Her Dark Lies

by J. T. Ellison

  It is a good speech. I almost believe her.

  With one last appraising glance, Henna strides out, heels clicking on the slate. I lock the door and make myself a cup of tea, go back to the bedroom, sink onto the heavenly soft bed, losing myself in the fluffy cream duvet. The scent of overripe lemons and dank vegetation and wet concrete drift through the room. I need to talk to Jack. There is no longer any doubt—we are under attack. The question is, from whom? And even more importantly, why?

  I pull my phone from my pocket and send him a text—I need you.

  I get nothing in reply. My phone has only one bar inside the room. I drag myself from the bed. I feel achy and sore, like I’m coming down with the flu. My throat is scratchy, my eyes burn.

  I go out onto the terrace, into the salty, ozone-laden air.

  The text still doesn’t go through.

  I should go find him. But I don’t know where he is.

  I feel another keening building inside, a desperate fear that something has happened to him, that I’ll never see him again. What would my life look like without Jack? Empty. Desolate. Over.

  Grow up. Stop being such a spastic little girl. Why do you always act like such a child?

  I leave the doors ajar so the air circulates and lie back down on the bed.

  I haven’t felt this helpless and alone since my dad died.

  And I can’t go there now, or I will fall apart completely.

  I hear a scraping noise and let out a startled cry when the calico I was petting outside earlier leaps onto the foot of the bed. “My mother’s cats,” Jack had said, and it makes sense that the cat had sought out her spot, considering this room had long been Brice and Ana’s space, was just given over to us as the newest Compton bride and groom.

  But the door is locked. I locked it myself when Henna left. How did the cat get in?

  Off the terrace, perhaps. Or she could have been hiding under the bed. Stop being so spooky, Claire.

  I reach down and stroke a finger lightly between the cat’s ears. “Hello, Rosa. Is this your normal home? I’m sorry I locked you inside.” The cat purrs in answer and snuggles into my hand. She doesn’t seem upset at all to be stuck with me instead of Ana.

  I hear a keening wail, high-pitched and eerie. Like a woman crying, but it’s just the wind, gusting, rushing along the cliffside. The terrace doors blow open, the curtains flapping into the room, flinging splashes of water onto the Aubusson carpets. I hurry to the doors, slamming them shut before the rain ruins the drapery and rugs. A massive flash of lightning breaks the darkened sky, disappearing behind the edge of the cliff. Thunder rumbles on the strike’s heels, so close I can feel it in my bones. I don’t even have time to count it off. The cat, tail fluffed, dives under the bed with a sharp chirp.

  What I wouldn’t give for the freedom to hide under the bed, cowering in the face of a threat. I have to face this, face everything, with or without Jack by my side.

  Jack, Jack, Jack.

  The center of my universe. The yin to my yang.

  Our new life together is getting off to a rocky start.

  * * *

  Jack sticks his head back inside the suite a little before five. “Darling? Are you up? They’re expecting us in the library. We shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

  “Finally. I’ve been texting you. Where have you been?”

  He glances at his Patek Philippe, the only outward trapping of wealth he allows himself. It is sleek and unobtrusive, water-resistant, a college graduation gift from his parents. Jack, and his brothers, went to Yale, where Brice studied. Another huge difference between us. I’m a Nashville Watkins School of Art alum. There was no reason for me to go to a traditional college—I wanted to be in the arts. But Jack, he’s Skull and Bones all the way.

  I have a regular Apple Watch like the rest of the world, though Jack hates it. “I don’t know why you want to be so connected. Anyone could track you down. They aren’t secure.”

  But I insist. I like it. I may have changed myself from the skin out for Jack, but I can’t give up everything that gives me joy.

  “Sorry, darling. Henna said you were doing a fitting, so I stayed out of the way so I wouldn’t see the dress.”

  “Did she tell you?”

  “Tell me what? Are you okay? You look upset.”

  “Someone ruined my dress. Someone painted the word WHORE on it in blood.”

