Leather & Lark (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #2) (45)
With a deep breath, I turn and head back to the living room.
“Feckin’ hell,” I say to the dog, who heaves a disinterested sigh. “What does she see?”
She sees the city from her round chair as she counts the hours between dusk and dawn. She sees photos of friends and family and places she’s traveled. She sees the gold table she made and a macrame wall hanging of tiny stars. She sees huge movie posters printed on canvas. The Life Aquatic. Beetlejuice. Sharknado. Constantine.
Constantine.
I inhale a sharp breath and march over to the poster, lifting it gently from the wall. Behind it, I finally find what I was looking for. A thin sheet over a ragged hole in the drywall.
By the time Lark returns to the apartment an hour later, I’ve cleared out the hole and replaced the poster on the wall. But now I’m left with a small cardboard box containing far more questions than I started with. I want answers. And the only woman who can give them to me walks in with a cutting glare, suspicion a heavy note in the tense beat of quiet between us.
“Hey,” I say when the silence in the room grows to the size of a black hole.
Balancing a covered tray with one hand, Lark glances up and places her bag down with the other. She says nothing, just casts me a brief, exhausted look as though she knows something is coming but is too weak to avoid the collision.
“We need to talk, Lark. Really.”
She sighs and rubs her forehead with her free hand. “Lachlan, honestly, I don’t want to talk about Claire right now or any of that shit. I just want to exist in a place of caffeine and butter and sugar.” Lark sets a tray of muffins onto the counter and lifts the plastic lid. The scent of apple and cinnamon drifts toward me. “I volunteered to teach music lessons this afternoon and this kid Hugo literally tries to gnaw on the cello every single time. He is so fucking weird.”
“This is important.”
“Is it about the mystery murderer?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then it’s not more important than the caffeine I need to survive Hugo’s mouth-splinter fixation.”
“It’s about you.”
Lark glances at me, wariness filtering into her eyes. “Since that is your least favorite topic and I’ve made it a personal life goal to cause you the most misery humanly possible,” she says as she takes a little bow and gracefully sweeps her hand before her, “please, do continue.”
Normally, I would reply with a diabolical grin. Maybe a jab or two to rile her up. But this time, my stomach flips uncomfortably as I reach into the cardboard box tucked beneath my arm to pull out the first item in question.
“What’s this?” I ask as I hold up a flat disc of fabric.
The flash of shock in her expression snuffs out as quickly as it appears. She clears her throat. “It appears to be a coaster.”
“Not quite,” I reply as I take a step closer. “It’s a coaster made from an extra-thick, aftermarket, corded boot lace. One with a suspicious stain on the fibers.”
Lark huffs a dismissive laugh, but there’s a spark of trepidation in her gaze when it flicks from the string in my hand to my face. “An aftermarket boot lace? Did it come with a spoiler and muffler package?” She rolls her eyes and pads away toward the kitchen as I trail behind her like a joyless specter. “It’s a wine stain on a coaster, Lachlan. You could have gotten it anywhere.”
“I could have, but I didn’t. I got it from right here in the apartment.”
She scoffs but doesn’t look at me.
Next, I take two sticks with brightly painted bulbous ends from the box. “And what are these?”
Her focus darts to the items in my hand. She avoids my eyes. “Maracas, clearly.”
I clear my throat for dramatic effect. “Maracas …” Lark nods. “And what would they be made of, exactly?”
Lark turns to the fridge for butter. “How am I supposed to know?”
I rattle them, the objects inside hitting the lacquered walls of what looks suspiciously like skin. “You know I’m a leatherworker, Lark. Want to try again?”
She refuses to acknowledge me.
“What do you think would happen if I …” My words evaporate as I crush one of the bulbs in a fist. Human teeth fall into my waiting palm, several falling to the floor as Bentley rushes over to investigate the possibility of wayward food. “Somehow, that’s what I expected, and yet I’m still surprised. What a feckin’ conundrum.”
Lark pretends to focus on the muffin she pops into the microwave.
“Okay …” I tilt my hand and let the teeth fall into the box. “We’ll come back to that one. In the meantime,” I say as I hold up my final prize, “what is this …?”
Lark’s eyes flick from the item on the table and back to the microwave as it dings. She shrugs. “A ring …?”
I let the weight of my gaze hammer into the side of her head, and even though she fidgets, she resists the urge to turn around. “A ring,” I repeat.
She nods.
“Did you happen to notice it’s attached to a finger in a feckin’ jar?”
A nervous laugh trails behind her as Lark moves toward the sink. She grips the stainless-steel edge as though she hopes it might suck her down the drain. When she finally turns to face me, she’s biting her lower lip, unable to control the cringe that creases her features.