Leather & Lark (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #2) (65)
“Oh, I know he’s not,” I say.
My hand trembles. My heart climbs up my throat with every beat. Rage paints my vision red the moment I hold the final message up between us.
“This one is about a happy girl. One who was well-liked. Talented. Effervescent. One who Mr. Aoki alerted you about when he found her shaking in a corner of the music room with her uniform stained and askew. He was sure something serious had happened, but she wouldn’t tell him what it was. He was worried for her well-being. And just a day later, Verdon mysteriously disappeared.”
Campbell goes rigid beneath his bonds as I take slow, predatory steps around the edge of the table until I’m standing next to him, my eyes fixed to the words on the page. To the name. To the image of the person it evokes, and all that must be hidden beneath what I can see.
“Her name was Lark Montague.” The gun clicks as I release the safety. “And she is my wife.”
“No, please—”
“You were meant to keep her safe. But you failed.”
“Please, please—” Campbell begs as I press my weapon to his temple. “If you love her, you won’t hurt me. I made a deal with the Montagues to help them cover up Laurent’s disappearance. I recorded those discussions. If anything happens to me, the information will go straight to the FBI.”
“You mean the information you stored in the safe of your home office and the copies you kept here at Bantam Lake?” A deep sense of satisfaction blooms in my chest when Campbell whimpers as I press the suppressor harder against his skin. “Since you have such a good streak of not doing anything, I didn’t want you to start now by fucking up her life from beyond the grave. I have it all.”
“I-I’m b-begging,” Campbell says. “I’ll g-give you anything, just please d-don’t hurt me.”
“That’s not up to me.”
I lower my gun and take a single step back.
The door opens. Campbell whimpers as slow footsteps approach.
Lark’s voice is low and quiet when she says, “Hello, Dr. Campbell.”
I see the exact moment he realizes who Lark is, and a misguided hope floods his watery eyes. “Miss Montague, please—”
“Kane,” Lark says. “Mrs. Kane.”
“Mrs. Kane, I’m s-sorry. Please, help me.”
Lark sets the toolbox down on the table and rests a hand on the lid as she turns to pin her glare to the trembling man at the end of my gun. My beautiful wife. An angelic devil, so wickedly innocent, her sweet and welcoming features contrasted by the lethal coldness in her crystalline eyes.
“My husband brought me a present,” she says as she snaps open the clasps on the box. “I’m dying to know what’s inside. What about you?”
Campbell sobs as Lark flicks the lid open.
A murderous squeak leaves Lark’s lips as she claps her hands. She beams her smile at me and I can’t help but grin as she pulls out a small glass pot. “You brought me glitter,” she says, shaking the jar. I shrug and try to look nonchalant, but I can feel my cheeks heat with a shy blush. Lark has mercy on me and turns her attention back to the contents, taking her time to examine and announce each item, everything from gold star stickers to a brand-new set of polished knives.
Lark pulls a needle and gold thread from the box.
“You know, it was my aunt who taught me how to sew,” she says as she threads the needle and knots one end. Campbell bucks against his bonds and whimpers when she sits on his lap. “I’m quite good at it.”
With a steady hand, Lark pierces Campbell’s lower lip. He wails in pain, but there’s no one in the distance to hear his pleas for help as Lark slowly pulls the thread through his flesh.
“Did you know that’s how I finally told Sloane what Mr. Verdon was doing to me?” Lark pushes the needle through his top lip and pulls the thread taut, closing the first suture. “He’d torn my uniform. I wanted to fix it. But I was shaking too much to thread the needle, so she did it for me.”
Blood beads around the hole as Lark slides the needle through his lower lip for the second stitch.
“I told Sloane everything as she fixed my uniform,” she says as she tugs the thread. “And the next day was the last time I ever had to wear it. Because she did what I wanted to but wasn’t ready for. She made me realize it was possible to slay demons.”
Tears stream down Campbell’s face and I feel no pity. No remorse. Only pain for the suffering my wife has endured. Only admiration for her resilience as she makes another stitch. And another. And another, until his lips are sewn shut with gold thread.
“There.” With a few vicious tugs, Lark pulls the thread taut and knots the tail before clipping the excess free. Then she pats him on the shoulder and stands back to admire her work. Campbell’s lips are already swelling around the tight thread, blood smeared across his chin. His eyes beg when his mouth can’t. “Now you can’t say a word. Just like you always wanted.”
Lark comes to my side, her palm held aloft. I lay the weapon onto her waiting hand.
She doesn’t tremble. Doesn’t waver. There’s no fear in her voice when she says, “Enjoy hell, Dr. Campbell. Tell the devil that the Kanes send their regards.”
There’s a quiet pop. A crimson spray of blood. The room falls into silence. She passes me the gun, but says nothing. The only sound is Lark’s steady sigh. And then, finally, I feel her hand on mine, a gentle squeeze, and the relief she feels finds its way into my veins.