Trisha looks up as if she can hear Harper thinking about her. “Question?”
“Yeah, Mom?”
“Do you ever find yourself feeling exposed, doing all that communicating with strangers?”
Here we go.
“They aren’t strangers, they’re my fans. I know many of them personally, and others through years of chatting. I don’t feel exposed at all. It’s fun. I like it.”
She likes it so much all she wants to do is close the account, but she can’t do that because when you’ve spent ten years building a following that’s now in the seven figures, and people pay seriously good money for you to wear their clothes and use their bags and send you on trips with other “influencers,” you’d be crazy to want out.
Plus, things have kicked into high gear since Claire and Jack got engaged. Once her fandom realized Claire Hunter was Harper’s sister? Her numbers have gone off the charts.
She supposes she should really thank Claire instead of being upset with her. But Harper is perpetually upset with her big sister. Claire, the whirling dervish of chaos that had permeated their teen years. Claire, with her drugs and alcohol and tattoos and suspensions, sneaking out at night, making Harper cover for her. Claire, whose self-destruction killed their father. Claire, Claire, Claire.
Embarrassing, infuriating, a murderer. It was not fun being Claire Hunter’s little sister in the small enclave of Harpeth Hall. No, Harper wasn’t Claire’s biggest fan.
Harper’s therapist raised a point a few years earlier—Claire had broken her back in the accident and needed rods inserted, and maybe her pain was punishment enough. Harper stewed on that for exactly one minute and had shaken her head. No. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right, and there was no way to balance the scales. Claire had taken their father away. The accident that hurt her, took their father’s life.
Losing their dad created a gulf between them so wide and deep that they were out of touch for years.
Lately, though, Claire has been trying to make things better between them. Getting engaged to Jack Compton only increased these overtures. The new Claire buys small presents, sends flowers, little notes. She is generous and understanding, complimentary and contemplative. She likes every post and shares them widely. She pretends things are fine between them, that she didn’t cause the worst years of her sister’s life.
Adulthood hasn’t softened Harper’s stance. She’s tolerated Claire’s attempts at friendship. The constant apologies, asking her to be in and shoot the wedding, getting her the interview of a lifetime, are all just markers, adding up, though always falling short. Not that Harper isn’t going to take advantage. She is owed that much, at least.
Maybe, when this sham of a wedding is over, when the most powerful family in the country is on their knees, beholden to her, maybe then she’ll feel like the scales are tipping back toward even.
But appearances must be kept until she is ready to lower the boom.
Claire doesn’t deserve the path she’s tripped onto. After all she’s done, and Jack Compton still wants her? Used goods for a prince. Though maybe they deserve each other. Jack Compton is...what? Too rich? Too perfect? Too handsome? Too crooked?
Definitely too crooked.
Harper has been digging around in the Compton’s world for months now, ever since Claire admitted she and Jack were getting serious. Harper just couldn’t understand why a powerful, wealthy man like Jackson Compton would want a used-up mouse of a train wreck from Nashville.
She wanted to do an exposé of the family—this was her dream, after all, investigative journalism. Instagram was just a springboard. But Harper got nowhere of worth, just found a load of perpetual, simmering resentments without any teeth, until the email came.
She had no idea who it was from. She’d nearly deleted it as junk. But she didn’t, reminding herself that if she wanted to be an actual journalist, tips could come in the oddest ways. She trusted her instincts and opened the note. Unsigned, with only one line.
You should look into the history of the island. It’s cursed.
Attached was a photograph. When she saw it, her heart began to race.
It was Isle Isola.
Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, she started researching. She found a story about a housekeeper named Elevana who went missing. There could be something there, but Harper had the feeling that wasn’t what the email was suggesting. It just wasn’t...big enough.
She kept digging. She pulled every conceivable article and interview of the Compton family, starting with Jack’s grandfather. Will Compton was the one who was famous first, after all. His exploits were legend.
And she found out his wife died on the island, a drowning accident. Tragic, but hardly something that would break down the doors.
There was one line in a Rolling Stone interview that gave her pause. Will Compton mentioned his mother’s untimely demise in a hunting accident. His great-grandfather William was some sort of government bigwig during the Second World War—he was the one who’d rebuilt the Villa. Eliza was shot by one of her own hunting party.
On the island.
Two wives, dead. One drowned. One shot. A missing, presumed dead housekeeper from the house. That was three women.
And then she found the story about Jack’s dead ex-wife.
She found it in the comments section of a random personal blog from a kid who lived in Naples, talking about the history of the area around Pompeii. She was shocked the Comptons hadn’t had it taken down, but then again, even the tightest ships leak at times.
Who else saw the searchlights over the sea toward Isola last night?
And in the threaded response, this:
I have a friend who works on Isola. He said there are rumors about an accident last night, that the new wife went over the cliff. Has anyone heard the same?
Nothing else. No one answered. No one commented.
It was the date that jumped out at her. According to all the online sources, Jackson Compton married Morgan Fraser on July 7, 2011. She went missing and was presumed dead July 20, off the coast of Monterey. Harper double-checked it.
