Page 49 of Leather & Lark
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 isthis…?”
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’sattached 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.
“Ha … yeah …” Lark’s half-hearted laugh disintegrates as I set the mason jar down on the table with a damningthunk. A little shiver racks her body as she shores herself up and raises her head, readying herself for a confrontation. “Well, there’s a very straightforward explanation.”
“Which is?”
“I couldn’t get it off. His fingers were too thick.”
I clear my throat, every carefully curated word a proclamation when I ask, “So you took the whole finger?”
A flare of irritation bursts in her eyes. “Seems to be the case, genius. I see your observational skills haven’t improved with the presence of glasses.”
I let out a long, slow breath. “Let’s try this another way. Why did you feel compelled to take this combination of finger and ring and then save it in a jar? It was shockingly easy to find, by the way. For future, I suggest a safe, not a literal hole in the wall.”
“It’s not like I asked you to go nosing around in my business.”
“Protecting youismy business. That was part of the deal you proposed at the wedding, remember? And I draw no distinction between keeping you safe from outside parties and keeping you safe from yourself.” I take one step closer and raise the jar between us. “So? Any explanation …?”
“He didn’t deserve to wear it.Clearly.”
I haven’t had time to look up the crest on the signet ring, but obviously it has significant meaning to her that I don’t yet understand. Perhaps there’s even a clue on the inner surface, and I start to spin the lid to open it up so I can try pulling the ring free of the waxy gray flesh.
“No,” Lark says. There’s utter panic in her eyes. Her skin goes instantly pale. “Don’t open it,please, Lachlan.” When I raise a brow in a silent question, she shakes her head. “Seriously. The formalin. I hate the smell. I nearly puked like five times just pouring it in there. If you open it, I’ll definitely hurl.”
“Well, I’m glad you managed at least long enough to put glitter in the jar.”
Lark mutters something that sounds likesnufflukas she scratches her head and trains her gaze toward the floor.
“Didn’t quite catch that, duchess.”
“Snowflakes,” she repeats a little louder, then flicks a hand in my direction without meeting my eyes. “Shake it.”
I glance from her to the jar and back again before I pick it up to give it a shake. The ring clanks against the glass and the finger taps the steel lid. When I set it back down, tiny, glittering snowflakes swirl around the severed digit before they slowly fall toward the base of the jar.
“A snow globe,” I say slowly, waiting for her to look up, which she doesn’t do. “You made a severed finger into a feckin’snow globe.”
“It was almost Christmas,” she says with a shrug. “It felt … festive.”
“F … fest …” I blow out a long, thin stream of a breath and set the jar back down with numb fingers. “I just …what the fuck, Lark … Are you …”
Lark tilts her head, her brows raised as she waits for me to continue. Her shoulders go rigid, and I know she’s arming herself for battle, so I might as well just spit it out before she puts the last of her psychological chain mail on.
“Are you a serial killer?”
“No.” She scoffs. It’s entirely forced. “Of course not.No.I’m more like a …” She drifts off into thought as she seems to weigh several possible responses. Dread sinks into my guts as her brow furrows and then smooths. A heartbeat later, a vibrant smile erupts on her face. “I’m more like amultiple deleter.”
Lark gives a single, decisive nod, the glossy blond waves of her ponytail bouncing across her shoulder. I don’t think I’ve even blinked yet but she looks like she’s just had ten shots of espresso when she beams a bright smile and says, “Honestly, it feels so much better to finally tell someone.”
