Her Dark Lies

by J. T. Ellison

  No keypads, though. This area is controlled by a padlock only. It’s off the grid.

  Where does this tunnel lead? To the water, most likely, with the downward slope and cool air. Is it a wine cellar? That makes sense, it being so quiet and cool, and close enough to the kitchens.

  Okay, Nancy Drew. Time to get back to Jack, face the music.

  I hear voices, and they’re coming from down the tunnel. My heart starts to kettledrum and my breath catches in my throat. I am not alone. Who is down here in the dark?

  “Signorina?”

  I jump and scream, dropping the flashlight to the ground. The voices stop.

  A gray-haired head bends in front of me and picks up the flashlight.

  “Signorina Claire? What’s happened? Why are you covered in blood?”

  “Oh, Fatima.” I blow out a huge, shuddery breath. “You scared me. It’s Henna. She fell down the stairs. Then I—I got lost. I couldn’t find my way back to the stairwell after I took my mom to her room. I ended up here. I think someone’s down there.” I point down the tunnel. “I heard voices.”

  In my shock, I’m babbling. Fatima’s face is ghoulishly pale in the flashlight’s xenon beam. She doesn’t seem alarmed.

  “That is the path to the crypt, Signorina Claire. There are no voices there except those of the dead. Come, I’ll take you back to Signore Jack. Henna has been hurt?”

  I nod. I’m not breaking the news that Henna’s dead.

  “Then we must go help.” With a deft hand, she reaches for my arm and gently pulls me out of the tunnel, pushing the thick wooden door closed behind me. She resets the huge iron padlock, locks it with a snap.

  “See? No one there to worry about. The dead can’t leave. Come with me.”

  We begin walking, and soon the air grows warmer.

  “Jack didn’t tell me there was a crypt.”

  “This is quite typical of these old island Villas.”

  “Is the...are there Compton family members buried there?”

  “Not buried, interred. In the walls. Yes, there are Comptons, and there are previous owners’ families as well. I believe the oldest tomb in the crypt dates to the 1300s. That’s been found, that is. There was a cave-in many years ago and there are tunnels that have been blocked off. Of course, the paths to the grottos were closed as well. Signore Will wanted to keep the boys safe, so he had a number of areas blocked off many years ago.”

  “I see.”

  I am thoroughly freaked out at this point by the idea of the voices I heard belonging to the Villa’s previous residents who live in the walls of the crypt, but before I can quietly collapse into fits of hysterics, we are back on the main floor and at the staircase.

  “Up the stairs and right at the landing. That will get you back to your rooms. I’m sure Signore Jack is missing you. And you need to shower and change—we must be getting ready for the rehearsal dinner. I’ll be along in a moment. I need to check why the generators have turned off.”

  Because someone is screwing with us, I want to say, but I bite my tongue. Though I know I’m hardly being paranoid, I need Jack to take the lead with his family on the situation. And I do need to change. I’m covered in blood and I’m shaking with cold and anger.

  I march up the stairs, trying to put the voices I heard in the crypt out of my mind. I can’t help it, though, the shadowy whispers consume me. Fatima brushed them off as my imagination, but I still don’t believe in ghosts. The voices I heard were entirely human.

  I stop at the huge window overlooking the labyrinth. The rain sheets down, but it seems lighter. I suppose that means the first wave of storms is over, and we’ll have some peace for the evening’s events.

  I jog the rest of the way up the stairs and head to our rooms. Jack will be worried by now.

  47

  The Cavalry Returns

  Jack is prone to paranoia, he has to be, considering the side work of his family, but on the island, he’s always felt safe. It is the ultimate controlled environment. Barring a torpedo or drone strike, naturally, which their enemies aren’t exactly capable of. Yet.

  Until Henna’s death, all of the terrors of the past few days could be chalked up to the twisted desires of Shane McGowan. Jack had thought his death meant things would quickly return to normal.

