Her Dark Lies Read online

  Praise for the novels of J.T. Ellison

  “[A] high-tension thriller… Alternating points of view raise the suspense, blurring the lines between what’s true and false.”

  —Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Good Girls Lie

  “An entertainingly twisted coming-of-age tale.”

  —BookPage on Good Girls Lie

  “Outstanding… Ellison is at the top of her game.”

  —Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Tear Me Apart

  “A compelling story with a moving message.”

  —Booklist on Tear Me Apart

  “Well-paced and creative… An inventive thriller with a horrifying reveal and

  a happy ending.”

  —Kirkus Reviews on Tear Me Apart

  “Exceptional… Ellison’s best work to date.”

  —Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Lie to Me

  “Comparisons to Gone Girl due to the initial story structure are expected, but Ellison has crafted a much better story that will still echo long after the final page is turned.”

  —Associated Press on Lie to Me

  “Fans of Paula Hawkins, A.S.A. Harrison, Mary Kubica, and Karin Slaughter will want to add this to their reading list.”

  —Library Journal on Lie to Me

  “The domestic noir subgenre focuses on the truly horrible things people sometimes do to those they love, and J.T. Ellison’s latest, Lie to Me, is one of the best…an absolute must-read.”

  —Mystery Scene magazine

  “Wonderful… A one-more-chapter, don’t-eat-dinner, stay-up-late sensation.”

  —Lee Child, #1 New York Times bestselling author, on Lie to Me

  Also by J.T. Ellison

  GOOD GIRLS LIE

  TEAR ME APART

  LIE TO ME

  FIELD OF GRAVES

  WHAT LIES BEHIND

  WHEN SHADOWS FALL

  EDGE OF BLACK

  A DEEPER DARKNESS

  WHERE ALL THE DEAD LIE

  SO CLOSE THE HAND OF DEATH

  THE IMMORTALS

  THE COLD ROOM

  JUDAS KISS

  14

  ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS

  Look for J.T. Ellison’s next novel

  available soon from MIRA.

  Her Dark Lies

  J.T. Ellison

  For Ariel Lawhon, who helped me find those damn dogs.

  And, as always, for Randy.

  J.T. ELLISON is an award-winning New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author with thrillers published in twenty-seven countries and fifteen languages. She is also the Emmy® Award–winning cohost of A Word on Words, a literary interview television show. She lives in Nashville with her husband and two small gray minions, known as cats in some cultures. Visit www.jtellison.com or @thrillerchick for more.

  Contents

  Invitation

  Chapter 1

  Monday

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Wednesday

  Welcome Note

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Thursday

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  July

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Mr. and Mrs. Brian Reed and

  the late Dr. Dylan Hunter

  and

  Mr. and Mrs. William Brice Compton

  Invite you to join in the

  Celebration

  of the marriage of their children

  Claire Elizabeth Hunter

  and

  William Jackson Compton

  Saturday, June 12

  Two Thousand Twenty-One

  at half past six in the evening

  Isle Isola, Italy

  Adult dinner and reception to follow at 7:30 p.m.

  This is a private event.

  Please do not share the time, date, or location.

  1

  Beginnings and Endings

  She is going to die tonight.

  The white dress, long and filmy, hampers her effort to run. The hem catches on a branch; a large rend in the fabric slashes open, exposing her leg. A deep cut blooms red along her thigh, and the blood runs down her calf. Her hair has come loose from its braid, flies unbound behind her like gossamer wings.

  In her panic, she barely notices the pain.

  The path ahead is marked by towering cypress and laurel, verdant and lush. A gray stone waist-high wall is all that stands between her and the cliffside. It is cool inside this miniature forest; the sky is blotted out by the purple-throated wisteria that drapes across and between the trees. Someone, years ago, built an archway along the arbor. The arch’s skeleton has long since rotted away and the flowers droop into the path, clinging trails and vines that brush against her head and shoulders. It should be beautiful; instead it feels oppressive, as if the vines might animate, twist and curl around her neck and strangle her to death.

  She tries not to look down to the frothing water roiling against the rocks at the cliff’s base. She thinks the ruins are to her right. From what she remembers, they are between the church and the artists’ colony, the four cottages cowering on the hillside, empty and waiting.

  A horn shrieks, and she realizes the ferry is pulling away. A crack of lightning, and she sees the silhouette of the captain in the pilothouse, looking out to the turbulent seas ahead. A gamble that he makes it before the storm is upon them.

  Don’t panic. Don’t panic.

  Where is the church?

