She tries to twist, tries to fight, but the knife has penetrated her lung, she can’t breathe. She collapses on the floor, facedown, the knife sticking from her ribs like a flagpole. Blood leaks from her mouth and back, puddling on the floor under her desk. She can feel it, taste it, sticky and iron sweet. It takes three minutes for her to die, the knowledge burning through her veins.
Karmen has failed in her most basic duty. She hasn’t protected the family.
* * *
When the woman is dead, the computer is wiped, the match declined, the request for identification rescinded. The files are deleted, the hard drive wiped. The text is sent.
The words, spoken with a snarl.
“Good fucking riddance.”
55
Bonny Lass Gone
Malcolm trails me through the halls silently. I suppose that makes me feel better, but I have to admit, of the two crows, I like Gideon much better. Malcolm just plain gives me the creeps. I don’t know why. Some men set off your interior alarm bells. Maybe after Jack and I are properly married, and the police close the case, Malcolm will want a transfer. It’s not fair of me to even think it, he’s done so much for me, for Jack, for the family. But I don’t want to spend my life with him looking over my shoulder.
“Harper?”
I knock on the door, but there’s no answer. I turn the knob and the door swings open.
“Harper? Where are you?”
Nothing. The room is empty, but my wedding dress hangs on the open wardrobe door. It looks so lost, so lonely, drooping and empty. I approach it carefully, heart banging in my chest. I touch the fabric as if it might disappear at the lightest breath like a dandelion in the wind, using two fingers to pull apart the panels where the horrible word was scrawled.
The word is missing, cut free. But so is the entire back of my dress.
It’s still ruined.
I feel a pain start, deep in my chest. So much for the glorious wedding dress of my dreams. There’s no way Harper can recreate the look I’ve designed without this panel.
I swipe at my eyes and blow out a breath. Hey, they all tried to make this better. Ana, Henna, Harper, even Fatima. I should be grateful. Instead I want to burn it all down.
“Claire?” Katie slips her hand into mine. I hadn’t even heard her come in. “Harper’s not here. Ana came to talk to her, and then she left.”
“She texted me she had the dress issue resolved. Obviously, that wasn’t true.”
“It’s okay. You have that pretty back-up dress. It’s all about the ceremony anyway. Don’t let this break your heart. Maybe y’all could renew your vows next year and you can fix it and wear it then. We can have a huge party back in Nashville. It will give you time to put it back the way you want it.”
“I know. It’s just...” I collapse onto the edge of Harper’s bed. I can smell the Philosophy perfume she loves so much, the same scent she’s worn since I gave her a bottle for Christmas when she was in seventh grade, and it brings tears to my eyes. “Everything is so screwed up. Maybe this isn’t the right thing to do.”
“Marrying Jack, you mean?” Katie asks softly.
“Yes. God, I feel so disloyal saying that aloud. Maybe we’ve rushed into things. Maybe I need to listen to what I’m being told.”
Katie narrows her eyes. “What, exactly, are you being told?”
“The universe conspires against me, friend. Henna’s dead.”
“What?”
“She took a header down the stairs. Mom and I found her.”
Katie sits down cross-legged on the floor, the thick rug cushioning her. “That’s tragic. I kind of liked her. She had style.”
“That she did. It’s only...what if it wasn’t an accident, Katie? What if she was killed?”
“Then this is getting too weird, and you should bail. You don’t have to do this, Claire. There’s no rush, especially if you’re getting cold feet. You don’t need Jack and his family to promote your work anymore, everyone knows your name now. We can go back to Nashville, leave as soon as the storm breaks. I can move in, help you with the mortgage. You can paint, I’ll write. It will be like old days.”
Katie looks so hopeful. I fear there is no going back, though.
“First, we have to find Harper.”
“Yoo-hoo! Harper Lee, where are you, sweet bird?”
My mother knocks on the open door, starts when she sees the two of us. She doesn’t seem as intoxicated, her eyes are clear and she’s not weaving.