  Now he has to believe McGowan was simply a symptom. A hired gun with a convenient backstory tied to Claire. Someone else is pulling the strings. He’s willing to bet the farm it’s the woman who came to visit Claire at the studio. Ami Eister by name, but not in truth. Who the hell is she? How does she tie into their lives? Who sent her, and why? Well, that’s a silly question. Her goal is the destruction of the family, clearly. Starting with the one they hold most dear.

  He just can’t fathom someone he knows killing Henna. A stranger is the only explanation.

  So who the hell is this imposter?

  Could she somehow have gotten to the island?

  Into the house?

  He hears someone coming fast up the hall and acts on instinct, tensing for battle. One hand goes to the back of his waistband out of habit, though there is nothing there to use for defense. The other brings the flashlight up in a grip that assures it is as much a weapon as a deterrent—in the gloom, the intense beam of the Maglite will blind whoever is rushing toward him, and he can easily use it as a club if needed. The butterfly knife he always carries in his pocket comes out, whips open, and with a few deft flicks of his wrist, the blade snaps into place. He’d gotten in the habit of carrying the knife years ago, though he’s rarely had to use it.

  He waits until the last moment to thumb the switch on the Maglite. Does he recognize that breath? He hesitates and is relieved to see Claire turn the corner and run toward him. He blows out a breath, drops the knife into his pocket, and opens his arms. Claire throws herself at him, burying her face in his chest.

  “Oh, Jack. I am so sorry. I don’t know what’s happened. My mom was hammered, she’d been drinking without a doubt, I could smell it on her breath. Brian claims he wasn’t aware, that he’d gone to take a nap after brunch, left her touring the house. And then I got lost, downstairs, and Fatima found me, and—”

  “Shhh. It’s okay now.”

  She peeks up at him, her beautiful eyes swimming with tears. It breaks him, seeing her so unhappy.

  “Will the cameras capture anything, do you think? Will they be able to see what happened?”

  “No. Without the power on, the cameras are conveniently offline here.”

  She must hear something in his tone. “What do you think happened? Do you think she fell? Or—”

  “Shhh,” he says. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions.” He’d so love to be screaming, raging, she was murdered, and it might have been your mother. But he knows this can’t be the truth. Knows it in his bones. Whoever killed Henna is working to destabilize the family entirely, and Trisha doesn’t care enough for that.

  He realizes Claire is quietly fuming. He can feel anger shimmering off her in waves.

  “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

  “Other than Henna dying and my mom getting bombed? Something else is going on. Something bigger. Jack, when I was downstairs—”

  There is a clunk and a whine he recognizes as the generators kicking in again, and the lights in the hallway flash on. It feels almost garish after the velvet-dark intimacy of the hallway. The scene is more horrible in the light—blood everywhere, Henna twisted, Claire a calamitous wreck. But the light will help to discern what’s happened. And to cover it up, as quickly as possible. They don’t need the guests wandering into the crime scene.

  Gideon and Malcolm, burly in their gray suits and red ties, come back into the hall, followed by Fatima. When she sees the body, she utters a tiny little scream, the meep of a kitten stepped on by her mother, then collects herself, raises her chin and marches to
Claire’s side, taking her by the arm.

  “Come with me. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  Jack gives Fatima a grateful nod, and squeezes Claire’s shoulder. “Go on. I’ll handle things here. You’re a mess. Hold on to her clothes, though, Fatima. In case the police need them.”

  Claire looks down at her bloodstained shirt in distress. “I have to throw it out, I need—”

  “Darling, it’s evidence. Just for now.”

  She pales but nods, and Jack is relieved when she allows Fatima to walk her back into their rooms. The ruse is necessary. There will be no police. Jack intends to hunt down whoever is responsible, and kill them himself.

  When the door closes, Jack turns to his security team. They are eyeing Henna’s body, but neither have spoken a word. Extremely well trained, they can handle pretty much anything. Even a dead body in the middle of a raging storm on an isolated island.

  “What took so long?”

