Her Dark Lies

by J. T. Ellison

  Will Compton’s bulging eyes and high-pitched cries invade my mind.

  He killed her. He killed her. You know that he killed her.

  “You don’t think this had something to do with your grandfather’s reaction to seeing me yesterday, do you?”

  “No. Absolutely not. I talked to Mom about his mental state. She says he’s been confusing some of his movies with reality. He did a number of thrillers back in the day.” His voice thickens. “I hate that you might not get to know him as I do. He’s a great guy. I bumped into him last night after you’d gone to bed, and he seemed to be back to normal. The disease is stealing him away, a bit at a time.”

  My stomach growls. What an inappropriate response to this terrible news. “I really am so sorry, Jack. Maybe tomorrow will be better.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “We better get going. They’ll be waiting for us.”

  “Yes. Let me change really quick, and we can go down.”

  He stands with me, and touches my cheek gently. His voice is soft and rumbling.

  “Did he hurt you, Claire? McGowan?”

  Did Shane hurt me? Yes, he did. In too many ways to count.

  “Shhh,” I say, wrapping my arms around him. “It’s over now.”

  38

  The Watcher

  Well, that was stirring.

  Did you enjoy watching them confess and cuddle? I did.

  Oh, don’t be such a prude. I did mention that I like to watch.

  Jack and Claire are my favorite highlight reel, my number one streaming show, my elegant night out at the theater, my furtive glimpse of porn. Everything they do, everything they say. The fights and the fucking, the little kindnesses and the grand gestures. The fear, the joy, the rage.

  What would they do if they knew they were on display for me? Would they be outwardly horrified but inwardly excited at the attention? All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players, yes, yes. Jack, I know would hate it. But Claire...hasn’t she been begging for attention all these years?

  No, for me, the invasion of their private world, that’s the best part. I think ultimately, they would be horrified to know what I know, and that makes me...happy.

  Have I always been this way? A voyeur? Possibly. I’m sure you imagine me as a delinquent child peeping through keyholes and lingering outside of cracked doors. I was never so obvious, so crass. There was a fabulous store down the street from the protective services offices that catered to the private eye Hollywood set. The owner took a liking to me, allowed me to test out his wares so he could have firsthand samples to show his clientele. I had a deft hand, and my mentor explained things well. It wasn’t long before said clientele wanted to know how he got such excellent compromising shots. So, he pimped me out. Not in the sexual sense, but for my skills at getting in, placing the cameras, and getting out unnoticed. No one pays attention to a child playing happily while waiting for their mother to finish with whatever shopkeeper or home visit they are on. Oh, you think they do, you hear stories all the time of people being taken to court for negligence, but trust me, so long as nothing seems amiss, no one gives a second glance. They’re all too busy wrapped up in their own world.

  As I got older, I started researching on my own. And then tinkering. Taking the cameras apart, putting them back together. Stripping out the unnecessary components, so they were smaller and smaller. Easier to place. Easier to hide.

  My mentor was my first client, naturally. He spread the word.

  I got my first round of VC money when I was in college. I got the second round right before I met Jackson.

  I didn’t need anything else after that. I had the man, the ring, the education, the career, the reputation.

  But I liked to watch.

  It was dirty, and it was wrong. But nothing could cure me of that desire. It lived deep within me. Nothing else could fill me, not food, not drink, not love. Nothing could stop me.

  * * *

  Not even death.

  39

  Ching Ching

  We head down to the breakfast room. Though smaller than the expansive dining room we ate in last night, it is straight out of Downton Abby—a long, graceful space with a double tray ceiling, crisp white wainscoting and crown molding, and an antique sideboard covered in silver chafing dishes. Bottles of Dom Perignon and jugs of freshly squeezed orange juice are chilling in a massive silver tub. A veritable display of meats and cheeses line the sideboard: bacon, prosciutto, salami, mortadella, ham, slices of Swiss and cheddar and mozzarella. The chafing dishes hold more treats, these of the eggish variety: cheesy scrambled eggs, eggs Benedict, hardboiled, spinach frittata; fragrant, crumbly quiches. The usual European selections of tomato, yogurts, muesli, and Nutella finish out the choices.

