Her Dark Lies

by J. T. Ellison

  I could see exactly what was happening. He was shaping her into the woman he thought he’d always wanted. When he met her, she was unmolded clay with a modicum of talent. With Jackson pulling the strings, Claire Hunter became the marionette of his dreams.

  On nights I grew bored, I replayed their greatest hits, hitting Rewind when something particularly special came up. I sat in the dark with a glass of wine by my side and a hand down my pants, alone, so damn alone, the night bleeding around me like a storm. I listened to their secrets. Their hopes for the future. Their dreams. Their plans.

  They were destined for one another.

  Destiny. Bullshit. There is no destiny.

  Life is a series of chance encounters that arrange themselves into meaningful moments on a sliding scale between happiness and sadness, and then you die. We all die. Deal with it.

  14

  The Blood Fitting

  I am cold, so cold, icy and shaking, but the chill comes from inside of me, deep in my chest, spreading out through my limbs.

  Eyes closed, I sense the remnants of a dream: a woman with red hair and pale skin, her white gown in tatters, rain streaming down her body, her mouth open in a scream. So frightened. Is she calling out a warning? Or crying for help? She is choking, choking, a hand to her throat. Blood-red tears begin to stream down her face.

  There is the slightest pressure, almost a whisper, against my forehead, as if someone is checking me for a fever.

  My eyes shoot open and I jerk fully awake, sitting up with a cry. I swipe my hand frantically across my forehead, wiping away the strange lingering feeling, the horrible sense that I’ve stepped through an invisible cobweb and the silk has enveloped me, sticking to my skin like a shroud. I can’t catch my breath, I can’t swallow. I’m choking...

  The pearls. The pearls around my neck, so tight, so unfamiliar. They’ve gotten twisted around the collar of my shirt and are pressing against my windpipe.

  I yank them away from my skin, drag in an unrestricted breath. The clasp gives, but the strand doesn’t break, the hand-knotted silk strong even after all these years.

  I pant for a few moments, until my mind catches up with my body.

  You fell asleep. It was a dream. Only a dream. You’re fine. You’re okay.

  Gingerly, I remove the necklace and look at the clasp. It’s bent a bit, but the safety catch held. I breathe a sigh of relief. I hardly want to tell Jack I’ve ruined his great-grandmother’s pearls the first day I’ve worn them. Careful not to break the ancient clasp, I squeeze the metal back into place and return them to my throat. They feel warm against my skin, alive.

  My God, what a dream. I’m relieved to be awake. I glance at the clock; it’s nearly four. I slept for almost an hour. Wow. I need to get moving. Make myself presentable.

  I resist the urge to curtsey in front of Venus as I cross the room. I settle for a simple “Hey, V. Do me a favor. Don’t let me get knocked up just yet, okay?”

  It would be so much easier if she only had a head.

  The French doors to the terrace stand open, and I close them for some privacy. I don’t know why I bother, it’s not like anyone can see me from here.

  The bathroom is combined with a closet and dressing room. Marble vanities, thick, fluffy white towels. A huge double slipper claw-foot tub begs for me to sink into the water; when I glance up, I realize the ceiling is bisected with white rafters and painted lavender. It is an utterly romantic room. Our bags have been fully unpacked. Fatima’s doing, probably. There are expectations to be met for the new Mrs. Compton. I’m mildly uncomfortable with this. But again, I must get used to how the Comptons work.

  I glance at the trashcan, sitting empty. How long will it be before the Comptons’ servants know everything about me? There is remarkable intimacy in the service of people who live in your home. They know all of your most private details. The things you choose to keep to yourself, and your physical state, simply through your daily detritus. I try to remember they are caretakers, have been in their positions for years, attending to the family’s needs, and they will take care of me now, too.

  I step on something sharp and curse aloud. What the hell? I fall into the chair and draw my foot up onto my left knee. A shard of glass is sticking out of the ball of my foot. Wincing, I maneuver it out, press a tissue to the cut. Damn, that hurts.

