Though I have the urge to steal it to fuel my fantasies in the privacy of my room across the hall, I set the corset back down and press my eyes closed as I shut the drawer.

With a deep breath, I turn and head back to the living room.

“Feckin’ hell,” I say to the dog, who heaves a disinterested sigh. “What does she see?”

She sees the city from her round chair as she counts the hours between dusk and dawn. She sees photos of friends and family and places she’s traveled. She sees the gold table she made and a macrame wall hanging of tiny stars. She sees huge movie posters printed on canvas. The Life Aquatic. Beetlejuice. Sharknado. Constantine.

Constantine.

I inhale a sharp breath and march over to the poster, lifting it gently from the wall. Behind it, I finally find what I was looking for. A thin sheet over a ragged hole in the drywall.

By the time Lark returns to the apartment an hour later, I’ve cleared out the hole and replaced the poster on the wall. But now I’m left with a small cardboard box containing far more questions than I started with. I want answers. And the only woman who can give them to me walks in with a cutting glare, suspicion a heavy note in the tense beat of quiet between us.

“Hey,” I say when the silence in the room grows to the size of a black hole.

Balancing a covered tray with one hand, Lark glances up and places her bag down with the other. She says nothing, just casts me a brief, exhausted look as though she knows something is coming but is too weak to avoid the collision.

“We need to talk, Lark. Really.”

She sighs and rubs her forehead with her free hand. “Lachlan, honestly, I don’t want to talk about Claire right now or any of that shit. I just want to exist in a place of caffeine and butter and sugar.” Lark sets a tray of muffins onto the counter and lifts the plastic lid. The scent of apple and cinnamon drifts toward me. “I volunteered to teach music lessons this afternoon and this kid Hugo literally tries to gnaw on the cello every single time. He is so fucking weird.”

“This is important.”

“Is it about the mystery murderer?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then it’s not more important than the caffeine I need to survive Hugo’s mouth-splinter fixation.”

“It’s about you.”

Lark glances at me, wariness filtering into her eyes. “Since that is your least favorite topic and I’ve made it a personal life goal to cause you the most misery humanly possible,” she says as she takes a little bow and gracefully sweeps her hand before her, “please, do continue.”

Normally, I would reply with a diabolical grin. Maybe a jab or two to rile her up. But this time, my stomach flips uncomfortably as I reach into the cardboard box tucked beneath my arm to pull out the first item in question.

“What’s this?” I ask as I hold up a flat disc of fabric.

The flash of shock in her expression snuffs out as quickly as it appears. She clears her throat. “It appears to be a coaster.”

“Not quite,” I reply as I take a step closer. “It’s a coaster made from an extra-thick, aftermarket, corded boot lace. One with a suspicious stain on the fibers.”

Lark huffs a dismissive laugh, but there’s a spark of trepidation in her gaze when it flicks from the string in my hand to my face. “An aftermarket boot lace? Did it come with a spoiler and muffler package?” She rolls her eyes and pads away toward the kitchen as I trail behind her like a joyless specter. “It’s a wine stain on a coaster, Lachlan. You could have gotten it anywhere.”

“I could have, but I didn’t. I got it from right here in the apartment.”

She scoffs but doesn’t look at me.

Next, I take two sticks with brightly painted bulbous ends from the box. “And what are these?”

Her focus darts to the items in my hand. She avoids my eyes. “Maracas, clearly.”

I clear my throat for dramatic effect. “Maracas …” Lark nods. “And what would they be made of, exactly?”

Lark turns to the fridge for butter. “How am I supposed to know?”

I rattle them, the objects inside hitting the lacquered walls of what looks suspiciously like skin. “You know I’m a leatherworker, Lark. Want to try again?”

She refuses to acknowledge me.

“What do you think would happen if I …” My words evaporate as I crush one of the bulbs in a fist. Human teeth fall into my waiting palm, several falling to the floor as Bentley rushes over to investigate the possibility of wayward food. “Somehow, that’s what I expected, and yet I’m still surprised. What a feckin’ conundrum.”

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 is this …?”

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’s attached 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 damning thunk. 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 you is my 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 like snuffluk as 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.