  “Generator was out of gas, though hell if I know how that happened. We were down working on it.”

  “All right. Gideon,” Jack says to the slightly taller of the two men, “I see no need to inform the Italian authorities, since there’s no chance of them reaching us in this storm. I can’t see that it would be wise to raise the alarm bells right now. For our own knowledge, we must document every inch of this crime scene, and then move the body and clean the scene. We can’t have her lying on the floor out here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gideon says.

  “Is there any chance the cameras were online?”

  Malcolm shakes his head. “Since the generators went down, we’ve all been in the dark. Something’s wrong with the generators, other than being low on fuel. I’m not sure how much light we have, and the cameras are still offline.”

  “Convenient.”

  Gideon is assessing the scene with a practiced eye. “You think it’s murder?”

  “You don’t?”

  “I hoped it was an accident.”

  “I did, too. See the edge of the table?”

  Gideon gets close. “Could be,” he says. A few seconds pass, and he nods again. “Yes, I can see it. She tripped down the stairs—the momentum took her headfirst into the table, smashing her temple, and she went down. Knocked the candlestick down the hallway. I bet the only prints on that thing are from the staff, the most recent cleaning. Fatima, maybe, arranging things.”

  Malcolm nods his agreement. Jack exhales, hard.

  “That’s the party line, do you understand? Until we can figure out who might be behind this, who might be trying to hurt me, or Claire, or the family, the rest of the guests will only be told that Henna’s death is a tragic accident.”

  “Understood.”

  “And get rid of that fucking candlestick.”

  “Yes, sir,” Malcolm says, retrieving it.

  Jack wipes a sleeve over his forehead; he’s started to sweat. “We have to figure out what the hell actually happened. I didn’t hear anything like an attack. Claire and I were in our rooms when Claire’s mother, Trisha, knocked on the door. She and Claire tripped over Henna on their way back to Trisha’s room. Perhaps we say she was going to handle the problem with the generators.”

  Gideon nods again, brushes his hands together as if washing them of the subject. “Yeah, that’s a small window, there can’t be too many other people around. I think it’s safe to say Ms. Shaikh slipped and hit her head. Poor woman. What a shame. I liked her, very much. We’ll figure it out, Mr. Compton. Go talk to your parents. Your mother is waiting.”

  “Don’t let anyone down this hall until you’re finished. And when you’re done, Malcolm, I want you on Claire exclusively. Just in case. She’s not to be left alone out of my presence, do you hear me?”

  Malcolm doesn’t seem surprised. He nods. “Yes, sir. I’ll keep her safe.”

  “And I need a weapon.”

  Malcolm lifts a pant leg and pulls a Beretta Nano from his ankle hostler, hands it to Jack. Jack gestures, and Malcolm gives him the holster, too. Jack racks the slide, clearing the chamber, snaps out the magazine, then reseats it and chambers a bullet. He straps the holster to his ankle, tight, so it won’t slide—his leg is smaller than Malcolm’s—but keeps the Beretta itself in his right hand. Regardless of the situation, accident or otherwise, he is not about to get caught flat-footed with just a knife and a flashlight to defend himself.

  His bodyguards immediately get to work.

  Jack watches for a moment, then, satisfied, sets off to his parents’ suite.

  His phone dings and he glances at the screen as he walks. The unidentified number, with the same message as before, only the video this time is slightly altered. This time, it shows Jack with the gun, rubbing it down.

  Rubbing off Claire’s fingerprints.

  Repent, Jackson. Repent.

  If this video is released, they all go down.

  48

  Playing Dress-up

  I walk woodenly to the suite, trying not to think about the crypt, or the sticky blood on my hands, my clothes. I must have touched my face, too; I feel something slick on my cheek. I swipe it away with the hem of my shirt, see the crimson smear, and my head swims. I fight against the urge to faint—being unconscious won’t help anything.