  The floor itself is travertine but the throw rug glitters in the light. It is covered in broken glass.

  Carefully, I gather up the edges and tip the rug over the trashcan. The glass tinkles into the decorative metal. Well, there’s no way to get all of that out and put the rug back down. I roll it and set it to the side of the trashcan. I’ll tell Fatima, or Jack, that someone broke a glass and the rug needs to be washed.

  The bleeding has stopped but the cut is deep enough that I don’t want to go sticking my bare foot in my shoes without some protection. Looking for a Band-Aid, I pull open the top drawer on the left side of the double vanity, quickly realize this is Jack’s side. His comb peeks out from beneath a piece of notepaper, folded in quarters. Suffused with curiosity, I unfold the paper.

  Don’t you miss me, darling?

  * * *

  It is not Jack’s handwriting. I don’t recognize it at all. What in the world?

  I eye the paper warily, read the note again and again. Surely this is a lover’s note from my betrothed; Jack calls me darling, has from the beginning. Instead, in strange handwriting, it feels implicitly like a threat.

  Was this meant for Jack, not me? It was in his drawer, after all.

  I feel anger bloom inside me. Who would send such a thing to an almost-married man? Who should my fiancé be missing?

  It’s a mistake. Or a joke. Whatever. I crumple the paper and toss it in the trashcan with the broken glass, use the restroom, wash up, run my fingers through my curls to fluff them, and tear off the scopolamine patch, carefully disposing it wrapped in a tissue, as the instructions demanded. I won’t be needing it anymore.

  I look at the pearls in the mirror, encircling my throat like a dog’s collar. I’ve never been one for necklaces, but these are quite beautiful. They set off my collarbones, making them look less bony and more elegant.

  The French doors are open again. There must be a problem with the latch. Another thing to mention to Fatima. I pull the doors closed again, this time making sure they are secure. I mustn’t have closed them all the way before.

  In the living room, in addition to amber bottles of whisky, the wet bar has an automated espresso maker, teapot, and a small fridge full of Orangina and Evian and snacks. I make an espresso and pour sugar into it. It is rich and delicious, and so strong I feel life pouring back into me. A banana and a bag of almonds later, I’m feeling more like myself.

  There is a gentle knocking on the door, and a woman’s quiet voice.

  “Signorina?”

  “Who is it?” I call.

  “The seamstress, and me, obviously,” Henna Shaikh says brusquely.

  I throw open the door and Henna hurries inside, followed by the seamstress, a young-dark-haired girl, who is carrying my wedding dress in an extralong garment bag folded twice over her arm like a limp mink. It is bigger that she is. She waits patiently while Henna bustles around, setting things to rights that weren’t out of place to begin with.

  Henna finally stops moving and eyes me critically. “Claire? Are you all right? You’re pale. You aren’t coming down with something, are you?”

  “No, I’m fine. I promise. I sat down for two seconds while Jack went to talk to his mom and fell asleep.”

  “Good, you need your rest. So? What do you think? Isn’t the island gorgeous? I told you.”

  Her enthusiasm is, as always, contagious, and I feel myself start to relax. “It is. It’s a shame it’s going to rain all weekend.”

  “With any luck, the storms won’t be too terrible.
They come in waves, anyway, so there should be breaks in the rain. If not, that’s why we have umbrellas. I laid in extra, just in case, rain boots and jackets, too.”

  “You think of everything. Talk to me. What’s on my plate?”

  Henna flips open her omnipresent planner. “We need to get this last fitting out of the way. I need to run you both through the rehearsal, and of course, there’s the bruncheon tomorrow morning.” Her eyes drift to my throat. “The pearls look divine on you. I knew they would.”

  “You knew Jack was gifting me his great-grandmother’s pearls?”

  “They’re a family heirloom. Passed from Eliza to May to Ana and now you. Ana wore them for a time, but they’re not really her style. Jack asked Ana’s permission, and she consulted me, of course.”

