We hardly talk at all on the short drive to our destination, but Lark fills the silence with songs. Maybe she’s as nervous as I am. I think back to the Scituate Reservoir and how I pulled up to the scene of Lark’s “accident,” how my flashlight illuminated a woman standing alone on the road, blood trickling from the deep gash on her forehead. I wonder if Lark goes back to that memory too. She’s never told me about Jamie Merrick, the man I pulled from the lake, but I’ve been digging into him in Leander’s office in my spare time during my recent quest to learn more about my wife. One day, maybe she’ll be willing to tell me everything. Maybe even after tonight.
It’s eleven thirty when we turn down a gravel driveway and park between a white van and a vintage Jaguar. There’s an A-frame cabin in front of us, the lake shimmering just behind it, the black waves illuminated by the lights that spill from the tall windows of the cottage. Conor steps out onto the porch and gives us a wave. Lark takes hold of the door handle and moves to exit the Charger when I grab her wrist to stop her.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say.
“Do what?” Lark’s eyes shift between me and the cabin. Confusion is etched between her brows. “To whom?”
“You’ll see. But I’m telling you now. You can walk away.”
Lark’s eyes linger on me, falling to my mouth and resting there. She nods and I unfold my fingers from her wrist.
We step out of the car and I retrieve my toolbox from the trunk. I resist the urge to take Lark’s hand as we ascend the wooden stairs to meet Conor on the porch. He holds a gun in one hand, sheaves of paper in the other.
“Everything okay?” I ask as I take the weapon and documents from his extended hands.
“Not much to report. He got a little vocal. I gave him something to take the edge off and taped him up pretty good so I could get some work done, but he’s awake now.” Conor’s gaze shifts to Lark, and I feel the tension radiate from her as she tries to work out what’s going on. A grim kind of hope settles in my chest as I turn my attention to the gun in my hand and check the magazine before I turn to face Lark. When she shudders in the cold, I set my belongings down and shrug my jacket off to drape it over her shoulders. Her eyes shine in the dim light as she watches me and the rest of the world fades into darkness. All I see is her. The way her lips part to spill her foggy exhalations into the night. The pulse that drums in her neck. My hand raises beyond my control and I sweep my fingertips across her cheek. Her breath hitches at my touch.
“Come in if you want to. You’ll know when,” I say, letting my hand fall away.
Lark’s head tilts. “How?”
“I’ll give you a bat signal.” I grin when Lark rolls her eyes, then nod toward the toolbox sitting at my feet. “That’s for you. See ya, duchess.”
With a swift kiss to Lark’s cheek, I give Conor a knowing look and then step inside Dr. Louis Campbell’s cabin.
The lights are low, the living room dim. There are shelves of old books. Oil paintings in heavy gold frames. Diplomas and awards. Photos with politicians, Campbell’s silver hair coiffed, his smile bleached, every suit finely tailored. Pictures of him with his wife, his nondescript children in school uniforms. I stop at a side table and glare down at a photo of his smiling face frozen in time. A whimper finds me from the dining room, and I meet the terrified eyes of the same man from the photograph, except this time he’s strapped to an ornate chair. The headmaster of Ashborne Collegiate Institute.
I’m genuinely feckin’ excited.
At first, I thought feelings like joy or hope or excitement had been dulled in me, worn down by the tides of an unforgiving world. But I was wrong. Since Lark came into my life, I’ve felt excited every day. It started when I followed Lark onto the balcony the night of Rowan’s restaurant opening, and though it had a vicious edge at first, it gradually transformed. I realize now that I’m excited every single time I see her. The need to push her away has become a desire to pull her closer. I don’t just want to hear her laugh, I need to earn it. Every time I gain a little ground, I want more. I want to break out of the shade and back into her light. Without even realizing it, I’ve become addicted to it. To her.
Lark’s needs are my priority. Even the ones she doesn’t know about.
Like the one bound before me now.
I close in on Dr. Campbell and tear the duct tape from his lips.
“W-what is this?” he sputters. His Cambridge-accented voice is tight with panic. He struggles, but Conor has bound even his head to the high back of the chair. All he can do is shift his eyes, and they flick in every direction with distress. “Who are you? What is this about?”
“What do you think it’s about?”
Campbell pauses, weighs the options, then picks the most disappointing one. “Money. If it’s money you want—”
“Wrong. Try again.”
A flicker of panic brightens in his eyes. His pulse surges above the sharp edge of his pressed shirt collar. “This has something to do with a political connection.”
“Pedestrian.” A smirk tips up one corner of my lips. “For a man who runs a school for excellence in arts, your guesses are pretty feckin’ uncreative, Dr. Campbell.”
He says nothing as I set the papers before me on the table. I pick up the top sheet and hold it up so he can read it.
“I’m here for something much more fun than money or connections,” I say.
Campbell’s cheeks brighten with crimson blotches as his eyes dart between me and the words on the printed email.
I lean closer and hold his focus as my smile stretches. “I’m here for vengeance.”
“I didn’t do anything,” he declares.
“Precisely. You didn’t do anything.” I pick up the next email and hold it up for him to read. “You didn’t do anything when Ms. Kincaid raised concerns about the deteriorating mental health of a student who was working privately with Artistic Director Laurent Verdon on her college preparations.” I toss the sheet aside and pick up the next one. “Ms. Kincaid again, raising questions about why Mr. Verdon was spending time with another girl outside of class. You didn’t do anything then either and brushed it off as extracurricular work toward auditions.” Another paper, another question, another girl. I force him to read one after the other until I get to the last two.
“I don’t—”
“Shut the fuck up,” I snarl, steadying my aim to keep the muzzle of the gun pointed at Campbell’s sweating forehead. I hold up the penultimate paper close to his face. “Mr. Mehta this time. He brought you a concern about a student who seemed, what did he say again? Oh yes. ‘Exceedingly withdrawn.’ He had seen Mr. Verdon leave the art hall one evening as he was heading toward the staff room. On his way back to his office, Mr. Mehta heard someone crying. The withdrawn girl was there in the art room, alone in the dark. She was splashing black paint across a colorful canvas. When he asked her what happened, she wouldn’t tell him, but Mr. Mehta suspected Mr. Verdon had something to do with it. So he asked you to look into it. He was worried about the girl.” Panic drains the color from Campbell’s skin. “She’s my brother’s wife. Sloane Sutherland.”
Campbell tries to shake his head, but we both know his protest is futile. “I spoke to Miss Sutherland. She told me nothing. There was no reason to believe Laurent Verdon was involved in any inappropriate activities with her or any other student. There was no evidence to support those concerns.”
“There was no desire to even look for evidence, was there? Because Laurent Verdon had just as many connections as you do, and you needed to mine every last one of those opportunities to ensure Ashborne Collegiate Institute remained a top-rated, exclusive private school so that you could secure a sizable donation from a certain wealthy benefactor’s estate, a donation you intended to siphon from to line your pockets. Business is business, right?”
“That is categorically untrue.”
“Watch yourself, Dr. Campbell. If I got hold of these emails, what more do you think I found in my travels through your sordid private life? How’s your mistress, by the way?” I shake my head and tsk. “Fucking the nanny, how utterly unoriginal.”
The silence is so thick that it presses against my skin. Campbell swallows, his lips quivering. “Listen, whoever you are. While I understand you’re upset, the fact remains that allegations about inappropriate conduct are extremely serious and can have career-destroying implications, and they must not be pursued on rumor alone. Besides, Mr. Verdon is no longer with Ashborne.”
“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.