Page 94 of Dance of Thorns

Lark didn’t want to go out that night. I know that because she texted me about Dove twisting her arm and being relentless about it.

The woman I loved could have been spared what happened to her that night, except the person she considered her best friend pressured and pushed her.

I’m under no illusions that Lark was perfect.

Far from it.

She had her demons. She had a darkness inside her that she was constantly battling, trying to make peace with. I think it’s something I recognized in her because I fight the same battle myself.

Maybe that’s why when we met that first day we trulysaweach other, in ways no one else ever had.

She was a broken, flawed, beautiful disaster. But she wasmydisaster. Mine.

I slowly twist the glass of vodka on the dark wood of my desk. Here I am again, facing something so similar that I don’t know how to begin to process it.

A different sent of dark eyes that look right into me, seeing so much more of me than anyone else ever has. Seeing what I hide from everyone, and try to hide from her.

I know what I’m doing is wrong. I know I’ve drawn her into this entire thing under false pretenses, because of my need to trap her, and keep her, and force her to look at the ugly past.

But it’s quickly turning into something I didn’t bargain for. The warm embrace of a chaos I never thought I’d feel again. The thorny allure of a beauty that can cut and maim.

A knock on the door pulls me from my thoughts.

“Yes.”

Sergey enters with a curt nod.

“Well?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. I’ve personally gone through every frame of CCTV footage from any building within a four-block radius, including this one.” He slowly shakes his head again. “I…” he frowns and looks down uncomfortably.

I know what he’s afraid to say.

“Speak,” I growl quietly.

He slowly drags his gaze back to mine. “Either this guy is a fucking ninja who knows the exact blind spot of every security camera in the Upper West Side, or…” He subtly shakes his head.

And there it is: the thing that’s been slowly burrowing into my mind until it's stuck there, like a thorn I’m trying to ignore.

I’ve seen her records from the rehab facility in Italy. I know all the meds she’s on. Lithium. Risperidone. Zoloft. Lexapro. Buspirone. Fuckinglorazepam…

That’s…a lot. And I say that as someone who’s been on antipsychotics and antidepressants most of my life.

I’ve been trying not to see it. But I can't pretend it isn’t there anymore.

“Or else…what,” I murmur quietly.

Sergey looks right at me. “Or else therewasno-one chasing her.”

I nod silently as I glance down again at the crystal tumbler in my fingers.

“Do you have the witness interviews from the bus incident?”

“Yeah.” He pulls a folder from the collection under his arm and drops it onto the desk in front of me. I open it and page to the report from the bus driver who brakedjustin time to avoid flattening her. I’ve seen it before, but it’s still jarring to read, after hearing her detailed, vivid account of someone physically grabbing her and shoving her into traffic.

His exact words are that he “didn’t see who pushed her”.

I slide my eyes down the page to where the driver’s contact information is listed: D’Angelo Harris, who lives in Bushwick with his wife and three kids.