The blog comments were dated July 21, 2011.
The day after Morgan died.
And there it was. Not only was there a pattern, there was also a cover-up. A big cover-up.
Morgan didn’t die in California. She died on Isola.
Four women dead, all tied to a single family, and a single familial location? That was compelling as hell.
She couldn’t figure out why the Comptons would lie about Morgan Fraser Compton’s death, though. Why would they stake their lives, their word? Why would they cover it up? Why would they even try? What difference did it make whether the woman died in California or Italy?
Harper could find nothing else to dispel the known narrative. All the reports, articles, news stories—everything about Morgan Compton said she died off the coast of California, a boating accident.
Every instinct Harper had screamed the Comptons weren’t what they seemed. And now, with her exposé, Harper was positioned perfectly to pull back the curtain and reveal them as liars, and possibly even murderers.
When Claire called to say the Comptons were a go for the interview and photoshoot, things moved quickly. The editor Harper pitched at Flair squared away the details with the Comptons’ PR folks. Harper sent in her bio, her headshot.
A few days after that, a new editor reached out, from the magazine’s investigative editorial team. She asked if Harper was interested in making the story meatier, if at all possible. Not the usual fluff piece. She offered to bump the piece to a five-page spread and three thousand words, if Harper could provide anything internal to the family that might be of interest? The editor had heard that there was a history to be delved into.
Bingo.
Harper confided what she’d found. Pitched a slightly dif
ferent angle to the story, the nobody marrying the prince, not knowing the prince’s family had secrets. Deep, dark, secrets. The kind that see dead bodies washing ashore.
The editor took her seriously. Helped her shape the piece. Helped with the research. Helped Harper find the perfect voice. A perfectly clear and devastating voice.
And the decision was made, the story was going to print with or without the photos, with or without the quote from Brice Compton. If Claire’s life got upended in the process, well, maybe then they’d really be even.
The horn sounds, and the ferry captain gives them instructions on where to go as they disembark, first in Italian, then English. Harper gathers her bags, helps her mom, finds her stepfather, Brian, who is wet and grinning after watching the approach from the outer deck.
They dock, and make their way off the hydrofoil. The island Villa is easily spotted above, looming over the beach. They are met with umbrellas, hustled into the funicular, and are rising up the hillside moments later.
Harper texts her editor that she is on the island, and to stand by for the quote to finish out the story.
Three dots greet her, then a wide smiley face emoji pops onto her screen.
33
Did You Even Know Her?
Jack types quietly so he doesn’t wake Claire. When he’d gotten back to the room earlier she’d been totally sacked out, so asleep she didn’t even notice him climb into bed. She’s still asleep now, an arm flung up over her face defensively, as if blocking the morning from finding her. It makes him laugh, and feel tender things, when he sees her like this.
He does not feel tender things toward the text message he received. In fact, fury is a better emotion. The audacity of whoever is trying to ruin his wedding weekend is off the charts, and he is not going to put up with it any longer. His phone dings with a text, from Elliot. As angry as he is with his little brother, he was forced to ask for his help. He’d sent the text and all the details. Elliot is unparalleled at tracking. In a past life, he would have been the village’s best hunter. Now he’s not searching for wolves in person, but online. Hunt. Trap. Kill. Elliot’s specialty.
I need to talk to you. I’m in the library. Let’s take a walk.
Great.
Jack logs out and grabs his phone. He casts a last glance toward the bedroom, decides not to wake her. He writes a note instead, props it on the pillow.
One more day, soon-to-be Mrs. Compton. I’ll see you before the brunch. Love, J
Elliot is waiting for him in the library. His nose is swollen and his eye slightly blackened, but he seems otherwise unharmed, and no longer pissed off. A fire roars in the grate, and the room is warm and cozy.
“Sure you want to go out? It’s pouring,” Jack says.
“Better to be outside. What, afraid you’re going to melt? Such a delicate flower you are.”
Elliot grins, and Jack knows all is forgiven. This is how brothers work.
The door to the back patio is latched tight against the rain. They pull on Wellies and grab umbrellas, lumber off onto the grounds. Mud squelches under their boots, and the air crackles with static electricity. Thunder rolls in the distance. The dogs come tearing around the corner, their coats glistening, running in happy circles around them. They like rain, the fools. Thunder dogs, Will calls them.
“Maybe we shouldn’t linger out here,” Jack says. “I don’t want to get struck by lightning.”
“You’re such a pussy.”
Jack shrugs and starts walking again. “Whatever, El.”
“The server was breached from inside the system. Someone coded a back door. We’re running checks on every employee who left the company in the past three years.”
“Does Dad know it was an inside job?”
“Yes, and he’s not very happy.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Jack, knowing this breach is internal, I want to talk to you about that night. I think you should come clean. I think you should tell the authorities what really happened.”