  Jack has a grin for everyone, and I feel my own shoulders drop a notch. Jack will know what to say, what to do. He always does.

  “Good morning, good morning,” he says heartily. There is a babble of conversation—teasing jokes about our late arrival, comments about the house and the weather. More people are filtering into the room, and Jack is consumed with greetings, hugs, handshakes, slaps on the back. I see the Crows standing at each entrance, unsmiling. Malcolm catches my eye for a moment then glances away. Do I look guilty of my sin? Does he look guilty enough for me?

  I am presented to a few new-to-me friends, and a few I’ve met before. The lawyers, Maggie and Henry, are there, plates already full, with special smiles for me. Elliot glides in, and Amelia follows, slower, still looking out of sorts. Poor girl. Jack gives Elliot some serious side-eye. They aren’t getting along, and I’m not entirely sure what’s happening.

  Tyler, the youngest of the Compton boys, enters the room from the courtyard doors, his dark blond hair damp from the rain. When he hugs me, I swear I can smell the sea.

  “Sis. How’s tricks?”

  “Tricks are...good. I’m a little overwhelmed, but good.”

  “You’ll get used to it. Mom and Dad like things to look grand for guests but when no one’s around, we’re all just piled together in our pajamas, drinking coffee out of paper cups and fighting about who has to go fetch the cornetti from the baker by the beach.”

  “That sounds idyllic. What the hell is a corn...thingy?”

  Tyler smiles. “It’s like a croissant, basically. Hey, I brought my boyfriend, I hope you don’t mind a plus one. Claire, this is Peter Mayfair.”

  Peter Mayfair also has floppy dark blond hair that’s wet from the rain, and though they are the same height, nearly as tall as Jack, Peter has broader shoulders and a more chiseled jawline, complete with a deep dimple in his chin. He is devastatingly handsome.

  “Good to meet you. Any friend of Tyler’s is a friend of mine.”

  “Thanks for letting me crash the party.” Peter loops an arm across Tyler’s shoulders, gives his new boyfriend a smile. Tyler beams back.

  I know Peter is a new addition because we talked to Tyler on FaceTime three weeks ago and he was very single and bemoaning the fact that he’d be flying solo at the wedding. It’s good to see him with someone. He’s pushing thirty and has been alone too long, in my opinion. He works insane hours in difficult conditions, and he deserves some peace and happiness. And boy, does he look happy now.

  Jack joins our conversation. “Ty. And Peter! How wonderful to see you. I didn’t think you were going to be able to get away. Claire, Peter’s one of our doctors in the Brigade.”

  “Well, at least I know if anything happens there are two doctors in the house.”

  There is a small commotion in the hall and my mother and Brian enter. Mom’s looking rough, slightly green around the gills, eyes red and puffy. When I hug her, I can smell the must in her breath, leftovers from the night before, even though she’s brushed her teeth. Great. She’s sporting a hangover. What’s happened to get her started drinki
ng again?

  Brian hugs me, and he smells like soap. I don’t catch the scent of alcohol coming from his pores.

  “I was getting worried that you weren’t going to make it. How are you guys? How was Rome?”

  “Amazing,” Brian gushes. “Harper took us all over the city, to all her photoshoots. We saw the Colosseum, and the Vatican. A special tour, just for us. It was incredible. And the food... I’m already thinking about the next time we can come visit.”

  “You’re welcome anytime. Mom, did you have fun?”

  “I did. I’ve developed a fondness for pistachio gelato. Harper told me about your dress. I’m so sorry, Claire.”

  “Yeah. Totally sucks.” She’s distracted; despite her condolences, she’s not even making eye contact with me. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine. The ferry ride was very rough, the waves got us all damp. I hear you’ve had to move up the schedule?” she looks queasily at the dishes of food, and even more so at the champagne. Brian pours her a cup of coffee. He’s pretending nothing is wrong, so I go along with it. I’ll talk to him about it later. Or tomorrow. Or never. I resolve not to let my worry for my mom interfere with things. I have enough on my plate.

