I blink, looking at the chaos. “I mean, it’sMelinda. She’s too perpetually beige for that.”
Bane nods. “Stay here in a second. I’m going to check the rest of the place just in case.” He stops in front of me, cupping my face. “And then we’re going toget the fuck out of here, okay?”
I nod, trembling. “Yeah, okay.”
He kisses me, then slips out of Melinda’s room.
I turn, surveying the wreckage. Part of me thinks we should just leave it as is, given that it’s a crime scene.
…Then I remind myself how fucking stupid that sounds. As if my father will be invitingthe policeinto his home to investigate.
I grab the side of the bed and bring it down onto four legs with a heavy thud.
“That was just me!” I yell, so Bane doesn’t freak out.
I'm heading over to the dresser when a little book that was under the upturned bed catches my eye.
What the hell?
My eyes widen as I stoop down and pick up the Bible bound in green leather with gold leaf inlay.
This was Lark’s. She wasn’t religious, and I doubt she ever read a single page of the thing. But Agatha was raised Catholic, and Lark sometimes went to church with her on Sundays.
I remember when she gave her this Bible.
It had been Agatha’s, and she handed it down to Lark on her thirteenth birthday. I have no fucking idea why I remember that with such clarity right now, but I do.
Sure enough, when I open the inside cover, I smile when I see “Agatha Peltier” written in her gorgeous penmanship, with “Lark Peltier” written beneath it, in much newer ink and less tidy handwriting.
I know Melinda didn'tsteal itor anything. Maybe Lark thought Melinda would get better use out of it and gave it to her. Maybe even Agatha did, as a parting gift before she died.
I exhale and toss the Bible onto the bed.
…And my heart almost stops beating when two folded pieces of paper with torn edges slide out onto the messed-up sheets.
My skin tingles and a dull whine hums in my ears as I reach for the papers—both the two that slipped out from between the pages of the Bible, plus another three that I can see are still tucked inside.
A choked cry withers in my throat as my hand goes to my mouth.
They’re the pages from Lark’s diary.
A tear slides down my cheek as I smile, shaking my head.
Ofcoursethis is where Lark hid the pages she didn’t for whatever reason want in the diary anymore: it's the one place no one would ever think to look, because anyone who knew her knew she’d never once cracked this book open.
I sit on the edge of the bed and unfold the pages, glancing at the dates and shuffling them into order.
The first one is like most of the entries that came before it. Lark is confused, angry, and really hard on herself. She talks about lying to those around her, even me, and not being sure if the things she’s worried about are even real.
I close my eyes.
I’m so sorry we were so similar.
The next entry is more of the same. So is the third, which includes a tirade about Scott being gross and flirty with her. Yeah, gross.
Then I feel like a hypocritical asshole for thinking so badly of my high school boyfriend flirting with my sister, when I’mmarried to, sleeping with, and completely in love with her former fiancé.
I reach for the fourth page. The first paragraph hooks me instantly.
