Page 50 of Freeing Lark

Bullet’s eyes searched his. “Pray.”

Hoot shook his head. “What?”

“Pray.” Bullet’s lips kept moving but he couldn’t make out what else he was trying to say.

“Hoot.”

The voice changed. More frightened, almost desperate.

“Cormac.”

Hoot jerked back into the present. His espresso nearly slipped from his hand. He blinked and Bell Creek came back into focus. First, with the sidewalk under his feet. Then the cars and people.

And there was Lark. She stood directly in front of him. Her expression was worried. “Cormac?”

He stared at her. She waved a hand. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for about thirty seconds.”

He swallowed. “Sorry.”

“You didn’t hear me.”

“I was distracted.”

“Clearly.” She studied him. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” The lie came automatically.

Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t believe him. He could tell. But she didn’t push. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

“About?”

“It’s easier if I show you.”

That got his attention. “What?”

She glanced around. “Do you have a minute? Can you come with me?”

He nodded, then followed her. Of course he did. It was easier than he was willing to admit to do anything she asked of him. He didn’t think he was ready to unpack the reasons behind that.

Lark unlocked the door to her storefront and held it open. The smell of wood, metal, paint, and something floral greeted him. Hoot looked around. He’d expected a quirky little art shop. He hadn’t expected this.

The work was good. Really good. Paintings hung along the walls. Sculptures occupied carefully arranged pedestals. Handcrafted jewelry and pottery filled display cases. Every piece felt personal.

“This is yours?”

“Some of it. Most belongs to other artists.” She gestured toward the back. “The co-op is back there.”

They passed through the shop into a larger open workspace. Stairs led upward, and Lark climbed them. Hoot followed.

At the top was an enormous studio space. Windows lined one wall, although the gray sky made the room darker than it probably was on sunny days.

Lark crossed to a worktable. Then she picked up a piece of wood. “This is what I found.” She handed it to him.

Hoot looked down and everything inside him went cold. The symbol was burned into the wood. Half of a helmet inside what was left of a circle. The same symbol that he still saw in his dreams sometimes. He knew it. He’d seen it before. Not on a gala guest. On crates on military bases. Places they hadn’t questioned at the time because they hadn’t had a reason to.

His fingers tightened around the wood. “Where did you find this?”

“On the island.”