contents scattered across the carpet at my feet.
“Raven? You awake?” Asher’s voice was soft and distant.
Kneeling, I hastily shoved the passport, credit card, and bank card back into the envelope, giving myself a paper cut in the process. A small, crimson pool welled up on the tip of my index finger.
A door opened in the hallway. It was the door to the guest bedroom.
Crap. He’s going to know I slept in Lark’s room last night, I thought. How was I going to explain it?
“Raven? Where are you?” Asher called louder, no longer concerned with waking me.
I bit down on my bottom lip.
“Raven!” Asher’s voice cracked like a prepubescent teenager, and I thought I detected a note of panic.
“Um, in the back!” I finally answered and tossed the manila envelope onto the nightstand as I stood.
A slip of paper on the floor caught my eye. The doorknob began to twist. Bending down and scooping up the scrap of paper, I had it hidden safely in my hand as Asher stepped into the bedroom.
“Hey. What are you doing in here?” Asher asked, looking both relieved and curious.
“Um, well….”
Come on, Raven, think.
“I woke up early and didn’t want to bother you. I decided to get another look at the stuff inside that envelope. Now that the shock has sort of worn off, I guess I thought it would be easier to process it all.”
Eloquent, Raven—way to ramble.
“And how’d that go? Were you able to better process it?” Asher grinned as though he found my babbling endearing.
Unsure of how to answer, I shrugged. “The whole thing still feels…surreal.”
Asher crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. He patted the space next to him. “I don’t bite, Raven. You know that,” he said after I hesitated for long enough that it became awkward.
Asher reached for my hand, the one holding the slip of paper from the floor, and covered it with his own. “First of all, take a breath,” Asher gently ordered. “I know you’re freaking out. Hell, I’m freaking out and it isn’t even my name on those things.” He nodded toward the manila envelope on the nightstand before continuing.
“Unfortunately, it is pretty easy to steal someone’s identity. Social security numbers are easier to find than you might think, if you know where to look. And a girl like Lark Kingsley can afford to pay someone who does. As for the passport, again when you’re heir to a diamond fortune….” He trailed off and held up his palms as though no further explanation was necessary.
“I know. In theory, stealing someone’s identity and getting fake documents made isn’t that hard. My issue is that Lark actually did both of those things. To me.”
Asher’s long fingers slid between my own, sending a shiver up my spine. Asher’s eyes were soft, but his expression was tinged with sadness. Staring at his full lips, I became oddly transfixed by the way his two front teeth pressed gently against them as he debated his next words. Asher opened his mouth to speak but quickly closed it again, seeming to change his mind at the last second.
“What’s this?” Asher asked, drawing his hand back.
“Huh?” I asked stupidly, still staring at Asher’s lips, which were now frowning.
“This piece of paper? It was in your hand…” Asher smoothed the rumbled slip on the leg of his jeans.
“Oh, right. I think it was in the envelope,” I said, gesturing toward the nightstand.
“You think?” Asher quirked an eyebrow in amusement.
Rolling my eyes, I fessed up. “Well, I knocked the envelope over and everything spilled out. When I picked it up, I found this piece of paper. So, no, I am not positive that it was with the passport and cards. It’s more of an educated guess.”
“Got it,” he replied, grinning.
The paper was thin, cheap, and reminded me of the kind used by waitstaff at diners. It was small, only about an inch long and three inches wide, and one side was slightly jagged. Running my fingertip along the rough edge, I realized that it was perforated, as if only one half of…something.
Printed in bold, black letters in the lower right-hand corner was an address: 3685 14th Street, NW, Washington, D.C. 20009.
After doing a quick mental calculation, I estimated the address to be approximately one mile west of our Gibson Street apartment building, slightly farther from The Pines.
In the opposite corner, in red ink, were two typed words followed by a string of numbers: Claim No. 45923
“It’s a claim ticket!” Asher and I exclaimed in unison. Our mutual excitement over stating the obvious caused us both to laugh.
“What do you think it’s for?” I asked, chewing my thumbnail as I pondered my own question.
“Dry cleaning?” Asher suggested, toying with one corner of the paper.
My closet consisted mostly of cotton-blends, and I could count the number of items that were “Dry Clean Only” on one hand. But this was Lark we were talking about, not me; she probably had a plethora of silk, cashmere, and other expensive fabrics. Except the clothes in the closet here, only ten feet away, were more the wash-and-wear type.
“Yeah, maybe. But why would Lark put a dry-cleaning ticket in with all those important documents? That seems random.”
“True,” Asher conceded. “But a lot of what you’ve found seems random, doesn’t it?”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I ignored the rhetorical question and continued to ponder the possibilities. “What about…. what about we Google the address and stop the guessing game?” I suggested.
With an endearing smile, Asher tapped me softly on the side of my head. “So smart,” he quipped.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go grab my laptop, will you? Please,” I added, remembering my manners.