  Jack goes utterly still, his face a blank mask, but I can feel the rage roiling inside of him. I fight back threatening tears. I can’t fall apart again.

  “Who would do such a thing?” Jack asks quietly, so quietly I wonder if he’s talking to me or himself.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s an awful, terrible trick. Can Henna fix it?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I have the dress I was going to wear to the rehearsal. I can try that instead.”

  “I don’t care if you wear your jeans and Converse, my love. It’s not what you’re wearing that matters. But I know you loved the dress. I don’t know what to say. If I had any idea who did it... I am so, so sorry.”

  He wraps me in his arms and I sigh in relief. I can handle anything with him by my side.

  “Darling. I’ll make it up to you, I swear it.”

  “We’ll figure it out. I’m sure Henna has told Ana by now, and the whole place will be in a kerfuffle soon enough. I take it it’s time to sign the prenup?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light.

  “The lawyers have been very patient this afternoon. Shall we?”

  “Let’s go. Take my mind off things. I don’t want to be cooped up with my thoughts anymore.”

  I follow Jack back down the hallway to the grand staircase, this time trying to memorize the path. I don’t want to get lost if I’m on my own.

  When we got engaged, everyone warned me I’d have to sign an iron-clad prenup if I wanted to go through with it. No problem on my end, I have no intention of needing it. Leaving Jack is unthinkable; he feels the same, I know. We are meant for each other. We balance each other. We complete each other. And now that we’ve been to death’s door together, nothing will tear us apart. I mean, he could be implicated, right? Hiding the truth about a crime?

  No, we’re in this together, for better or worse.

  16

  Prenup, or Else

  The Compton library is done up in old-world style. The room is expansive, two stories of bookshelves, floor to rafters, and the rest dark, well-oiled oak wainscoting. The scent of lemon and ancient paper permeates the air. This is my room; I realize it immediately. I feel utterly at home. Yes, I love painting, but reading is a close second. There are so many books that my mouth goes dry with anticipation.

  Not only collectors of important works of art, Jack’s family possess some rare and exciting texts in their many homes. This is the library of an investor, yes, but also of a reader—paperbacks with bright covers peek out from the staid gold and gilt, a human touch in the midst of the opulence.

  Despite how much is crammed in, the room doesn’t feel crowded, rather elegantly stuffed. There are some well-lit oils here and there—warships a-sail, hunting scenes—more traditional as befit the library’s purpose. They don’t excite me as much as the modern art, but they are impressive pieces.

  There is a stone fireplace that a five-year-old could stand in comfortably, the wood stacked and ready for the match. To my right is the second-story balcony accessed by a massive curved staircase with wrought-iron spindles. The dark oak handrail is wide enough children could slide down it. Jack and his brothers slid down it.

  Our children will slide down it. There will be shouts and cries and games in this room.

  It hits me—this is happening. It is really happening. I’m going to pledge my life to Jack, to be his wife, the mother of his children. I do a giddy spin, taking in the rest of the room.

>   Toward the nave is a stunning stained-glass window, the detail remarkable. It depicts two men, one wearing a horned devil’s mask, one holding paper and pen. Faust. A man caught in the act of selling his soul to the devil for all eternity.

  A shiver passes through me. What a strange scene to have in your library. Then again, the idea of all the knowledge in the world bringing ultimate power was a cornerstone of the Compton computer software system. Putting power in the hands of the people, for the greater good, that is Brice Compton’s mantra. It’s fitting; the Comptons do so much for the greater good.

  Under the stained-glass window is a long, wide table littered with vases of peonies, stacks of books, and a tower of papers. Behind it, two blue-suited lawyers sit side by side, one man, one woman, both in their fifties. The man is salty haired and round as a blueberry, the woman has a curly blond shag, light eyes, and a cadaverously thin frame. They look up in unison and jump to their feet, and the man waves us into the room.

  “Jackson. So good to see you. Felicitations on your joyous day. This must be your beautiful bride.”

