Page 58 of Freeing Lark

“Take your time.” She nodded.

The upstairs studio was worse. Her heart stopped when she saw the copper sculpture. It lay on its side. Bent. Crushed. One section had been stomped hard enough to leave a distinct indentation.

“No,” she gasped, her hand clamped over her mouth, desperately trying to stifle the sob threatening to escape.

Lark dropped beside it. Her fingers trembled as she touched the damaged copper. She’d spent weeks working on that piece. It wasn’t finished. But it had become something more.

The figure had represented freedom. Her freedom. A woman standing with her arms lifted toward the sky, unburdened by expectations.

She’d started it after leaving her family. After deciding she was done allowing other people to tell her who she was supposed to be.

And now someone had stomped on it. Lark swallowed hard. “Why?”

The officer didn’t answer. There wasn’t an answer.

She forced herself to move. The kitchen had been ransacked. Cupboards stood open, and broken dishes littered the floor. Her bedroom was no better. Her clothes had been ripped from hangers. The drawers had been emptied. Even the bed hadn’t escaped the destruction. The bedding had been stripped from the mattress. The mattress itself sat crooked on the frame.

Lark stared, one thought front and center in her mind. This wasn’t random. Someone had been searching. But for what? She couldn’t think about that now. There was too much to clean. Too much to fix.

She stepped back into the hallway as crime-scene technicians started photographing everything. Then she heard voices downstairs. A commotion. And then⁠—

“Lark!”

Her heart leaped. Cormac. She didn’t know when she’d started to call him by his given name instead of his nickname, but he hadn’t stopped her.

She hurried down the stairs. Two police officers stood between him and the rest of the room. Cormac looked furious. Not at her. At the situation. She didn’t care. She rushed toward him.

“Cormac.” He barely had time to open his arms before she threw herself against him. He caught her. Strong arms wrapped around her. Lark pressed her face against his chest and finally let herself breathe. She hadn’t realized how terrified she’d been until that moment.

He held her tightly. “It’s okay,” he murmured.

She shook her head against him. “No, it isn’t.”

“I know.”

“I’m scared.”

His arms tightened. “I’m here.”

That was all it took. Lark closed her eyes. She needed him. The realization should have frightened her. Instead, it comforted her. She felt safe. Safe in his arms. Safe against his chest. Safe simply because he’d shown up.

She’d dissect that later. Much later. For now, she just held on.

Eventually, she noticed Hoot hadn’t come alone. Two men stood nearby, speaking with the police. She recognized them from around town but didn’t know their names.

They were questioning the officers about the break-in, and surprisingly, the officers were answering them. Respectfully.

Lark blinked. Apparently Cormac’s “security job” was considerably more complicated than he’d ever let on.

After Lark could soak up as much as she could from Cormac’s arms, she stepped back. He didn’t let her go far, wrapping an arm around her waist. He held her by his side and introduced his coworkers, Spark and Eggs.

Another group arrived soon afterward. More of Cormac’s coworkers. Cammie came too. And a woman Lark recognized from the news of the bombing at the Kennedy Center recently—Savannah, who was Voodoo’s girlfriend.

Marilyn arrived carrying enough baked goods to feed a small army. “Nobody cleans on an empty stomach,” she announced.

Lark almost laughed. Almost.

Then everyone went to work. Broken pottery was gathered. Furniture was righted. Art was carefully moved. Clothes were picked up. Drawers were emptied and sorted.