Miller nods once. “Unfortunately.”
Then, in true Miller fashion, she steps forward and pulls Lark into the briefest hug known to man—tight, brisk, like she’s allergic to any form of prolonged affection. It still makes Lark smile. She’s one of maybe two people Miller will tolerate physical contact from, and even then it’s only under specific terms.
Lark leans back, looking between us again. “Okay, seriously, what’s going on? You’re hugging me and you two showing up together feels…coordinated. Which is terrifying.”
“I wish I was here with something good,” Miller says, her tone sobering as she tucks her hair behind her ear, the sarcasm thinning.
I glance at Lark, catching the way her brow knits. “We should probably sit.”
Lark stares at us for a second longer, the shift in energy not lost on her. She crosses her arms. “Why do you both look like you’re about to tell me someone died?”
We sit, but Lark doesn’t move. She stays where she is, arms still crossed tight over her chest like she’s bracing for impact. Her eyes bounce between the two of us—reading, registering, already worried.
I open my mouth to speak, but Miller lifts a hand, subtle but firm. “I’ve got it.”
She crosses one leg over the other, her spine going impossibly straight, every trace of sarcasm drained from her expression. The transformation is almost unsettling. Miller doesn’t do soft when things matter—she’s precise.
She’s not Lark’s best friend in this moment. Not the girl who used to take shots in this same kitchen when we were teenagers and tell me off for breathing too loud. She’s the lawyer now. Clean. Sharp. Controlled. The version of herself that knows how to compartmentalize, how to set emotion aside and deliver the hard thing anyway.
And she has to be. It’s how she protects herself. How she protects Lark.
She tucks her short hair behind her ears and pulls the folder from her bag, sliding it across the table with the same care someone might use handing over a scalpel.
“There’ve been some financial discrepancies tied to Tate’s business accounts,” she says, her tone clipped and professional. “Most of the records are protected behind layers of legal insulation, but I’ve been able to access a few things. Internal wire transfers. Dates, amounts, and recipients.”
Lark’s arms drop just enough for her to reach out and grab the folder. Her fingers hover on the flap for a second before she opens it. The paper shifts softly as she flips through the pages, eyes scanning line by line. Her brow furrows deeper with every second.
Lark doesn’t look up. Her eyes stay fixed to the page, moving fast, trying to make sense of what she’s seeing.
“What do you mean, financial discrepancies? What am I looking at?”
Miller shifts slightly, her hands still folded neatly in front of her. “All of that money—it’s being wired out of Tate’s personal account. Repeated transactions. Consistent amounts. It’s not payroll. It’s not overhead. It’s hush money. My guess? It’s how he’s been keeping someone quiet. Someone doing his dirty work.”
Lark blinks at her, and I can tell her mind is already running ahead of the conversation. “Who?”
Miller’s eyes flick across Lark’s face, the hard edge in her expression softening just a fraction. She nods once toward the folder. “Flip to the last page, look at the bottom.”
Lark’s fingers hesitate for a second, then slide the papers aside until she reaches it. Her eyes fall to the bottom of the sheet—and I watch the exact second it lands, a jolt shooting straight through her.
She goes still. Her hand rises, quick, covering her mouth. Her shoulders tighten and then tremble. She starts shaking her head, once, then again. “No.”
I stand slowly, already moving toward her.
She looks at Miller, then to me, like maybe we’re going to laugh and sayit’s all just some terrible misunderstanding. “No. This isn’t right. This is a mistake.”
Her voice breaks on the last word. She looks back at the paper again, as if it might change if she reads it harder. Her breath starts coming quicker, shallower.
Miller doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. She just shakes her head, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry, babe.”
The tear falls before I reach her. Just one, slipping down her cheek so quietly, I don’t even think she knows it’s there. But I see it. I always see it. I know how she cries—quiet, guarded, like maybe if she’s small enough, no one will notice. But her eyes give her away. Always have. That blue in her irises turns stormy when she’s crying.
Her fingers stay clenched around the edge of the paper, but her gaze is far off now—like she’s not even seeing the page anymore. Just the memories behind it.
Her voice cracks again when she speaks. “How?”
I reach her just as she says it, just as the heartbreak really starts to settle in. I wrap my arms around her and pull her in close. She doesn’t resist. Her head presses against my chest, her breathing short and uneven.
“Dawn’s been like a mother to me,” she whispers, anger starting to push up through the grief. “She’s been part of my life since I was a kid. I worked alongside her for years. She’s helped raise half this town. There’s no way she’d try to take the Bluebell from me. No way.”