  Jack smiles. “It is. I’m pleased to introduce Claire Hunter. Claire, this is Henry Stephens and Margaret Haynes. They are our personal family attorneys.”

  “Call me Maggie.” Her smile is warm and welcoming, much less formal than her partner. Her eyes are the queerest color, not blue, as I thought earlier, but a celadon green. “We’re so pleased to meet you at last, Claire. So pleased you’ve stolen our Jacky’s heart.”

  “Maggie, for heaven’s sake. I’m thirty-eight, not ten,” Jack says, shaking his head in mock embarrassment. “Obviously, Henry and Maggie have been with the family for a very long time, Claire.”

  “We both started with the Comptons right out of law school,” Henry says. “We’ve watched the boys grow up. We’re normally based in Palo Alto, but Brice flew us in last night.”

  “We wouldn’t miss it,” Maggie says. She has a kind smile.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you. Sorry we’ve taken so long to show up. Thanks for waiting.”

  I’m getting intimidated in the face of this continued opulence and generosity. Generational pearls and family lawyers and Faustian bargains and private Italian villas packed with priceless art—what’s next? A royal entourage? Will Jack’s mother sit me down and teach me the finer points of the princess wave?

  “Not a problem at all,” Henry says, waving a hand around the room. “We’ve had plenty to entertain us. Now, Claire, I’m sure Jack explained to you about the structure of your prenuptial agreement? Oh, sit, sit.” He gestures to the empty chairs opposite. We settle in, the four of us as cozy as can be. I need to get used to these intimate enclaves, the odd sense of intrusion into our private life from the ancillary members of the Compton clan. First Henna and Fatima, now Maggie and Henry.

  “We haven’t discussed it in detail, no. But I’m not in this for the money, so I’m not concerned. I’m sure whatever you’ve drafted will be fine.”

  Maggie gives me a sharp glance. “If we handed you paperwork right now that explicitly stated you would forgo any settlements upon the marriage’s demise, you’d sign with no qualms?”

  “Of course. Hand me a pen. All I want is Jack.”

  And a dream dress, a swank destination wedding, and a castle on an island, but who’s counting?

  Jack beams at me, and the lawyers share a private look. Henry opens a folder and pulls out a pale blue–backed legal document.

  “Happily, Claire, we do things a little differently here. We have no intention of asking you to forgo anything should your marriage to Jackson end in divorce, or death. A settlement of 30 percent of Jack’s estate, including all fixed assets, confers to you regardless, right now.”

  I can’t help sputtering. “Thirty percent? What? That’s...that’s too much.”

  “It’s yours. The accounts are in your name, and your name only. As soon as you’ve legally changed your name to Claire Compton, that is. We’ve done all the necessary paperwork for the religious ceremony to be legal in the eyes of the Italian government, and as such, the Americans as well. You’ll be issued a marriage certificate here after the ceremony, and as soon as you’re back on US soil from your honeymoon, you will have a new social security card so you can get your new driver’s license, and then you’ll head to the bank. All will be waiting for you.”

  This is more than a shock. Thirty percent of his estate? Regardless?

  “That seems...overly generous.”

  “We take care of our own,” Maggie says, teeth flashing again. Her grin is now predatory.

  “You’re going to be my wife,” Jack says, taking my hand. “The mother of my children. A full-fledged member of this family. That means you’ll have your own money, to do with what you will. We won’t be getting divorced, though, will we, Claire?”

  “Of course not,” I reply, touching the warm pearls around my neck. “I wouldn’t bother marrying you in the first place if I had any intention of leaving. That would be counterproductive.”

  We all laugh, and Maggie slides over the papers. “Just for the record, Claire, the money and assets will revert back to Jackson’s estate if you pass away before an heir comes along.” They pause, as if to let this morbid idea sink in a bit.

  “Naturally. I wouldn’t need it if I were dead. I understand.”

  Cross my heart and hope to die.