  Of course, she had. There is nothing Henna doesn’t participate in when it comes to Ana Compton. She plans everything for the woman. They are attached at the hip. I should be honored to have Henna loaned to me. Scratch that, I am honored. Henna has planned the wedding for us with ease. I’ve only had to say yes, or no, though I’ve said yes much more. She has exquisite taste, and the Compton checkbook to match.

  Henna is wearing a stunning gray wrap dress with tall black boots, her black hair gleaming. She always looks so professional, so damn stylish and put together. I think of my Converse under the bed, wondering. Should I do a wardrobe update once Jack and I are official? I bet Henna would die of happiness if I asked. I’ve upgraded almost everything else about myself. I’ve taken out most of my piercings and had my ill-advised teenage tattoos removed. Why do I resist this last bit of polish? The part that is temporary, changeable, hell, seasonal? I glance down at my torn jeans and decide, yes, I should put in a bit more effort. Jack would like it.

  “Claire? Everything okay?”

  “Yes, completely. Sorry. Zoned out there for a moment. I hadn’t realized Ana wore them, too. Wow. Four generations of Compton women.”

  “Take good care of them. You need to wear pearls regularly. Your skin’s oils will keep them lustrous. They will look lovely with your dress, for starters.”

  I’m a little squicked out about the idea of four generations of DNA hanging around my neck, but I smile and nod agreeably.

  The seamstress pulls the dress out of the storage bag. My beautiful dress. At the sight of it, a confection of ivory, satin, and tulle, as romantic as any fairy tale, my heart soars.

  In it, I feel like Cinderella at the ball. The top is simple ivory, the front and back attaching at my collarbones. I’m not the type for a strapless dress. The skirt is the palest pink, like the blushing inside of a shell. The layers look like petals of a rose, layering one on top of the other, with so much tulle it’s almost stiff and holds me upright. It is demure and elegant, the dress of a fairy-tale princess, the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

  I’ve been sketching versions of my wedding dress since I was a child, the drawings getting more sophisticated and precise the older I got. After Jack proposed, I dug out those old drawings from the trunk of precious things that lived in my attic. I lost an entire afternoon leafing through the sketchbooks. So many happy memories were tied up in those dreams. Happy memories, and tragic ones. My father won’t be here to walk me down the aisle, and that stings deeply.

  I started work right away on designing my more modern, adult version of the gown, the one I’m going to wear for the ceremony. My sister, Harper, found a woman to make it to my specs, and it’s utterly perfect. I can’t wait to see Jack’s face when he sees the dress. I know he’ll love it. I’ve managed to keep everything about it secret from him.

  The seamstress holds the dress open and I duck into it, head and shoulders first. She slides the satin down my body, settles it over my hips, then begins in on the tiny buttons that line the back.

  I look at myself in the mirror, the transformation from girl to woman, bride to wife, hitting me. I finger the pearls around my neck, so happy I chose the bateau neckline for the dress. The pearls, nestled against my throat, complete it perfectly. The next time I put on this dress, it will be to walk down the aisle to marry Jack.

  Tickled with how I look, I twist and swirl, and as the skirt moves, I hear twin gasps from behind me.

  “What is that?” Henna says, and there is horror in her voice.

  “What’s what?” I look over my shoulder, trying to see, but by the look on Henna’s face, I know it’s bad.

  “Hold still,” Henna commands, and I freeze in place. I feel them pulling at the layers of satin and tulle, the seamstress letting out little mewling gasps like a blind kitten removed from her mother’s side for the first time.

  “What is it, Henna?” I twist my neck around and catch a glimpse of something red. That’s not right, my mind helpfully provides. There isn’t anything red in my dress.

  “Oh no, my foot must still be bleeding. I stepped on some glass. Is it ruined? Can we get it out?”

  “Take it off,” Henna demands. The seamstress unbuttons the few she’s finished, and I step out of the dress.

  Henna has a hand to her mouth. She has gone quite pale. “Oh, Claire. No, this isn’t from your foot. I am so sorry. I don’t know what happened. Maybe something leaked in the storage bag?”

  She finally lets me see.

