Page 3 of Leather & Lark
Lark
“Don’t hold your breath,” I yell to the man in the sinking car as he pounds on the window and begs for my mercy. “Get it?”
I don’t think he heard me. But that’s okay. I just smile as I wave with one hand, my gun trained on him with the other in case the window budges and he manages to slither his way out.
Fortunately, the pressure of the climbing water makes it nearly impossible for him to escape, and in mere moments, the vehicle is submerged. Bubbles burst in the black water as the car slides beneath the gentle waves of Scituate Reservoir. The headlights point to the stars, flickering as the electrical connections succumb to the flood.
“Well,shit.”
This isn’t good.
Actually, it’s kind of amazing. But it’s also a giant pain in the ass.
I chew my lip and watch until the lights blink out and the surface goes still. When I’m sure everything will stay silent, I pull outmy phone and open the contacts. My thumb hovers over Ethel’s number. She’s always been the one I’ve called when things have gone tits up. Admittedly, a car casket at the bottom of a lake might be a little beyond the usual definition oftits up, even if the timing wasn’t already making it impossible to ask for Ethel’s help.
With a sigh, I select the number just above hers instead.
Two rings and he picks up.
“Meadowlark,” my stepdad chimes on the other end. I roll my eyes and smile at his use of my childhood nickname.
My wary tone is his first indication that something might be amiss when I say, “Hi, Daddy.”
“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Is everything okay?”
“Sure …”
“Did someone puke on the carpet?” he asks. It’s safe to assume he’s had a few drinks at his own Halloween party if he hasn’t already clocked that there’s no thumping bass or raucous voices in the background from my end of the line. “I’ll have Margaret arrange some cleaners for you first thing. Don’t worry about it, honey.”
A final, damning bubble erupts from the lake like an exclamation point. “Umm, those aren’t really the cleaners that I need …”
The line goes silent.
I swallow. “Dad …? You still there?”
A door closes in the background on his end of the line, muffling the laughter and voices and music. My stepdad’s unsteady exhalation is the next thing I hear. I can almost picture the way he’s probably rubbing his fingers across his forehead in a futile attempt to channel some chill energy. “Lark, what the fuck? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m totally fine,” I say, as though this is just a minor inconvenience despite the balled-up, bloody T-shirt I press against my hairline where a deep gash throbs. My smile must be bordering on deranged. The Harley Quinn costume and twenty layers of makeup I’m wearing probably don’t help either, so I guess there’s more than one reason to be grateful that no one is around. “I can sort it out if you just give me the number.”
“Where are you? Did Sloane do something?”
“No, not at all,” I say, my voice firm, my smile instantly gone. Though I hate that he would jump to the conclusion that my best friend is at fault, I swallow my irritation rather than unleash it. “Sloane is probably holed up in her house with a smutty book and her demonic cat. I went away for the weekend. I’m not in Raleigh.”
“Then where are you?”
“Rhode Island.”
“Goddammit.”
I know what he’s thinking, that I’m too close to home for a fuck-up of this nature. “I’m sorry, truly. The car just …” I reach for the right words to explain, but only one surfaces. “… sank.”
“Yourcar?”
“No. Mine is …” I glance over my shoulder toward my Escalade, the smashed headlights glaring back at me. “Mine has seen brighter days.”
“Lark—”
“Dad, I can sort it out. I really just need the number for a cleaner. Ideally one with a tow truck. And maybe some scuba gear.”
