Her Dark Lies

by J. T. Ellison

  “Jack isn’t here.”

  “Good. We need to talk. I’m outside.” There is a sharp knock on the door.

  Uh-oh. Why do I immediately feel like I’ve done something wrong? Guilty conscience, my mother says from that weird, spectral place that all mothers live in their daughters’ consciousness.

  I’ve done nothing to feel guilty about, I snap back at her. Malcolm shot the intruder.

  “Give me a moment, I need to put on some clothes. I slept in.”

  I dress quickly, throwing on yesterday’s jeans and a Simple Minds T-shirt from the closet. It’s Jack’s, it’s too big, and I love wearing it. It makes me feel safe. I scan the bathroom floor for leftover glass, just in case, but there’s nothing. The rug is back in its proper place and looks freshly vacuumed.

  I brush my teeth, fluff my hair, though there’s no point, it’s still raining and the humidity and rain and salt air triumvirate is making it curl riotously around my head.

  I open the door and the diminutive security agent enters the room as if she owns the place. I remember that up until yesterday, this was Ana and Brice’s suite, so yes, she’s probably spent a lot of time here. It’s makes me uneasy, how close the security needs to be to the family. I’ve never thought about it like this, but there’s a lot of Compton business done in private places.

  Karmen looks like she hasn’t slept, and is all business. She parks herself in one of the matching armchairs in the living room. I sit opposite her, pulling my legs up onto the chair and wrapping my arms around them. She has no paperwork, no briefcase. A social call, perhaps?

  “I’ve identified the man who broke into the house. By now, I’m sure the Nashville police have, too.”

  “I thought his name was Francis Wold.”

  “A false identity. The intruder’s name was Shane McGowan.”

  My heart stops, then starts again with a pump that is so intense I can’t see for a few moments for all the adrenaline pulsing through my veins.

  This isn’t happening. This isn’t possible.

  My mind is laughing at me, mocking. You knew it was him. You knew. When Malcolm took off his mask, you saw him and you knew.

  He was older. He’d gained a lot of weight and a lot of muscle. He looked hard, and dirty, and that half smile etched on his dead face was just as terrifying now as it was a decade ago.

  The last time I saw it was in the courtroom before he was sent to prison. He smiled at me as I sat on the stand, testifying against him, more a sneer than a smile, though it somehow still held some promise of love in it. The wrong kind of love. The kind that hurts and tears, not comforts and hugs.

  “Claire? Did you know it was him? Did you recognize him? It’s okay if you did, we are not deviating from the narrative. Malcolm shot him, and that’s the end of it. But I have to ask, because the police will, too. Did you know it was him?”

  My voice sounds strangled. “No. Not before...not until Malcolm took off his mask. Even then, I wasn’t sure.”

  “Has he been in touch? Has he reached out? When did you speak to him last?”

  “At the trial. Before. No, he hasn’t been in touch.”

  All the strange incidents over the past few months that I’ve shrugged off to my being clumsy, accident prone, having bad luck, line themselves up in my brain. Everything comes into startling, terrifying clarity.

  I’m wrong. Shane has been in touch, in his own insidious, awful way. He wasn’t just trying to intimidate me. Or watch me. He was getting back at me. He was trying to kill me.

  I should get Jack. Right now. I shouldn’t be telling anything to Karmen Harris before I tell my fiancé. But this feels very big, and very scary, and the urge to confess is overwhelming. Karmen is staring at me as if every thought I’ve just had was spoken aloud.

  I sit up straight, cross my legs.

  “He hasn’t been in direct contact, no. But a lot of weird stuff has been going on.”

  I tell her about the odd happenings over the past several weeks. The feeling of being watched. The window in my bedroom left open when I knew it had been closed. The near misses by cars as I walked to the coffee shop down the street. The horrid food poisoning that sent me to the hospital; Jack had shared the same meal and had been totally fine. And here at the Villa, the French doors being open, then closed, the knocking from inside the walls, the broken glass on the rug. That creepy ass note.

  The blood on my dress.

  WHORE

  Kamren isn’t taking notes, thank God, just committing my words to memory. When I finish, she asks the obvious question.

  “Have you told Jack?”

  “No. I didn’t want to seem like an idiot.” I didn’t want to seem weak.

  She must understand what I’m saying, and what I’m not, because she gives me a sympathetic smile. “Thank you for trusting me with this information, Claire. It helps. It helps tremendously. I’d like to pivot for a moment. Let’s talk about the art dealer who came to see you. Ami Eister.”

  “Were you able to speak with her?”

  “Not exactly. She’s dead.”

  I’m sure my jaw has dropped unbecomingly. Dead? Shit. Am I going to get blamed for this, too? I don’t know if Malcolm killed the art dealer is going to fly.

  “What? When did that happen?”

  “Six months ago. She died on vacation, out of the country.”

  So I can’t be blamed. Is it ungracious of me to feel utter, complete relief at this? I never said I was a good person.

  “I don’t understand. She was just at my studio three weeks ago. How could she have died six months ago?”

  “I think it’s clear whoever was at the studio, it wasn’t the art dealer Ami Eister. It’s entirely possible someone was using her identity to get to you.”