  There is a wide slash of what looks like dark crimson paint across the back interior fold of my dress.

  My heart is hammering, trying to burst from my chest. We lay the dress on the bed reverently, the three of us gentling the fabric like it’s a spooked horse. Pieces of the red fall off onto my hand.

  The stain is not paint. It’s putting off a disgusting, musty odor, and bits flake off onto the floor.

  It is blood.

  And it spells out a ragged, blurry word.

  WHORE

  15

  Panic at the Disco

  The cry I let out must sound quite pained because Henna grabs me, pulls me into a tight embrace. “Shh, shh, shh. We’ll figure something out. Perhaps we can sew the panels together—”

  She’s smothering me, and I fight to get loose. She lets me go so suddenly I stumble into a small marble-topped table, causing all the incidental items to fall on the floor. The seamstress dives for them, clearly grateful for something to do.

  When I right myself, I can barely look at my dress. “I can’t get married in a dress that has that nasty bloody word on it, Henna. No.”

  “Then we’ll cut the damage free, create some sort of bustle. It will change the line of the dress, yes, but—”

  “Stop. No. The dress is ruined. Throw it away.”

  I want to ask her who had access to it, how she could let this happen, why why why why why, but I bite my tongue. As far as I know, the dress has been in three places until now—my house, the salon of the seamstress in Nashville, and here, but trust me, when I gave over the dress to Henna, it hadn’t been defiled. Henna had come to collect it in Nashville last week, and she’s been in charge of it since. But accusing her of letting this happen isn’t going to solve the problem.

  You’re being awfully logical, Claire. It’s okay to have feelings about this.

  I don’t particularly like having feelings. It’s not that I avoid them, it’s only that strong emotion makes me feel weak, and that kick-starts my panic.

  Breathe, Claire.

  I breathe.

  Henna paces.

  The seamstress, pale and shaking, having retrieved the table’s baubles from the floor, rebags the dress. She disappears into the hall with a whisper of fabric before she can be blamed for this fiasco.

  When we are alone, Henna practically growls the words “Who would do such a thing?” Her voice is quaking with anger and that sets me off.

  “Someone who clearly hates me. And it must be someone close. How else could they get to the dress?”

  That’s it. The tears pour down my face
unchecked. The shock has passed, and reality is setting in, and I can’t dance away from it any longer.

  Someone broke into my house, and died there. My wedding dress is ruined. A storm is bearing down on the island, Jack’s grandfather is addled, there’s a dead body down by the pier, and I don’t even want to think about what else might go wrong.

  I don’t have panic attacks anymore. It’s something I left behind when I met Jack. He makes me feel so protected, so safe, that my lifelong anxiety has faded away. With Jack by my side, I feel in control again, strong, capable. I’m not that destabilized little girl who blamed herself for everyone’s bad moods and sharp words. I felt no need to pop pills or smoke joints to help me retreat from the world into a tiny cocoon of safety and warmth. His loved healed me, smoothed all my broken edges.

  So I thought.

  All of that progress, gone in a moment.

  * * *

  When I come back to myself, legs drawn into my chest, the slate floor hard beneath me, I realize Henna has put some sort of cold cloth on my neck and is stroking my back.

  “Oh, Claire. Poor girl. I’m sorry. We’ll figure something out. It’s just a dress. It’s the vows that really matter.”

  Just a dress. This from the woman who insisted on Louboutin bags for our hostess gifts. I am filled with a sudden desire to slap her hand away. Another vestige from my past, my anger, my impulse to lash out, to hurt, rearing its ugly head.

  I struggle to my feet, pushing away her proffered hand, dragging in deep breaths.

  “I’m okay. I’m fine.”

  “You are not fine.”

  “I am. It was a shock. I’m fine now. I’d like to be alone. Please.”

  Henna frowns but takes the hint. “I’ll see what can be done for your dress. I still think it can be saved. We’ll get to the bottom of this, Claire. We’ll find out who did it. It’s a terrible, nasty prank, and we’ll find the culprit, I promise you.”