[Blind Barriers 01.0] Fragile Facade Page 2

  The more I learned about the missing girl, the more I was intrigued. On paper, her life was perfect: money, looks, friends, a boyfriend. But Lark’s haunted expression in every picture told me her life was much like an iceberg. What lay beneath the surface was always more interesting.

  “Excuse me, miss?”

  I glanced up from the paper to see a disheveled man standing before me. The worn fabric of an old military jacket tugged at my heart.

  “Spare some change?” he asked, his voice pleasant. “So I can get something to eat?”

  The man offered a gummy grin that didn’t touch the sadness in his eyes.

  “Of course. One sec.”

  I withdrew my wallet from the messenger bag and rifled through it. My heart sank when I realized that I only had a five left.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have much with me,” I said, handing him the bill. “How about a granola bar?”

  Extending the open box to the homeless man, I met his clear eyes and smiled.

  “God bless you,” he said. With two of the bars in hand, he backed away.

  I watched him go, wondering why the hell a veteran was reduced to begging for meals. Like so many others, he’d probably returned from war to find that he no longer felt at home in the country he’d fought for. Had PTSD taken him from a base to the homeless shelter? Whatever the reason, I hated that I had so little to offer.

  Two

  Lark

  “Californication” is the only way to wake up. At precisely six a.m., the first guitar chords played through Bluetooth speakers, softly at first to ease my transition into awareness.

  The slow thrum of the music washed over me, and I rolled over in my king-sized bed. Blinking several times, I stared absently at the gauzy canopy cover of my four-poster. An unnecessary number of pillows cocooned me, and I burrowed into the warm, soft sheets. My eyelids began to close again.

  On cue, the Chili Peppers’ song grew louder. The tempo increased, and my eyes slid open again. When the second song on my morning playlist started, I finally sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed.

  Moving a tad slower than usual, I trudged to my en suite bathroom. The periwinkle carpet practically swallowed my feet with each step. A huge yawn escaped my lips as I started the shower.

  Why am I so tired? I wondered. After catching up on schoolwork the night before, I’d called it an early night. Though, as I thought it, I couldn’t recall actually going to bed.

  A chill ran through me, despite the plumes of steam filling the bathroom.

  “Sirius, water temp up. Volume up too,” I said aloud.

  “Yes, Lark,” the accented, mechanical voice replied. My smart devices were all synchronized to the non-existent British man. Mostly, I liked when he read off my “sh-edule”.

  By the time my shower was over, I’d fully joined the waking world. Singing along with the music, I sat at my antique vanity and began the morning ritual prescribed by my mother. First came the contacts, and I blinked until they settled.

  Beep, beep.

  “You have forty-five minutes, Lark,” Sirius informed me.

  Got to love technology, I thought wryly, putting a little extra pep in my step.

  I stared at my reflection, tempted to skip the blow-drying portion of my routine.

  This is Manhattan, Lark, not Los Angles, my mother’s voice snapped inside my head.

  The rebellious part of me wanted to ignore her nagging voice—what was so wrong with beachy waves? My energy was nowhere near the level I needed to endure my mother’s arguments. With a sigh, I grabbed my round brush and set to work.

  Beep, beep.

  “You have twenty-five minutes until departure time, Lark,” Sirius prompted as I finished.

  “Thank you, Sirius,” I told my virtual helper.

  Phase three, I thought. A whole repertoire of anti-aging creams awaited.

  Even by Manhattan society standards, the fountain of youth sitting on my vanity was extreme. Just like our family’s move from Connecticut before my freshman year, mommy dearest believed it would give me an edge later in life. Like all things having to do with my mother, it was easier to submit than fight.

  Beep, beep.

  “You have fifteen minutes until departure time, Lark.” Sirius’ tone was becoming more insistent. Even he seemed nervous to cross my mother.

  Luckily, unlike several of my friends’ helicopter parents, Eleanor Kingsley believed in understated makeup during the daylight hours. A few swipes of cream foundation, volumizing mascara, and lip-enhancing gloss were sufficient.

  Phase four complete.