  She breaks off, watching me closely, allowing me to catch up.

  “They were working together. Shane and this imposter.”

  “There’s a solid chance that’s true. Until we ascertain her identity, we won’t know for sure. What exactly did she say to you? What did she ask you?”

  I go through the Ami Eister story again, step by step, moment by moment.

  “You never mentioned the painting by name to her?”

  “No. No way. I just assumed... I’ve been so distracted lately, with the wedding and all the work I’m doing, I figured maybe I slipped. In an interview, or something.”

  “I think we’ve established you didn’t slip. There were cameras in your studio, too. Whoever this women is, I think it’s safe to say she and Shane had a plan for you, and for Jack.”

  “Can you identify her?”

  “I can. Facial recognition technology is very advanced. Our security system didn’t capture her when she visited your studio, but there are other cameras in the area. We’ll find her on one of those and get an ID as quickly as possible.”

  “What was wrong with the security system in the studio? How could it miss her?”

  “An excellent question. It seems someone’s been interfering with our protection of you and Jackson. I intend to find out who.”

  35

  Unforgettable

  I wonder, if, in another life, Claire and I might have been friends.

  In the beginning, I found her incessantly fascinating because of Jack’s obsession with her, yes. But if I’d met her on the street, or at a party, on my own terms, would she and I have chatted? Complimented each other’s outfits? Gone for coffee? Would I have connected with her the way I do now?

  The way she observes the world around her and puts it into her art, the way the colors swirl and images emerge, not portraits, nothing so specific, just the barely controlled chaos of the modern aesthetic, how even a full canvas of icy white slashes with a sole dot of black in the center—an eye to the universe—can evoke the impulsivity of human nature to leave their mark, to prove they
exist in this vacuum we call life... She does an excellent job of that. It’s in her mission statement on her website, this ethos of commonality she planned to explore through her work.

  I know you would have a hard time seeing the sublime in a black dot on a white background, but trust me, seeing it in person is overwhelming. Allesandra hangs in the lobby of Comptons’ Manhattan offices.

  It is brilliant.

  And from what I’d heard, Jolina was a masterpiece beyond anything Claire had ever done.

  The only reason I went to the studio at all was to witness Jolina for myself. That’s all. It wasn’t to see Claire face-to-face. It wasn’t.

  Her musings about the composition, how she couldn’t capture the scale of it without making the canvas a monstrosity, what she was planning, the vision she saw in her head, how it might have taken years but something, something, had been driving her. It was frightening, her attachment to the piece, but she was so excited, I could see it in her face when she talked to Jackson about it...yes, I had to see this for myself. The cameras installed in the studio should have worked perfectly, but because of the size of the piece, Claire had been forced to turn the damn thing around, so all I could see was the canvas tacked to the skeleton of two-by-fours that held it stable, and every once in a while, the halo of blond curls as she danced around the edges.

  I needed to see it. I desperately needed to see it. I wanted to touch it, to run a finger along the drying edge, to leave behind my own mark. It would be covered by a frame eventually, only to be discovered decades later, a stranger’s thumbprint, who could it be? (Me, me, me.)

  To see her, paintbrush in hand, with her creation.

  To smell her.

  To touch her.

  To have one moment together to remember her by when she was gone.

  We all want to be remembered for something. We have children, we paint, we write, we fight, we conquer. We leave behind marks on the fabric of humanity, and while some are content to stay in the background, some of us want to make those marks as vivid and overwhelming as possible.

  We don’t just want to be remembered. We want to be unforgettable.

  * * *

  She was so surprised by my visit. I sometimes forget how young she is, how easily manipulated. All I had to do was say I was an art dealer from New York, I had an offer from a client, could I see the work? She blushed and fumbled and tried to hide her excitement, but I could see it there, suffusing her skin, turning her from accomplished artist to insecure little girl, and the words rose from her mind in an almost outrageous clamor.

  What if she doesn’t like it what if she goes to the client and says it’s trash what if I’m not good enough what if my work is a joke what if this is a setup what if she wants to buy it anyway?

  What if, what if, what if.

  With every internal question she grew smaller and quieter and more aloof.

  But as I said, she is young. It didn’t take much persuading to open her up again. How impressed I was by Allesandra. How unique is Claire’s esthetic. How no one’s seen anything like this since the sixties, how this new style will influence a generation.

  Lies, all of it, but all artists are simply walking bags of ego and insecurities and succumb to flattery with such ease.

  When she was pink with pleasure, believing in herself again, I suggested she take me around to the back of the studio, so I could see Jolina for myself.

  She was about to do it. I could feel her deciding, and knew she was going to say yes. With a flick of my finger in just the right spot, I was going to tip her over the edge and make her mine.

  And then she declined.

  The bitch said no.

  She took my card and promised to let my client have first rights of refusal, but unfortunately the piece wasn’t ready. Thank you so much for your interest. I look forward to talking to you again soon. I’m getting married—I’m afraid I haven’t been able to stay as focused on my work as I would like these past few months. But soon. The moment I’m back from my honeymoon, I’ll finish, and then I’ll call.

