Page 115 of Freeing Lark

“I’ve heard a lot about you.” Hoot couldn’t help wondering what Bradley had actually heard about him. Had Calloway been the one to provide the information? If so, exactly what had the man shared—and how much had he left out? More importantly, how well did the Whitmores really know Grant Calloway? The questions nagged at Hoot, because if Calloway was connected to Whitmore Global Holdings, there was a damn good chance Bradley knew far more about Hoot, Lark, and the investigation than he was letting on.

“I’m sure.”

Lark stepped between them before the testosterone could turn the foyer into a battlefield. “Why don’t we go upstairs and get ready?”

Hoot followed willingly. Anything was better than another thirty seconds with her family.

Lark’s bedroom surprised him. He’d expected something polished and impersonal, another carefully curated room designed to impress people. Instead, it felt like her.

The walls were a soft, warm color, and sunlight poured through tall windows overlooking Georgetown. Books filled two shelves, stacked in neat rows and haphazard piles. Sketches and photographs were tucked into frames and scattered across a small desk. A collection of little objects—stones, bits of pottery, seashells, pieces of metal—occupied a shelf like tiny reminders of places she’d been.

There was art everywhere. Not expensive-looking art. Interesting art. Pieces that felt alive. Hoot walked slowly through the room, taking it in. “I’m surprised your family allowed you to keep all this.”

Lark looked over her shoulder while opening her closet. “Some of it. They allowed me this bit of sanctuary.”

He picked up a small clay figure from the dresser. “You made this?”

“Years ago.”

He studied it. “It looks like you.”

She glanced at him. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Yeah.”

Her smile softened. “It is.”

Hoot set the figure down carefully. There was something about seeing this side of her that made his chest tighten. This was Lark rebelling from the Meadows. The Lark before the Whitmores. Before Bradley. Before all the expectations.

This was the woman she’d built underneath everything they’d tried to make her become. And he liked her even more for it.

Eventually, she disappeared into the bathroom to change. Hoot checked his watch. Then his comm. He slipped the earpiece into place and activated it. “Overwatch, Hoot.”

Flint’s voice came through almost immediately. “Go.”

Hoot lowered his voice. “Give me the rundown.”

“Outer perimeter is covered,” Flint said. “Voodoo and Jeeves have the street. Eggs is monitoring the rear access and neighboring properties.”

“Halestorm?” he asked, using Haley’s online persona name.

“Inside the house’s network.”

A pause. Then Haley’s voice came through. “I’ve got cameras and guest traffic. Nothing suspicious yet.”

“Yet,” Hoot repeated.

“That word is important,” she snarked in typical Haley fashion. Hoot almost smiled. “What are we looking for?” she asked.

“Calloway,” Flint answered. “PSG personnel. Any of the shell companies tied to the manifests. And anything connecting Whitmore Global Holdings to the shipments.”

“I’ve got the shipping data running through SIBYL now. If anything at this party matches the manifests, it’ll flag it.”

“Good. When the party is in full swing, I’ll slip into the server room and get Haley access,” Flint reported.

“Got it.” Hoot glanced toward the bathroom door. His voice dropped. “And Lark?”

A brief silence. Flint understood the question. “She stays with you.”