“Where is your sister?”
“I don’t know, Mom. She texted about my dress, but she’s not here. We don’t know where she is.”
“What’s happened to your dress?”
Wow, she really was checked out. Surely we mentioned this to her earlier.
“Someone painted the word WHORE on it. In blood.”
“Oh. Your poor dress. I’m sorry, Claire. I know you must be disappointed.”
“That’s an understatement,” Katie says.
Mom actually looks stricken, and approaches me as if she’s going to give me a hug, like any normal mother would do in this situation. I don’t fight the embrace, allow myself to be wrapped in her arms. I can’t remember the last time my mother hugged me of her own accord.
I wonder if I’ve been too hard on her. On Katie. On everyone. I’ve been so blinded by my love for Jack, so romanced by the idea of our perfect lives together, of all the things I can have, all the things I can do, I’ve been pushing everyone else away. Pushing away their worries, their concerns.
Mom ends the hug. “I’m so terribly jet-lagged. I took a Unisom last night and it hasn’t worn off. I’m going to rest some more before the rehearsal. If you need me, Claire—” She stares at me as if challenging me to contradict her. When I don’t, she relaxes a little. “I’ll be right here.”
She sweeps out of the room like a queen.
“Wow. Is she still drunk?” Katie asks.
“Possibly. That’s the nicest she’s been since I took out my nose ring. We should go look for Harper, shouldn’t we?”
“Where are we going to look? This place is massive. Call her first. See if she’s just off doing something and not back here yet.”
I glance at my signal, see the Wi-Fi is back up and running just fine. That’s a relief. But Harper’s phone rings and rings, with no answer. I leave a voicemail. I text. We wait a few minutes. Crickets.
“Have you checked her Instagram?” Katie asks.
“Well, duh. No.”
I open the Instagram app and scroll to my sister’s feed. Amazing, after this weekend, she’s pushing toward the two-million-follower mark. Good for her.
The most recent post is shot from someplace I don’t recognize. It’s dark. There is water. I can see the glint of silvery light that indicates ripples. It doesn’t have the usual artistic composition of Harper’s shots—though it is beautiful in its starkness—and there is no caption. No platitude, no inspiration, no celebration of life, no words of wisdom. No carefully chosen hashtags. Nothing except 53,567 likes and 3,254 comments. None of which appear to be from Harper, who I know spends five minutes per post responding to as many people as she can. That is her secret to success.
Alarm creeps up my spine.
“What sort of picture is that? It looks like a cave.” Katie twists the phone in my hand, and when the screen turns, I look closer. It does look a bit like a cave. And the shot has been taken landscape, but not rotated, so it’s off. Like it was taken and uploaded from the side. What in the world?
I quickly scroll back through the rest of Harper’s feed. Shot after shot from Rome, Naples, the boat, the island—I recognize the cliff face from my own journey in. Shots of the Villa’s exterior, the labyrinth. My room. The three of us in a selfie on my terrace, the rain pouring down.
A few of the art inside the Villa�
�I bet Ana will be thrilled with that—a shot from one of the Villa’s many terraces with the caption: It was a dark and stormy night. Then, the weird, unlabeled shot from the darkness.
“Check her stories. See if she went live at all,” Katie says. There is concern in her voice, which almost surprises me. Almost. Katie might be jealous of Harper, might fight with her like a rabid cat, but she certainly doesn’t wish her genuine ill.
Her stories are more shots of the island, the labyrinth, the cottages—gosh, Harper was a busy bee—a silly shot of her and my mother sticking out their tongues; that must have been from the brunch. Yes, my mom is clearly tipsy, her nose is red and eyes glassy.
The photo is in her stories, too, but this time, there is a caption, written across it in bland courier type. Not at all what Harper usually uses.
Three words.
Big News Coming...
Katie turns the phone around, trying to get the photo to straighten. “Okay, this seems...weird.”
“I agree. Something’s off. She is never coy, or vague.”
