Chapter 7: Lark's Door

Lark's front door lay in the hallway with the frame still attached.

Two officers were writing in notebooks at the neighbor's table.

Lark sat between them in her scrubs with a mug of tea and her red ponytail half undone.

She stood up when she saw me and hugged me hard.

"Nobody's hurt," she said into my shoulder. "They just wrecked the place."

"I'm so sorry."

"Stop. Don't you dare." She pulled back and looked at me. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You're glowing."

"Lark."

"I'm just saying, it's a lot of glow for somebody whose fiancé is a rat."

Then she looked over my shoulder and went quiet.

Dominic stood in the doorway in his black coat. He filled it.

"So that's him," Lark said.

"That's him."

"The one on the news."

"It wasn't on the news," Dominic said.

"It will be." She folded her arms. "You're the reason my door is in the hallway."

"I'm not."

"Then who is?"

He didn't answer, because he didn't know.

I saw it in his face. He wasn't hiding anything this time. He was angry that he did not have the answer.

"I'll replace the door," he said.

"I'll replace my own door."

"Lark," I said.

"I mean it. I have a landlord and a deductible." She sniffed. "But thanks for coming over. Most guys would have sent flowers."

Something almost like humor crossed his face.

The officers left. We went into Lark's apartment through the gap where the door had been.

The living room had been taken apart.

The couch cushions were slit open.

Every drawer in the kitchen lay on the floor.

"They didn't take the TV," Lark said. "Who breaks in and doesn't take the TV?"

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