  “Yes, you’re going to be eating all day. Rehearsal is tonight. It should be a fun party—it’s down on The Hebrides. I’ve heard there’s a big surprise.”

  “Sounds like fun, honey. This place...” She smiles, an actual, genuine smile, one I don’t get to see very often. “I’m proud of you. You certainly landed yourself a catch. Hold on to him.”

  She takes a seat two down from me, a leg curled beneath her on the chair. Those daily yoga classes have paid off, she’s limber as a teenager. Harper drops down next to her.

  “Any news on the dress?”

  She shakes her head. “I wasn’t able to find Henna to talk to her. I’ll deal with it after brunch. Promise.”

  Speaking of Henna... I don’t see her anywhere. Granted, she’s running this show, but she should at least be able to enjoy the fruits of her labor.

  Ana arrives, looking severely elegant in a black wrap dress, Brice in ironed jeans and a black turtleneck at her side. They mix and mingle and are delightful hosts, taking special pains to include my family in the conversation.

  This is perfect. The room is so happy, with the clinking of silverware and glasses, the laughter and general conversation. The bottles never seem to disappear or get empty, the dishes on the sideboard stay full. I finally see some of the kitchen staff, who have been coming in and out silently, unobtrusively. They’ve managed all this without the main power on, running entirely off the generators. They know how to manage a roomful of people, and a tiny part of me relaxes. Under Henna’s guidance, the dinner tonight will be flawless.

  Fatima is the only one who isn’t smiling. She stands at the far end of the room by the door to the kitchen watching over everything with a sharp eye. She is dignified, remote, with her hair screwed back into a bun and her chin high. She has not had time to grieve her mother, not at all, but I recognize the stance of a woman who is content to wait her turn.

  I realize Harper is talking to Ana about the interview. They’ve scheduled the shoot for after brunch. I’m glad. Harper’s been on me about this for months—now that it’s happening, I hope she’ll get off my back and we can resume our benign neglect of one another.

  Satisfied, I lift my mimosa, and hit my glass gently with my fork. Everyone settles. There are a few whistles. Jack looks at me, surprised but clearly delighted. I stand. I’ve been preparing this speech for days, wanting to surprise Jack with a bit of extroversion. I don’t normally get talkative unless I’ve had a few drinks. I’ve had to modify it a bit, but the gist is the same.

  “I’d like to make a toast.”

  “Toast this,” someone shouts, and Jack throws a piece of bacon at the offending someone.

  “I’d like to make a toast to all of you. For being so flexible—” more wolf whistles, and now I’m blushing, and Jack is openly laughing “—for agreeing to join us in Italy for our wedding, halfway around the world for many of you. We adore you all and are so grateful you’re here with us. Jack and I prepared a whole weekend of activities for you, but as you can see—” lightning flashes, and thunder booms, right on cue “—we’re going to be stuck inside more than we’d planned.”

  “And we know what you and Compton will be doing,” a tall blond-haired man at the second to the last seat of the table calls out, followed by more wolf whistles. I obligingly roll my eyes; this is clearly the horniest group of merrymakers. Maybe Katie and Harper will find themselves partnered off. After all, they are the bridesmaids.

  “I want to thank Jack and his family as well, for offering the hospitality of their delightful home.” Another crack of thunder, and we all laugh. “Thank you for helping us start our lives together.” I raise my glass. “Ching Ching.”

  “Ching Ching!” they shout.

  Jack hops up to clink glasses with me, a smile on his face. My toast is the Italian way of saying cheers, or bottoms up, and I know he likes that I took the time to figure it out.

  Jack holds up his glass. “And if I may say thank you as well, to my bride, the love of my life, who has opened her heart to this grizzled old man. May this be the first of many happy breakfasts together.”