Katie starts taking apart Harper’s room, quickly, systematically. Drawers, the wardrobe, under the bed, under the mattress. She finds Harper’s tote, pulls out her passport and wallet, her laptop, notebook, and camera. No phone.
“If she was in trouble, why wouldn’t she just call?” Katie asks.
“I don’t know. We’re making a big leap that she’s in trouble. Maybe she’s just playing a joke.”
“With everything that’s going on...”
“You’re right,” I sigh. “I’ll take Malcolm and go look for her.”
“I’m going to help.”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll find her.”
“I want to help, Claire.”
There’s no arguing with her when she’s like this.
“Fine. You take the upper floors of the house, I’ll go down to the main levels. I will tell you this. Pay attention to where you are. I got turned around earlier and ended up down by the crypt. It’s spooky as hell. Just...lay yourself some breadcrumbs so you don’t get lost. This place has a way of turning you around.”
“Don’t worry,” Katie says. “She’s around here somewhere. She’s just playing with you.”
“I hope so. I’ll text you if I find out anything.”
Malcolm peels himself off the wall and treads silently behind me as I head back to the central staircase.
“You haven’t seen my sister, have you?”
He shakes his head. “Last I heard, she was talking to Mr. and Mrs. Compton.”
“Yes, me too. She sent me a text. Oh, here’s another.”
A new text has come in from Harper’s number.
I have to talk to you. Meet me in the cottages. You don’t know him at all, Claire.
I write back: WTF, Harper?
A flurry of texts come now, each angrier than the last. One after the other after the other, a steady stream of viciousness from my only sister.
You don’t know him at all.
You don’t know what he’s capable of.
He doesn’t really love you.
He’s dangerous. You need to get out of here.
And then, one that makes me stop dead in my tracks.
Why don’t you ask him how she really died?
56
The Gray Lady
Disturbed, I rush downstairs. I will set Harper straight. She has been against Jack and me from the beginning, I’ve always sensed her displeasure at my choice of husband. It’s time we resolve this.
Footsteps behind me. My ever-present watcher follows at a respectful distance.
I’ve just turned the corner by the main stairwell to head into the west wing when a small strobe of lightning flashes, and I glance out the window to see a woman hurrying across the courtyard below. She is dressed in white, has long, dark hair. She disappears behind the trees. Darkness plunges around her, and then, the next flash of lightning, she is gone.
Was that Harper? It looks like her from behind, but what would she be doing rushing around in the rain with her hair wet and a weird white dress on? My sister loves her hair—I can’t imagine her out in this muck without an umbrella. Was it someone else? There are plenty of servants I haven’t met yet, this could be one coming late to work, or being sent on an errand.
Another thought strikes. The fort is supposedly haunted. Have I just seen the famed Gray Lady from the island’s history, rushing about in the rain, forever trying to escape her terrible fate?
The idea chills me to the bone and I shiver. Historically, young women really didn’t stand a chance, did they? They were so often treated as nothing more than chattel with a womb. Procreative property.
No. It has to be Harper. She said she needed to talk to me. She said she would meet me in the cottages. My imagination is on overdrive, that’s all. And the rain distorts everything.
The air is laden with floral notes. The heady scent of the gardens and the rain wafts through the air. This part of the Villa is eerily quiet. I don’t know if that’s because we’re being kept from our guests by the largeness of the manor house, or if it’s just a function of so few people being here, or jet lag and mimosas are keeping people in their rooms, but I make it to the back terrace doors unmolested. There are umbrellas in a stand—a couple of them wet, which tells me people have been going in and out—and Wellies lined up in a rubber rainbow. I select a red pair that look close to my size and slip my feet into them. Perfect. I grab a windbreaker too—hooded and waterproof—from the array on the hooks above the boots. I have no idea where Jack is, text him I’m going outside to look for Harper, then stick the phone in my back pocket.
“Ma’am?”
I jump and whirl. I’ve forgotten Malcolm.
“Yes?”
“Jack asked that I keep a close watch on you. You aren’t planning to go out there, are you? It’s pissing rain.”