  I nearly killed her on the spot.

  How dare she refuse me? After all I’d given her? Without me she would be nothing.

  I was forced to break in and see it in the darkness, in pieces, shining my light across its edges, making circles into its heart. It was a piece of shit. Without her near it, it was just a huge, clunky wall of chaotic nothing.

  I still pressed my thumb in the edge, but the paint there was already dry.

  36

  Do You Remember When?

  After Karmen leaves, I get myself together and dressed for the brunch. I wonder if this is how I’m going to live my life going forward, acting as if everything is normal while inside my very being screams in agony.

  I’m supposed to be happy right now, damn it. This is the weekend of my dreams. I’m marrying the man I love on a gorgeous Italian island, and instead, my past is haunting me and my present has gone insane.

  Who the hell is the woman who came to my studio?

  I shot Shane.

  The hydrofoil ferry horn echoes into my room, and I can hear the dogs barking. God, I hope Harper and my parents are on the boat. I wonder if Ana was able to get in touch with Harper about bringing me a new dress?

  “Claire? You in there?”

  Sanity, in the form of an extremely excited and tattooed bridesmaid. Katie doesn’t notice anything is wrong, not yet. She stares over my shoulder at the terrace doors, then shakes her head with a grin.

  “This place is bonkers. Thank God the generators kicked in, I’d have never found you otherwise. What are you doing sitting here in the dark? Let’s go outside.”

  It’s not quite as dark as she claims, but it is gloomy. I hadn’t bothered to turn on any lights when Karmen came to talk.

  Katie grabs my hand and pulls me across the bridal suite to the French doors that lead out onto the sizable terrace. The pergola shields us from the rain, though I can feel the mist curling around my body.

  “Have you ever seen anything like this? Even in the rain it’s so gorgeous. You’re going to have a whole new series of paintings after spending any time here. Your Italian period.” She affects a terrible accent and spins around, making me giggle.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “I passed out when I got here. I feel like I slept for a week. I’m raring to go. Did I miss anything?”

  I don’t often lie to Katie, because she can see right through me. The ferry horn shrieks again, and I take the opportunity to change the subject.

  “Hopefully my parents and Harper are on the ferry. I think this is the last run. The storms are going to get worse later.”

  “Joy. Harper Hunts Life is coming to document every moment of our existence...”

  “Come on. Instagram has been good to her. She’s making oodles of money. She has over a million followers now. A real reputation.”

  “I know, I know. At what cost, though? She’s living it as out loud as you can. It’s not like she’s doing it for the art. She’s not the artist you are, Claire.”

  My heart swells a bit, and that nasty little voice that lives inside me says—see, even Katie says you’re better than Harper—but I shove her away and demur.

  “That’s very sweet, but she’s good, great even, and you know it.”

  The daggers she shoots at Harper are nothing new. Katie is horribly jealous of my little sister’s following, not that I can’t sympathize. Until Jack came along, I was, too. Everything comes easy to Harper.

  For Katie? Not so much. Katie’s an aspiring songwriter by day, but that vocation isn’t paying the rent, so she bartends downtown on the vampire shift, as she calls it. She’d kill to have Harper’s following. It would make her. And it will come, eventually, if she sticks with her songwriting and performing. That Harper went viral on a random, unplanned post�
�a beautiful photo taken of her standing on a beach at sunset, her shadow stretching behind her, with the caption Never be afraid of what scares you the most—was admittedly a fluke, but that’s life, right? You never know what might connect with someone, or infuriate them, or both. Either way, you’ve gotten an emotional response.

  I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised that my sister can evoke emotions in millions of people at once. She’s been doing it to me all my life.

  Katie is peering at me worriedly. “Are you okay, Claire? You’re pale.”

  Am I okay? Nope. Not even close. But I can’t tell her everything, and the reality of what that NDA really means crashes into me in a wave of regret. With the stroke of a pen, I am cut off from everyone. My friends. My family. I have only Jack and the rest of the Comptons in my confidence now. The thought is positively frightening.

  “Claire?” Katie asks again.

  “I’m okay. I got a little seasick yesterday—I’ve been lying low since I got here. Haven’t even had the full tour yet.”

  I’m saved by a familiar voice calling from the hallway.

  “Hellooooo? Claire? Are you in there?”

  “Harper,” we say in unison, with varying degrees of happiness, and turn to welcome my sister.

  Harper, loaded down with packages, barrels into the room, talking a mile a minute in broken Italian to a man I’ve not seen before who is hidden beneath a mound of bags, both suitcases and shopping.

  “Si, grazie, put it ecco. Per favore. Thanks. You’re the best! Buongiorno.”

  I bite back my first reaction—do you have to dump all your crap in my room?—instead wave my sister out to the terrace. Harper gives me a thumbs-up, pulling her wallet out of her purse to offer a tip, which is immediately declined. She rewards the man with a smile instead, and he leaves her belongings on the floor by the door, looking utterly lovestruck.

  Harper can make anyone feel special. When that smile lands on you, it’s like the sun has paraded out from behind a cloud for the first time in weeks.