  Phase five was my outfit—easy peasy since my private school had a uniform. Aside from whether to wear a sweater over my white button-down, throw on a belt, or add a pair of tights, my decisions were limited.

  Beep, beep.

  “Five-minute warning, Lark.”

  Sliding on a pair of heels, I hastily grabbed a long, layered necklace and matching earrings from the jewelry chest in the center of my walk-in closet. Two spritzes of my favorite perfume later, I was ready to go.

  “Lark, it is time for school,” Sirius prompted.

  “Thank you.” Grabbing my phone and bag, I headed for the stairs.

  “Have a wonderful day, Lark.”

  Smiling, I hurried down the stairs. When I reached the landing, I braced for what was coming. As always, Eleanor Kingsley sat alone at the informal breakfast table. She spared me a small frown—anything more might create a wrinkle—over the top of her iPad. “Honestly, darling, do you have to cause such a ruckus all the time? It sounded as though a herd of zebras was coming down the stairs just now.”

  “Good morning to you, too, Mother,” I countered, reaching for a croissant from the side table. I felt her disapproving glare, and a backwards glance confirmed it. Replacing the buttery pastry, I grabbed an apple and turned to face her.

  “Sorry, I can’t chat,” I said, not feeling sorry at all. “I’m running late.”

  My mother set her tablet, Women’s Wear Daily on the screen, beside her own breakfast. If you could call a single egg white and four ounces of plain Greek yogurt “breakfast”.

  “Good morning, dear,” she replied, her gaze sweeping from the crown of my head to the rounded toes of my black Manolos.

  Finished with her cursory assessment, she focused on my eyes. “Lark, sweetie, are you tired? You look tired. Maybe you should go back upstairs and rest a little longer. You were out late last night, there is simply no way you slept eight hours.”

  Heaven forbid, I thought dryly. In my mother’s mind, even a minute less sleep than recommended would counteract all the expensive potions and lotions.

  “I’m fine, Mother. I’m not tired at all,” I said, backing out of the room. “I have a quiz first period. I can’t miss it.”

  “Some concealer will do wonders for those dark circles, but do try to nap later.” She pursed her lips.

  “Of course, Mother,” I soothed as I backed through the open doorway. After wiggling my fingers in her direction, I darted down the hall.

  For the three-block walk to Gracen Academy, I switched to a motivational playlist on my phone. Sure, it was dramatic, but sometimes I did need to steel myself before the daily jungle known as high school.

  As usual, my friends were already in the courtyard when I arrived.

  “Hey, there you are!” called my best friend, Annie Stanley, as I joined them.

  “And Lark makes eight,” Ilan Avery declared, our group’s signal that everyone was present and accounted for. “We need your vote. Whistler or Klosters?”

  “What’s the question, exactly?” I asked, accepting a hug from Camilla Stories.

  “Winter break,” Ilan answered.

  My expression gave me away, because Annie added, “We narrowed the choices last night without you, but we can’t seem to agree on a location.”

  “Gut reaction. Don’t think about it,” Ilan demanded.

  Flustered, I genuinely didn�
�t care where the group went for the holiday. “Klosters?”

  “Damn,” Allister Marksum said, shaking his head in disappointment.

  “Sorry.” I shrugged.

  He waved off my apology. Nonetheless, Allister’s British accent rang stronger than normal, belying his annoyance. “We do have a tie, though.”

  “Maybe we need a ninth friend,” I said, checking my watch to see if there was time to grab a morning latte.

  Seven sets of eyes locked on me with varied expressions, and I felt a little like I was at the center of crosshairs.

  “Okay, well I need a caffeine fix. I’m headed to the café. Anyone want anything?” I asked.

  Taylor Vanderkam wrinkled her nose and pushed a pair of large black sunglasses atop her sleek hair—a sure sign she was serious. “Darla can go for you.” Taylor motioned to a sophomore with big brown eyes and a hopeful expression.

  I held up my hand in protest. “I have two legs, I’m perfectly capable of using them.” I started down the steps, calling over my shoulder, “See you guys.”