  Until Monday, I hadn’t been close to a corpse since my father died. In the past three days not only have I’ve killed my former boyfriend, a lost body has shown up, Henna’s fallen down the stairs, and I’ve found out the whole Villa is perched over hundreds of dead. Was it too much to ask that Jack warn me we’d be living in a graveyard?

  Henna’s blank eyes. I glance at my hand, at my cuticles rimed in blood, and shudder.

  Do I really want to go through with this?

  It is a mutinous thought, and I try to wrestle it back into its lidded box, but once I’ve thought it... I’ve had the sense that something is wrong for days now. Maybe the universe is trying to tell me something. Maybe I shouldn’t marry Jack. Maybe this is the wrong path.

  The door to the suite opens with a discreet beep, and Fatima bustles me inside.

  “Where will they take Henna? Will they put her in the crypt?”

  “I do not know, Signorina. It is best for you not to worry about such things. You need a shower,” she says softly, leading me through to the big marble bathroom. She starts the water and gestures for me to strip and get in.

  When I hesitate, Fatima gives me a knowing, reassuring smile. She seems kind, now, not scary or bossy. Solicitous. “I’ll be right outside. You’re safe. Go on, now.”

  The bathroom door closes and I am alone.

  I slip inside the shower, have a moment’s shame that I am the one standing here, not Henna, then push the thought away. I’ve been fighting the battle against survivor’s guilt since my father’s accident, I’m not going to go down that destructive wormhole again.

  The hot water feels good, clean. I let it wash away the physical evidence, and the emotional aftermath.

  I hear a knock on the bathroom door, and though I’m hidden in the shower by the wall, I reflexively clutch the washcloth to my chest.

  “Yes?”

  “Fresh towels for you, Signorina. I’ll leave them on the chair.”

  “Thank you, Fatima.”

  The door closes again, and I try to breathe and relax. Once I’m feeling more in control, I scrub myself clean, wash my hair carefully, trying not to catch my fingers along the edge of the stitches, then, recognizing I can’t waste any more time, dry off with a warm, fluffy towel, wrap another around my hair. I pull open the drawer to grab my comb and remember the freaky note I found in Jack’s drawer earlier.

  Don’t you miss me, darling?

  Just in case, I open his top drawer, but there’s nothing unusual. I resolve to ask Jack about it when he gets back.

  I drop the towel, pull the comb thro
ugh my hair, and walk to the dressing room. Fatima has hung my dress for the rehearsal and dinner. I found it in a shop on 12th South in Nashville, and it is one of the most beautiful creations I’ve ever seen, next to my wedding gown, of course. It’s Laura Blake couture, pale crushed satin cut on the bias, the barely-there pink of a delicate shell, gathered at the bust and shoulders, with a long skirt that clings to my body. When I move, the satin slips against my legs in sensual swishes. I made sure it pulled up to my hips easily, without ripping, when I tried it on. Jack is going to go mad for it.

  I call out the door. “Fatima? My dress is out. Are we really going forward with everything?”

  “Of course we are. The weekend has not been cancelled, Signorina Claire. It goes on as planned.”

  “But Henna—”

  “Your guests expect the rehearsal party tonight. We shouldn’t disappoint them.”

  “We should cancel.”

  Fatima comes in without waiting for my approval. I scramble into the robe that’s hanging on the dressing room door. I’ve never been the kind of girl who can strut around naked in front of strangers. Even with Jack, if it’s not dark, I still sometimes hesitate before dropping my towel.

  Fatima ignores my discomfort, picks up the damp towels and opens a small door in the wall—a laundry chute, I realize. The towels disappear with a whoosh.

  “Signora Compton has indicated all is moving forward as planned.”

  “But...I thought...and with your mother, too...”

  Oh, well done, Claire. Toss that in her face.

  But Fatima’s expression doesn’t change. She is staring at my Medusa curls with something close to distaste. “Do you need help with your hair? I am quite good with hair. It has been a long time since I had the chance to dress a lady for her wedding. If you like what I do, perhaps you would consider allowing me to help for the wedding tomorrow.”