Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #3)(86)
I lean closer to the passenger window. “There,” I say, pointing to a side street ahead and to the right. The turn is blocked by the cars ahead, all of us stuck. “The sidewalk,” I say, and Fionn is already moving, wrenching the steering wheel far to the right. He narrowly avoids the bumper of the car in front and jumps the curb to take the side road, cars around us honking.
“Was anything at all unusual? Did she say or do anything out of character?”
“No,” I say, swiping a tear from my lash line before it can fall. “She was happy.”
Fionn’s expression is grim as we speed down the block so we can backtrack. “Did you notice anyone out of place in the coffee shop?”
“No. There was nothing unusual at all.” Fionn glances in my direction as we near the next turn. “What if we can’t find her, Fionn? What if—”
“We’ll find her,” he says as we take the corner far too fast, nearly colliding head-on with a car taking up too much space on a narrow residential street. Fionn brakes so hard we both lurch forward. The tarot cards tumble across my lap and into the footwell. We’re going to collide. On instinct, Fionn’s arm flies out in front of me, bracing across my chest.
We screech to a stop inches from the other car’s bumper. A loud horn blares from the other vehicle, but it’s as though Fionn can’t hear it. All his attention is on me.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his arm still resting across my body.
I nod, the motion shaky.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He tears his haunted eyes from mine, then brings his arm over my head to rest it on the back of my seat as he looks out the rear window and reverses, giving the other car enough room to pass. When he rights himself, he throws the rental into drive, stamps his foot onto the accelerator, and flies down the street. With one hand braced on the handle of the door, I take my phone from my pocket with the other, calling Sloane. She picks up on the second ring, her relaxed greeting destroyed by my tone as soon as I ask her where she is. It crushes me to tell her Lark is missing. She cries out on the other end of the phone. I hear the moment her heart splits in half. Rowan takes the phone from her.
“We’re on our way home. We’ll be there as soon as we can,” he says, his voice grave. Then the line goes dead.
It takes less than ten minutes for us to arrive at Lark and Lachlan’s building, a former textile factory in a quiet neighborhood. We’re just getting out of the car as another vehicle growls down the empty street. It’s Lachlan’s vintage Charger, racing toward us, squealing to a stop just behind us. We jog toward the car and he opens his door as he tries his phone, panic written across his face. The call rings unanswered on the other end before connecting to Lark’s voicemail.
“We called Rowan, but he and Sloane are in Martha’s Vineyard for the weekend. They’re on their way home but it’s gonna take a while,” I say as he pulls a gun from the glove box. “What’s going on? Where the fuck is Lark?”
“I don’t know,” he says as he leads the way toward the entrance of their building. “She called me to say her aunt died. She was supposed to meet me at the nursing home, but she never showed. Conor just found information about the man who’s been targeting her family. And now Lark won’t respond to any of my calls.”
Fionn and I exchange a weighted glance as we follow Lachlan into the building and up the metal staircase, Lachlan spitting venom about someone being in his shop as we take the stairs by twos. When we get to the door of their apartment above the textile floor, Lachlan hesitates, one hand paused around the handle, the gun clutched in the other. His eyes are every shade of desperation as he nods to us in a wordless request to stay back. And then he twists the handle and opens the door.
His knees buckle and Fionn catches his older brother. My hand is shaking when I cover my mouth.
The floor is coated in blood.
Lachlan stumbles into the room. He calls out for Lark, a heartbreaking, hopeless plea. But instead of her voice, there’s a desolate whine. We rush after Lachlan to find Bentley lying on the floor, the dog panting heavily, blood staining the patches of white fur on his side. His dark eyes are pleading as he looks up at us.
“Save that fucking dog,” Lachlan says to Fionn as he strides to the kitchen to gather tea towels from a drawer.
“I’m not a vet—”
“I don’t fucking care, save that goddamn dog.”
Lachlan rushes in the direction of the hallway, calling out to Lark without receiving an answer. “I’ll help you,” I say, heading to the side table where I know Lark keeps some of her sewing supplies. I gather a needle and thread and scissors and bring them to Fionn. My hands tremble as I take over the job of holding towels to the deep puncture wound on Bentley’s side so Fionn can prepare for sutures. “Good boy,” I whisper, stroking his bearlike head as he gives me a mournful whine. For what feels like the countless time today, I swallow a swell of tears. “What did he mean, someone ‘targeting her family’?” I ask as I lock eyes with Fionn.
“I don’t know. It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” he replies. “She never said anything to you?”
“Nothing at all.” I search his eyes, but Fionn’s expression is grim. There’s so much blood on the floor. A streak of it leads to the door, as though someone was dragged. I keep asking myself the same question, over and over. What if we don’t find her in time?