Jack doesn’t answer. They’re at the cottages now, and duck inside one, shaking the umbrellas and wiping rain off their shoulders. The roof needs fixing, rain drips through in spots. Romulus stops at the door and sits on his haunches, watching, guarding. Remus comes inside, makes a circuit around the room, whining softly, then goes to join his brother.
“Why in the world would I do that? Why would I implicate Claire in this?”
“I don’t mean Monday night. I mean the night Morgan died. I think that’s what the threat’s about. Whoever sent that text, whoever hacked the servers, knows what really happened with Morgan.”
“Impossible. The only people who know are on this island, and there’s no one here I don’t trust with my life. You included, asshole.”
Elliot gives him a half smile. “Jack, think about this. Someone knows. The texts to you and me prove it.”
“They prove nothing. I agree, the threats are serious, but there’s nothing that ties back to Morgan. And whoever did this didn’t really hack the servers. They’re holding the data hostage. Big difference. No one can read that data, and it will self-destruct before they can decrypt anything.”
“You don’t know that. This is a warning shot. Whoever sent this knows how to cover their tracks, just as well as we do. I have a really bad feeling about all of this. There’s more to come. So you might think about calling it off. That’s all I wanted to say.”
“What, call off the wedding?” Jack’s tone is so incredulous Elliot flushes, a deep red that Jack knows is a warning sign he’d better back off. Elliot never has done well moderating his emotions. But Jack is tired of being careful with his little brother.
“Why do you not want me to marry Claire, Elliot?”
“Oh, please. Don’t be so dramatic. I couldn’t give two shits if you marry her or not. She’s a nice girl, but she’s hardly your equal. But that’s your problem, not mine.” He moves closer, and his voice drops menacingly. “What is my problem is this family, and our company. Dad isn’t taking this seriously enough, and neither are you. We’re all going to go down if this doesn’t get handled immediately.”
“What’s on the server that you’re trying to hide, Elliot? Is there something you know that I don’t?”
“It’s not my back I’m trying to cover, Jackson,” he fires back. “It’s yours.”
“You let me worry about my life, and my choices. I want to know what’s driving this sudden altruism on my behalf. You don’t need to bribe me. I’ve already offered to step aside and let you take my place in the company. What more do you need from me?”
“You just don’t get it. This is about what’s good for the family. All of our leverage is gone. We’ll have to start over.”
“I disagree, and Dad does as well, clearly, or you wouldn’t be out here trying to convince me to disobey him. He knows what he’s doing. I trust him. You should, too.”
Elliot throws up his hands. “Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He starts away but Jack grabs his arm.
“Who sent me the text? Did you find out?”
“Why do you think I’m trying to talk some sense into you? It came from a New York number. It belongs to the woman who visited Claire in her studio, Ami Eister. All roads lead to a brick wall.”
“That’s impossible. Everything is traceable.”
“Normally, yes. But whoever is behind this knows how to cover their tracks. Karmen’s working on it.”
“Karmen has a lot on her plate.”
“The SOC is working on it, too. God, Jack. Hover much? I don’t know how Claire can stand all your mothering.”
“Elliot, what the hell is really going on here?”
“I’ve told you. Your negligence is about to bring the world crashing down around our ears.”
He stalks out, grumbling at the dogs to get out of his way, leaving J
ack to stare at his retreating figure.
What the hell was that?
34
Auld Lang Syne
In the darkness of my mind, a woman with black hair stands atop the cliff. The sky is slate gray with the impending storm, and she is screaming a warning to me, but I can’t hear, can’t understand—
I’m dreaming. I know I’m dreaming.
Wake up, Claire.
The words are a whisper, and I come fully awake to a murky gloom. The candle has guttered out, and the sense of someone standing over me, soft breath tickling my cheek, is overwhelming.
I sit up, looking around the room wildly, but I am alone.
The rain is coming down in sheets. It’s weirdly dark; there is no light in the sky, though I can tell it’s daylight.
There is a gentle knocking. I go to the living room, but it grows fainter. It’s not coming from our door.
I hear the knock again. Hollow and light, this time it seems to be coming from the bedroom. It stops as soon as I get to the doorway.
I know the Villa is supposed to be haunted, there’s a Gray Lady in the history I read. Still, I don’t believe in ghosts. Someone must be knocking on another room’s door. Maybe a floor below, or above. Or it’s the pipes. The Villa is old, and I’ve been here only a day. I’m sure I’ll get used to all the house sounds soon enough.
Still, weirdness, on top of that creepy dream, does not settle my nerves.
I startle when my phone rings, a very real, normal sound. I don’t recognize the number, but it has a 212 area code. New York.
“Hello?”
“Claire? It’s Karmen Harris. Are you alone?”
I spy the note on the pillow. Jack must have gotten up and slipped out without waking me. He always has been an early riser. I am not. If given the opportunity, I will skip breakfast and lounge in bed instead.
No time for that today. The brunch is in a few hours, I have to figure out my dress, and Henna will be all over me with a hundred last second things that need to be done. Now Karmen needs a heart to heart? This can’t be good.
Her Dark Lies Page 16
