“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 ‘Exceedingly withdrawn.’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 The withdrawn girl was there in the art room, alone in the dark.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.”