  And there it is again, that overwhelming curiosity—did Jack’s dead wife go through all of this? Or is this new, something they’ve cooked up just for me?

  Maggie gives me another sweetly predatory smile, like an adorable but feral barn cat.

  “Excellent. What you’re signing here, Claire, in addition to the prenuptial agreement, is basically a nondisclosure agreement. Everything we’ve discussed today must stay between us. If you tell anyone outside of the people in this room anything about the Comptons’ financial arrangements with you, you will forfeit it all. Do you understand?”

  Interesting. “I do.”

  Jack squeezes my knee, recognizing the echo of the words to come.

  “There’s more. You are precluded from discussing any personal information you might learn about the family through your marriage and subsequent time spent with them, their history as a family, anything to do with the Villa and all their other properties. If you do, you will forfeit your 30 percent, and there will be other legal ramifications. Is that clear as well?”

  “Crystal. I would never divulge family secrets. I take that vow very seriously.”

  “Read this over, then,” Maggie says, relaxing into the chair, “and here’s a pen.”

  I read through the paper in front of me. The language is quite clear, but I read it carefully. Halfway down the page is the stipulation that everything depends on me legally changing my name to Compton and agreeing to raise my children under the Compton surname. I have no choice there.

  And if I disclose anything personal about the family without express approval, the family can come after me legally. It should probably strike me as strange, and looking back, I can see that of course this was completely out of the ordinary. But in the moment, with Jack smiling at me and the lawyers waiting expectantly, their requests for secrecy and silence seem to be the most perfectly reasonable request I’ve ever heard. This is a family everyone wants a piece of. They are internationally known, famous, wealthy, targeted, and as such, understandably private.

  An all or nothing setup. I understand it just fine. I will erase Claire Hunter completely, morph into Claire Compton, Mrs. Jackson Compton, and forevermore leave that damaged, empty part of myself behind that attaches to my maiden name.

  And I want that. I want it so much. It’s not the money, though. I swear it. I want Jack. I want his oblivion.

  Without another thought or glance, I sign my name above the line where Claire Elizabeth Hunter is printed, and date it.

/>   Soon enough, everything I sign will say Claire Compton. It is astounding to think of. I always thought when and if I got married, I’d keep my maiden name. I intended to be Claire Hunter forever. Call it karmic debt, a nod to my dead father permanently etched on me, legally and ancestrally.

  When I told Jack I wouldn’t be taking his name, early in our engagement, he’d been so stricken I walked it back immediately. “I’m open to discussing it, of course,” I said, but he’d shaken his head. “You don’t understand. If you aren’t a Compton, legally, I can’t protect you. I’m afraid you won’t have a choice in this, darling. I’ll make it up to you though, I swear it.”

  “We could hyphenate our children’s names.”

  “Out of the question. My children will be Comptons. It’s how our lives are set up. It’s a legal thing, darling. You know how it is with these big ancestral estates. Draconian rules.”

  The Hunter name isn’t without its own melodrama. Perhaps leaving it behind in service of marriage and children would clear my karmic debt and I’d be a whole new woman.

  I eventually realized that by claiming the title and becoming the new Mrs. Compton, I would not only make Jack happy, which, at the time, was paramount, I could also banish the ghost of his first wife.

  And he is happy right now, watching me closely as I initial each section and sign my name with a flourish, page after page after page. One last signature, one last initial, and it’s done. I hand the papers back to Maggie.

  “Wonderful, wonderful,” she says, signing her own name as witness, embossing the page with a notary’s seal, adding the date, then tapping the papers together smartly so their pale blue edges are perfectly aligned. Amazing to think of the power in her hands. The money these family lawyers control.

  I start to rise, but Jack puts a hand on my arm. “Hold on, darling.”

  Now what?

  Maggie sends a quick text on her phone and moments later a hidden door to our right opens. I jump. It’s as if the wall itself stretched and yawned, and people walked through its mouth. I shouldn’t be surprised, a house this large must have access corridors, but I am.