“On it.”
With that, Asher was out of the bedroom door and down the hallway, eager to solve one riddle that would inevitably lead us to another.
Once he was out of sight, I hurried to Lark’s bathroom and searched until, sure enough, I found a new, packaged toothbrush. Hurrying so it wouldn’t be too obvious, I did a quick once-over to get rid of the furry layer of grime that seemed to be coating the inside of my mouth. The small act of personal grooming went a long way toward making me feel more human. Cupping my palms underneath the faucet, I collected handfuls of water and bathed my face in the cool liquid. Over the sound of running water, I heard Asher call my name.
“Um, Raven? That address? I found it,” Asher called. “It belongs to a pawn shop.”
I turned off the faucet, patted my skin dry with a white hand towel and exited the bathroom. “A pawn shop?” I repeated skeptically.
Asher was, once again, perched on the edge of Lark’s bed, my laptop opened on his lap. “Yep. Larry’s Pawn Shop to be precise. According to their less-than-impressive website, Larry likes to buy gold for cash.”
One shoulder resting against the doorframe, I crossed my arms over my chest and snorted in a very undignif
ied manner. “Um, okay. So, do you think maybe Lark sold him some jewelry because she needed cash?” I asked doubtfully.
For a normal person, selling off jewelry for way less than it was worth was a quick and easy way to make a little extra money. But Lark had more lucrative options at her disposal.
And though she had been desperate, I felt sure she wasn’t that desperate. No, not a girl who had enough disposable dollars to prepay the rent on a swanky apartment for at least one year; to furnish that same apartment with items that were out of my parents’ price range; who probably had a trust fund with more zeros than a standard barcode. No way was Lark Kingsley so hard up for money that she’d have hocked the glittering contents of her jewelry box for pocket change.
“No, I don’t think she sold something to our pal, Larry,” Asher began, his words interrupting my mental musings. “If she’d sold him something outright, there wouldn’t be a claim ticket. Lark pawned something. And when you pawn things, you intend to go back for them. Or, in this case, she intended for you to go back for it.”
It made sense…sort of. As much sense as anything Lark had done to this point. Was this Larry guy really the best clue keeper, though? I mean, what if he decided to up and sell whatever it was that Lark had pawned? Wasn’t there a time limit for repayment?
Tapping my chin with my index finger thoughtfully, I met Asher’s gaze across the bedroom. He was studying me, as if trying to follow my internal thought process just by watching me.
“I don’t suppose you’re up for a field trip?” I asked hopefully.
CHAPTER FIVE
LARK
“HEY THERE, DOLL. Will it be the usual? Or are you waiting on that lovebird of yours?”
“Hey, Shirley,” I said warmly, standing up from the blue, velvet couch to give her a hug. “It’s just me for now, but he’ll be here later. Hot chocolate would be great.”
Shirley always looked surprised when I hugged her, but pleasantly so. Maybe it was odd that I was so fond of her, but she was always so sweet to Blake and me.
Downtown Downs had become a second home for me. It was our spot, mine and Blake’s. The scuff marks on the floor were like the freckles around Blake’s nose—I’d memorized every single one. We knew which couches and chairs were most comfortable and which barista never got the espresso right. No one here knew or cared who I was; they all had better things to do than pore over Page Six.
Which was why I hated to bring any unpleasantness into this safe space—but my afternoon classes had been cancelled, and I wanted to take advantage of this rare opportunity to figure out what was going on with my father and our company.
Pulling out my laptop and setting it on the scratched surface of the low coffee table, I dug around in my bag for my headphones and plugged in the USB. My world history paper that was due in two days flashed onto the screen, which I guiltily minimized. The research paper for my French Immersion class was open below that, and I closed it as well. I couldn’t concentrate on schoolwork with so many unanswered questions looming in my mind.
Who was Kimberly? What did she have to do with Kingstown? And why was this all coming up again when it seemingly happened years ago?
Settling back in the deep cushion of the loveseat, I brought up the list of files and found where I’d left off. I had two hours before Blake was due to arrive, and a lot of files still unheard.
You’ve got this, I told myself. Today is the day.
I was so entrenched in bolstering my confidence that I jumped when Shirley approached several minutes later setting a mug down in front of me. She mouthed an apology and didn’t linger to chat as she usually did. Mumbling “thank you” and stealing a glance at the clock, I realized I had to stop wasting time.
I clicked on the next file. According to the date/file name, this board meeting had occurred only three days after the previous one—far sooner than the usual month that passed between gatherings. With the voices of the Kingsley Diamond Corp board filling my head, I began fishing plump marshmallows from the sea of hot chocolate and depositing them into my mouth. I became momentarily distracted, attempting to balance my laptop on my knees without dropping any of the sugary goo on the keyboard.
