Page 105 of Leather & Lark
Lachlan
I stride through the doors of Shoreview Assisted Living and check in with the reception desk, the staff regarding me with somber smiles. When I get to Ethel’s room, Lark’s parents are already there. Damian’s hand gently caresses Nina’s back as she smooths Ethel’s silver-white waves. I scan the room but find nothing of Lark’s on the chair in the corner where she usually leaves her bag and jacket.
“Lachlan, thank you for coming.” Though Damian tries to keep his tone even, I still catch the wary notes in his voice. I can’t blame him for it either. I wish it could be different for Lark’s sake, though, at least on a day like today.
“Of course. I’m so sorry for your loss. Ethel was …” I find that my throat grows tight as I picture Ethel at the brunch when I met Lark’s family for the first time. She was so wicked and funny and sharp. So full of life. And I respected the hell out of her. Even knowing how sick she was, it seems inconceivable that she’s simplygone. “Ethel was a force of nature. I’m grateful to have known her, even for a little while.”
“Thank you.” Nina gives me a weak smile, her eyes shining. Her brow furrows. “Where’s Lark?”
“I thought she’d be here already. She was at home when she called to give me the news. She said she’d be coming straight here.”
With a glance toward the door, I pull out my phone and type a text.
Everything okay?
“Maybe it was the stress of losing Stan,” Nina says as she runs a tissue beneath her lashes and straightens her shoulders. “They were close friends for many years. Maybe it was just too much for Ethel to handle.”
Damian says something reassuring but I lose track of what it is as I pace toward the door and back again, the phone clutched in my hand. The message was delivered, but there’s no response from Lark. Something grips my guts and twists.
“I’ll be right back,” I say to Damian and Nina, willing my voice to remain steady.
I leave the room and head down the corridor toward the reception desk. I look out the sliding glass doors hoping to catch a glimpse of an Uber dropping Lark off, or her mass of blond waves catching on the breeze, or that giant feckin’ bag that weighs nearly as much as she does bouncing against her hip. But there’s nothing, just an empty sidewalk and cars that pass by on the road.
I select Lark’s number and ring it as I head back toward the room. It goes unanswered. I hang up when it gets to Lark’s voicemail.
“Has Lark contacted you?” I ask as I step back into Ethel’s room. Nina and Damian both shake their heads. My pulse quickens andI open my messages again as I hope for the dots of an incoming reply, but they don’t come.
Let me know you’re okay, duchess
My plea is as much to the universe as it is to Lark. But still there’s no response.
“Fuck.”
I can feel the tension erupt in the room like a malevolent phantom. Damian takes a step closer. “What’s wrong? Is Lark all right?”
“I don’t know, she hasn’t responded. She should have been here by now. Even with waiting for an Uber she was still closer than me.”
I’m about to call her a second time when my phone rings in my hand, but my momentary relief is cut short when I see Conor’s name on the screen and not Lark’s.
“Is Lark with you?” I ask by way of greeting.
“No, man. Sorry,” he replies with confusion in his voice. “But I’ve got something from Stan’s videos. Paranoid old fucker had everything encrypted and I just got past it about ten minutes ago. Sending you a screenshot now.”
I pull the phone from my ear and place the call on speaker as I wait for Conor’s text to come through. When it does, I see an image of a man standing over Stan’s body. His features are obscured by the angle of the camera and the ball cap he wears, the brim pulled low. He clutches a weapon in his hand, not a normalknife but something small and irregularly shaped. Something familiar.
“Can you—”
“Already on it, bro.”
A second text comes in from Conor, this time a zoomed-in image of the tool. The man’s palm covers most of the black handle, but not the ring of gold that attaches the sharp head of the edge beveller. I can see the brand name—WUTA—stamped on the stainless steel.
“Fuck,fuck.” Blood freezes in my veins as my heart tumbles into my guts. “That’smine.”
“Bro, what the fuck? He was in your shop?”
Images click together like pieces of a puzzle as Nina and Damian ask questions that I don’t answer. “Get me a better picture of the hat.”
A handful of heartbeats later, a new image of the man comes through, his face still mostly in shadow, but the Carhartt logo clearly visible on the front of the cap.