“Malcolm, I had no idea you were British. You never talk.”
He grins at me, probably the first time I’ve ever seen him smile, showing surprisingly white teeth. “I moved to America when I was young, so I lost most of my accent. You can’t go out in this, you’ll catch your death.”
“Well, yes, I am going out there. I saw someone on the other side of the labyrinth. I’m hoping it’s my sister, I need to talk to her about my dress.”
He grabs an umbrella. “I’ll have to go with you. Jack insisted.”
“You don’t have to—” At his look, I break off. I’m going to have company whether I want it or not. “Okay. Let’s go now, though, before she gets too far from the house.” And before he has a chance to stop me, I scurry outside into the pouring rain.
Within moments of leaving the terrace, I’m soaked through, despite the windbreaker and umbrella. I ignore Malcolm’s call to slow down and run, pell-mell, into the labyrinth. It’s not terribly complicated when you know to turn left, not designed to confuse or control, and I’m quickly on to the last turn when I see a flash of white.
I slow, not wanting to run into trouble, make the turn carefully. But it’s not a person. Caught in the evergreen branches is a length of fabric. I retrieve it, unwind it gently, already knowing what I’m going to find. It is the desecrated panel from my dress, now cut away from the bustle, the word written on it melted into a brown stain.
Was it Harper I saw from the window?
Remembrance is a tricky thing. Was the hair black, or brown?
But wet brown hair is darker than dry brown hair. With the rising mist...it is possible.
There’s no way my sister could possibly be behind this. She couldn’t be. Ruining my wedding dress? We aren’t bosom buddies, but she’s never wished me genuine ill. I’m being paranoid.
Besides, she was trying to find a way to fix the dress.
Wasn’t she?
Malcolm ca
tches up to me. “Ma’am, please, don’t do that. I can’t protect you if you won’t stay in sight.”
“Well hurry, then. We’re going to the cottages.”
“Jack wouldn’t want—”
I whirl on him. “I don’t give a damn what Jack wants right now. Either get with the program or bugger off.”
I start moving again, not waiting for an answer. Malcolm grabs my arm and pulls me back toward the house. His grip is tight, and I immediately start to struggle.
“Stop it, right now, or you’ll regret it.” He mutters something under his breath that sounds an awful lot like “Stupid bitch.”
“What did you just call me?”
“You heard me.” No longer trying to cover himself, he is sneering now, and I’m so shocked I forget to fight back. He manages to drag me back into the heart of the labyrinth before my brain kicks back into gear. This is Jack’s security. His protectors. No, my security. My protectors.
Malcolm is part of this.
“Are you the one texting me?”
He grunts, no answer.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Someplace where you’ll be safe.”
“Bullshit. Let me go. Now.”
His hand is clamped around my bicep so tightly I know I’ll have a horrible bruise. I’m fighting back the panic. I can’t let him take me away from the house, away from Jack. Getting every last ounce of breath in my lungs, I shriek, a full-on scream, right in his ear. “Romulus! Remus! Here, boys!”
He jerks my arm, pulling me close, and slams a beefy hand over my mouth.
“None of that. Try it again, and I’ll toss you off the edge, and those fucking dogs, too.”
I realize we are dangerously close to the cliff. Perhaps that can work in my favor.
The dogs come barreling through the labyrinth. They see the struggle and growl.
“Help me!” I shout at the dogs and as they leap, I bite at Malcolm’s hand and start struggling in earnest. He’s much bigger than I am, but I have the element of surprise, and he’s trying to fight off the dogs now, too. Remus gets him in the arm and is shaking his dark head back and forth intently. Romulus latches onto his leg and Malcolm howls in pain. I knee Malcolm in the groin and shove, hard, pushing my body away from his. I don’t catch him square in the nuts, but it’s enough of a blow to make him stumble. The path here is rocky, and he’s unbalanced and reacts accordingly, throwing out his free hand to stop his fall.
Her Dark Lies Page 26