“—Kimberly—”
Hot liquid sloshed over the sides of the mug as I all but dropped the drink back onto the table. I wiped my fingers on a paper napkin and then rewound the video to the beginning. This time I gave the video file my undivided attention.
“This emergency board meeting of the Kingsley Diamond Corporation is hereby called to order,” my father said from his seat at the head of the table, his slumped posture and raccoon eyes were obvious indications of stress and sleepless nights. “Lester, the minutes?” my father continued, gesturing to an older man I recognized from the earlier video.
“Given the limited nature of today’s discussion, I move to bypass the reading of the minutes,” interrupted McAvoy.
“All in favor?” my father called without enthusiasm.
Every person at the table raised their hand in the affirmative.
“So moved,” my father declared. “For tonight’s proceedings, William McAvoy will take the lead. William?” My father gestured to McAvoy, who stood to address his fellow board members.
“I apologize for requesting your presence at such a late hour, but after apprising Phillip of the situation, we are in agreement that this meeting is an absolute necessity. Tonight we have but one order of business. And as many of you may have already guessed, the matter we are here to discuss is Kimberly.”
“Is this really necessary, Phillip?” a dark-haired man with an imposing stature interjected. “My granddaughter is celebrating her bat mitzvah this evening. Surely this situation is not as dire as William claims?”
“Just hear him out, Randall,” my father replied tiredly. “It looks as though we’re in big trouble here.”
“Kimberly is proceeding,” McAvoy declared, pausing for dramatic effect. “There is nothing we can do to stop that from happening. Our only options are to deal with this as soon as possible, or to close the doors on Kingsley Diamonds. The bad press alone could topple the company, let alone the collateral fallout unbeknownst to the public.”
Topple the company…seriously? William McAvoy was not prone to theatrics, which meant this Kimberly person was far more than just a thorn in the company’s side. But who was she? I paused the video to give my mind time to ponder the possibilities.
What kind of woman had the power to topple a well-established, billion-dollar company? The word “mistress” floated through my mind. I quickly dismissed the notion; I might not have been a savvy businessman like my father and his board members, but I just didn’t believe that an affair was reason enough for an emergency meeting, let alone the worried looks being traded across the conference table. No, this was way more serious than an extramarital tryst.
Murder victim? I hated even thinking the word in conjunction with my father. The man I knew, the one who taught me everything from how to play catch to the fundamentals of negotiation, was too principled to allow homicide on his watch. Besides, even if one of the board members had killed the poor woman, the entire company wouldn’t fail from the bad publicity—that guy would go to jail and everyone else would return to business as usual…right?
Ugh, who are you, Kimberly?
Sighing in frustration, I restarted the video where I’d left off. From the brief discussion that followed, it was obvious that every one of the men present at the meeting was well-versed in all things “Kimberly,” and no one felt the need to spell out who she was or what had happened to her for those of us—me—not up to speed.
I did a quick time check and decided to forge ahead to the next video file. It wasn’t another board meeting, but rather a recording of a video call between my father and McAvoy. The file was dated one day after the emergency board meeting, but judging by the haggard look on my father’s face and his attire, the call took place the same night, just early into the hours of the followi
ng day.
“What do you think?” McAvoy asked without preamble. His tie was loosened, the first three buttons of his white button-down were unfastened, and he held a drink in one hand.
“You’re going to have to be more specific, William. It’s 3 a.m. and my mind isn’t firing on all cylinders.”
“Do you think the board is going to insist on going the straight and narrow? Or do you think they’ll play ball?” In contrast to my father’s drawn expression and tired voice, McAvoy appeared to be containing something akin to excitement.
“It’s close. I’m not sure,” my father answered uncertainly. “The old-timers definitely seem hesitant. To be honest, I don’t know if we should even propose it at this point. If this whole scenario never comes to pass, but we present it and they balk—”
“Phillip, I went down to Washington for a reason. I’ve met with representatives from all sides,” McAvoy broke in. “This is a done deal. The UN is behind Kimberly one hundred percent. And if the US doesn’t back them, our country will appear to value capitalism more than human life. The only question now is whether we’re going to allow Kimberly to shut down what you’ve worked so hard for. Or if we’re going to be smart and figure this all out ahead of time.”
Whoa—how was this a matter for politicians? And how was the UN involved? And how secret could it be if McAvoy went to Washington to meet with representatives?
An idea popped into my head and I almost laughed at having not considered it before. I’d been treating the Kimberly situation as though it, and she, were some big secret. What did Benjamin Franklin say? “Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.” More than three people knew about Kimberly, and most of them were still alive. And on numerous occasions, I’d heard my father say that politicians gossiped more than teenage girls; odds were, in the years since the Kimberly incident had occurred, one of them had talked to a reporter or some political aid had leaked information to a blogger or tabloid.