  There’s another smattering of applause, then all the guests start hitting their glasses with their cutlery. Jack obligingly sweeps me into his arms and kisses me, and the room explodes into shouts of happiness.

  Their joy burns away the clouds that have shrouded me. I finally feel like a bride. I finally feel like things are going to be okay.

  40

  Wake Up, Wake Up

  Don’t think I’ve gotten attached to this woman. Not for a moment. Oh, I know what you’re thinking—she’s not obsessed, she’s not out for revenge.

  She’s in love.

  And you’d be wrong, on so many levels. Do you understand what love really is? Do you?

  Love is simply a word we use to explain the biochemical nature of species propagation. It’s something we use to justify the base desire to experience pleasure with another person when in fact it’s just about making procreation more palatable. We say we’re in love, but what we really mean is we want to connect so we don’t feel so alone, and in so doing, create stronger familial constructs that allow us to fend off other familial constructs who want to take what we have.

  Love is code for the powerful urge to survive among predators.

  No, I’m not in love with her.

  I’m in hate with her.

  I’m in hate with him.

  It is intoxicating, this hatred. It has taken all my time, all of my ferocious attention. All of my abilities to stay hidden, the spider in the corner no one notices. It feeds me, this hatred, and I bloat on it; I grow, and I grow, and I grow.

  They’ve blithely gone on living while I was forced to be dead. I’ve lived this way against my will for a decade and I will not do it any longer.

  I will not.

  * * *

  My God, are you not listening?

  Wake the fuck up.

  41

  And Then She Dies

  When brunch finally ends, we are decidedly tipsy. Our guests peel off for an afternoon on their own, which, for most of them, considering the rain, will probably mean hanging out playing billiards or drinking some more. It’s such a shame they’ve come all this way to have a fun Italian vacation and it’s pouring.

  Harper goes with the Comptons to do the interview. Katie says she’s feeling inspired and wants to write some lyrics and will come help me get ready for the rehearsal later. Mom and Brian head off on a tour of the house. Jack suggests a siesta back in our rooms, which sounds like fun to me. I’m ready for some time alone after all the interaction. A natural extrovert I am not.

&nb
sp; It’s raining hard, and the hallways are dark. He has to use the flashlight on his phone so I don’t trip. When we get to our rooms, they are dark, too.

  “Have the generators stopped working?”

  “The majority of their power is for the common areas and the kitchens, to keep the food and stuff cold. It won’t light up the private spaces unless it’s necessary. There have been plenty of dark days and nights in this place since it was built. Let’s find a candle. There should be some in the drawer, here.”

  He digs around in the night table and pulls out a thick white candle and a pack of matches.

  “That almost sounds like you enjoy this, Mr. Compton.”

  “Being alone in the dark with my bride? I do. It’s even more romantic with candlelight.”

  The match strikes with a sulfurous whssst, and he sets the flame to the wick. The shadows in the room begin to dance, strobed every few minutes by flashes from outside.

  He fits his mouth to mine, and things are progressing quite nicely when banging starts on the door, a hand rattling the knob.

  “So much for alone time,” Jack grumbles. “Who is it?”

  “Jack? Is Claire with you? And Harper? We can’t find anyone, and the lights are still out in our room.”

  It is my mother.

  With a small vocal groan that matches my internal sigh, Jack slides off the bed and makes his way to the door.

  Framed by the bleeding black silence of the dark hallway, her face pale and ghostly in the storm light, it’s clear something is off. My mom’s coppery hair is in disarray, her white shirt smudged with black on the left shoulder. Her eyes are bright and hectic, not entirely focused.

  I don’t know how long we’ve been apart, less than an hour, but in that time, she’s managed to get very, very drunk.

  “Well hey, you two.” The words run together in a slurred Southern drawl: wallhayewetew. “Goodness, Jack, this storm is terrible. Such a beautiful house. A little dark and creepy without the lights. Claire, where have you been? Have you seen Harper? I can’t find her anywhere. I’ve been looking and looking—”