  The Café’s morning rush was in full-swing, with a line stretching into the hallway. Gracen’s demands for extracurriculars on top of advanced course loads made for a lot of sleep-deprived teens.

  At my old school in Greenwich, I’d breezed through with minimal effort. Gracen was different, though. Late nights cramming for practice tests in AP classes were as common as designer labels. Spots on model UN were as competitive as positions on the field hockey team—State Champs six years and counting. And charity work was just a given. There were exceptions, of course, but almost everyone in the school was Ivy-league-bound.

  “Hey, Lark.”

  I turned as Jeff Maddow strolled up behind me in line. Students like Jeff were the other reason the café was packed. He preferred to start his day with a joint and almost always had a cloud of pot smoke surrounding him.

  How could I have forgotten to put my earbuds in?

  Jeff was nice and always good for a few laughs, but his Cannabis for Men cologne was a bit strong in the morning.

  “Hey, Jeff. How are you?” I asked, fiddling with my phone.

  He shrugged. “Eh, you know. It is what is. But hey, how are you?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, shifting from one high heel to the other.

  “No judgments.” Jeff held up his hands and grinned.

  No judgments? I tried to recall the last time I’d seen Jeff outside of school. A few weeks? Maybe longer?

  “Sometimes you just need to let go, live your truth,” he continued. “Am I right?”

  Jeff’s comments rarely made any sense, so I almost dismissed it. Except….

  “Are you talking about Ilan’s party?” I asked.

  Ilan’s eighteenth birthday had gotten out of control, but that was hardly surprising with iced liquor luges and champagne fountains. Admittedly, the end of the night was a little fuzzy.

  “Right, right.” Jeff winked. “Ilan’s Icelandic Interlude.”

  Marveling at Jeff’s use of alliteration, particularly in his placid state, I almost missed my turn to order coffee.

  “Double-shot latte, please,” I told the barista. Before anyone else started a conversation, I popped in my headphones to wait for my drink.

  Unable to put the strange exchange out of my mind, I glanced over at Jeff. The guy had his own hydroponic setup, but he was also ranked third in our class. Wondering how he did it, I trudged to first period.

  I made it to Shakespearean Lit several minutes before the bell and took my seat in the back row. It was a weird quirk, but I didn’t like people sitting behind me. Whenever I went out to eat, I always requested a corner table or booth. This infuriated my mother, since she liked me to be “seen”.

  “Klosters,” Camilla announced, leaning across the aisle to show me a photo on her phone.

  “Huh?”

  She let out an exasperated sigh. “Klosters, for winter break.” Thrusting the phone into my hand, she added, “Cute, right? It’s all booked.”

  I scrolled through the pictures without really looking at any of them. “Adorable,” I declared in a falsely cheery tone. “Are those new shoes?”

  Cam loved when I commented on her attire, and it was the easiest way to switch topics. I already knew I wasn’t going to spend the holiday skiing with my friends, so it made no difference where they went.

  “You know it.” Cam wiggled her foot and admired her shoes. “If you’d come to brunch on Sunday, you would’ve been there when I bought them.” She fake-pouted, her red lips just a shade too dark for my taste.

  “Sorry about that.” I rolled my eyes. “You know my mother.”

  As vague as the statement was, it was sufficient. Cam did know my mother, so it was easy to use her as an excuse for missing our weekly girls’ brunch.

  “No need to apologize.” Cam offered me a grin. “But you can make it up to me. You know, if you want.”

  Holding back an amused smile, I stared expectantly.

  “Unless I’m mistaken, you still need a dress for Taylor’s party, right?” she asked, narrowing her gaze. “It is this weekend, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” I lied effortlessly. “I don’t have a dress yet. Tomorrow? You, me, and Bendel’s?”

  Though she wasn’t the person I called when I needed a shoulder to cry on, Cam made an excellent shopping buddy. She was a blast to hang out with, always in a great mood, and had the sort of infectious energy that would turn a quiet night into a full-on adventure. Unlike my other friends, she also didn’t interrogate me over my increasingly frequent absences from the social scene. My whereabouts during those times were one facet of my life that was just mine. Living under a giant magnifying glass had taught me to be selfish with my personal life.

