“Why the hell wouldn’t she be?” he asked.
Lark blinked. Once, twice—and then, all at once, the panic disappeared and she sagged against the counter, her relief almost palpable.
Then she looked at him again. “She really was okay?”
Grayson’s confusion deepened, even as he nodded.
“Why wouldn’t she tell me?” This time, that question was directed at him, but if she expected him to supply an answer, she was about to be sorely disappointed.
Grayson opened his mouth, then closed it again. Because suddenly, he wasn’t thinking about Lark or her question. He was thinking about Wren at the festival. About the drunk guy who’d grabbed her arm.
The memory surfaced with startling clarity. Given Lark’s current concern, he was seeing that event through different eyes. He recalled how Wren had gone pale and become instantly withdrawn. How fear had flashed in her eyes before she’d shuttered it.
At the time, he’d been so confused by the indomitable Lark being impacted so strongly by the incident, he hadn’t considered if those reactions might have another, older source.
Then, there’d been the kiss. She’d melted against him for those few brief perfect moments before pulling away so abruptly, jumping out of the bed. As if she’d been startled…
Or frightened.
And again, he’d misread it, stupidly thinking “Lark” was worried about kissing the boss.
Lark was still talking. “…doesn’t make any sense,” but Grayson barely heard her. His mind was racing, trying to connect pieces he’d missed.
“Lark,” he said, interrupting her.
She stopped rambling. “What?”
His voice was careful, low. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Every muscle in her body tightened, and he recognized it for what it was.
Confirmation.
“Lark,” he said again, when she went stubbornly silent. “What happened to her?” he asked, those four words foul and, quite frankly, terrifying.
Her expression closed down tight. “I can’t tell you.”
A heavy weight pressed on his chest—because now he knew for sure there was something to tell. Something significant.
His mind raced over everything he knew about the McCoy family. Like the Storms, they were Gracemont born and bred. In a town this small, it was damn hard to keep a secret, but Grayson was certain that whatever happened to Wren wasn’t widely known.
“Listen,” he started, aware he was wasting his breath.
“This conversation is over.” She picked up her mop, dragging it and the bucket to the bathroom, closing the door between them.
Grayson stared at the door for several minutes.
His conversation with Lark might be over, but he wasn’t letting this go.
For the first time since learning about the switch, he wasn’t thinking about the fact that Wren had lied to him. His anger vanished like it had never even existed at all.
Now, all he could think about was Wren and the fear he’d seen in her eyes. The sadness she carried when she thought nobody was looking. The way she always seemed ready to disappear.
Something had happened to her, and the need to know became nearly unbearable. Not because he was curious, but because he cared. Because…
She.
Was.