  “It’s a date,” Cam replied, beaming at me across the aisle.

  I smiled back at my friend, guilt tightening my stomach. It was my senior year, and before I knew it the eight of us would be spread up and down the east coast. Our quality time together was limited.

  My priorities have changed, I reminded myself.

  “Wait, tomorrow?” A small wrinkle appeared between Cam’s perfectly waxed brows. “Does that mean you’re disappearing after school again today?”

  Maybe even Cam had her limits when it came to my disappearing act.

  “Perhaps,” I said offhandedly as the bell rang. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

  Mr. Houser began droning on about the Bard’s poetry, and my sheepish smile became a full-on grin as my thoughts turned to the afternoon I had planned.

  Let’s just hope I remember it in the morning.

  Three

  Raven

  Twenty-four hours after renting the apartment in Petworth, I cruised up Georgia Avenue in my beat-up Corolla. With all four windows down, the breeze ruffled my hair. My playlist was titled Belt It Out, and I happily complied.

  This was an awesome day. In only minutes, I’d be moving my things into Kim’s apartment. My apartment. Though it wasn’t love-at-first-sight, I’d been warming to the idea of living there. The more I’d thought about it, the more I liked my new home. Stumbling across Kim’s listing was a stroke of luck, really. Much like finding the car. Between the two, I was finally free to become my own person, develop my own interests, and make my own mistakes.

  Once on Gibson Street, I managed to parallel park without hitting either of the cars bookending the spot. Putting the gear in Park, I did a victory dance in my seat before I hopped out. The trunk key took a couple of solid jiggles before it turned, and the lid popped open.

  “Damn it,” I swore under my breath.

  The bags were all shifted from the city’s stop-and-go traffic. The train case, which had been snugly tucked to one side, was now wedged in the opposite corner of the trunk with its contents strewn across the mat. I swore a second time; a brand-new bottle of body lotion had leaked shimmery, pale-yellow goo everywhere.

  “This is goin
g to be fun,” I muttered.

  My messenger bag went over a shoulder, then I grabbed the backpack and suitcase that were spared the lotion fallout. Closing the trunk, I played the jiggle game again to lock the car. Finally, my spirits lifting again, I turned to face my new building. The yard next door was overgrown and full of debris, but the rest of the street was tidy and well-groomed. A girl walking four dogs passed, and I pet a poodle when she pawed at my leg.

  “Sorry,” the dog walker said abashedly.

  “Not a problem,” I replied with a grin. Already, I liked the vibe of my new neighborhood.

  When I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and pulled, it didn’t budge. I yanked. It didn’t inch. I tugged. It wasn’t going to move. By this point, sweat was dripping into my eyes and down the length of my spine. I blew a breath upward, trying to dislodge the dark strands of hair clinging to my forehead, and hoisted the bag off the ground.

  “Need a hand?” a voice called from somewhere behind me.

  “No, thanks,” I groaned back. My grasp on the bag was already perilous, so I didn’t bother turning around. I took a few tentative steps onto the sidewalk and stopped to reposition. Between the three bags, I felt like a pack mule. And there were so many stairs ahead.

  “Are you sure?” The voice was deep, amused, and definitely male. “I don’t mind. You look like you could use the help.”

  “Nope, no need,” I countered. “I’ve got it.”

  As I said this, my messenger bag slipped down to my elbow. Swinging like a pendulum, it smacked me in the back of my knee. Had that been the only thing I was carrying, I probably would’ve been able to catch myself. Unfortunately, the combined weight of the suitcase and backpack tipped me over. The next thing I knew, my face rushed to meet the sidewalk.

  Strong fingers closed around my upper arms, sliding down the sweat-slicked skin before getting a firm hold. I was above average height for a girl, but he set me on my feet with minimal effort.

  “Thanks,” I muttered. Double the embarrassment heated my cheeks. He’d nearly seen me eat pavement, and I was a sweaty mess.