  There it is, a flash of white through the trees. The stuccoed walls loom, the bell tower hidden behind the overgrown foliage. Now the path is moving upward, the grade increasing. She feel
s it in her calves and hopes again she is going the right way. The Villa is on the hill, on the northwest promontory of the island. If she can reach its doors, she will be safe.

  It is too quiet. There are no birds, no creatures, no buzzing or cries, just her ragged, heavy breath and the scree shuffling underfoot as she climbs. The furious roar of the water smashing its frustration against the rocks rises from her left, echoing against the cliffside.

  The dogs begin to howl.

  Climb. Climb. Keep going.

  She must get to the Villa. There she can call for help. Lock herself inside. Maybe find a weapon.

  A branch snaps and she halts, breathless.

  Someone is coming.

  She startles like a deer, now heedless of the noise she’s making. Fighting back a whimper of fear, she breaks free of the cloistered path to see an old decrepit staircase cut into the stone. Careful, she must be cautious, there are gaps where some steps are missing, and the rest are mossy with disuse, but hurry, hurry. Get away.

  She winds up the steps, clinging to the rock face, until she bursts free into a sea of scrubby pines. Two sculptures, Janus twins, flank a slate-dark path into a labyrinth of rhododendron and azalea.

  This isn’t right. Where is she?

  A hard breeze disrupts the trees around her, and a rumble of thunder like a thousand drums rolls across her body. Lightning flashes and she sees the Villa in the distance. So far away. On the other side of the labyrinth. The other side of the hill.

  She’s gone the wrong way.

  A droplet of water hits her arm, then her forehead. Dread bubbles through her.

  She is too late. The storm is upon her.

  The howls of the dogs draw closer. The wind whistles hard and sharp, buffeting her against the stone wall. She can’t move, deep fear cementing her feet. Rain makes the gauzy dress cling to the curves of her body, and the blood on her thigh washes to the ground. None of it matters. She cannot escape.

  When he comes, at last, sauntering through the storm, the barking beasts leaping and growling beside him, she is crying, clinging to the wall, the lightning illuminating the ruins; the ancient stones and stark, headless statues the only witness to her death.

  She goes over the wall with a thunder-drowned scream, the jagged rocks below her final companions.

  MONDAY

  Insecurity is the worst sense that lovers feel; sometimes the most humdrum desireless marriage seems better.

  Insecurity twists meanings and poisons trust.

  —Graham Greene, The End of the Affair

  2

  The Party

  Nashville, Tennessee

  The last few days before a wedding are the most stressful of a bride’s life.

  I repeat this mantra to justify accepting a fourth glass of champagne from the slim, silent, white-gloved server. The champagne is delightful, cool and fizzy against my throat.

  I am well past tipsy, and thankfully, it seems the evening is winding down. The quartet is looking decidedly tired, and the servers have been circling with the macarons for over half an hour. All I want to do at this point is sneak off to a corner to discreetly rub the bottoms of my feet; I’m wearing my five-hour heels but I’m pushing hour six and feeling it. I am smiled, chatted, and air-kissed out.

  I take a second sip, then cast a glance across the crowded ballroom to my bridegroom. Jack doesn’t seem stressed at all. Quite the opposite; he is as relaxed and calm as I’ve seen him in weeks. He is in his element, surrounded by benefactors and businessmen, people of standing and stature. His dark blond hair is mussed, his eyes a bit glassy from all the toasting. The quintessential quarterback—impossibly handsome, easy smile, thick hair, oozing sex appeal. The kind of guy who doesn’t flame out after college, but goes the whole way, becomes a brand, gets endorsement deals, marries a supermodel and has two perfect kids and an architecturally interesting home.

  Though Jack is not a quarterback, and I am hardly a supermodel. I am tall, and I do have an awful lot of blond hair, but that’s where the resemblance ends. I’m an artist, a painter. My talent is large canvas abstracts, modern oils. And even that has been enhanced by Jack’s influence.

  These assets don’t seem enough, and yet, William Jackson Compton has chosen to spend his life with me.

  Yes, that Jackson Compton, eldest son of the illustrious computer magnate William Brice Compton III, and his brilliant wife, Ana Catalano Compton.

  This party is our last obligation before hopping a flight to Italy. To have our wedding on Isle Isola, in the Comptons’ private centuries-old villa, packed with modern art and old secrets. It’s belonged to the family for generations.

  Personally, I would have been fine with the courthouse, but there will be nothing but the best for Jack.

  At my request, the ceremony itself will be for our closest family and friends only, but because so many people wanted to celebrate with us, the powers that be—Ana, and our wedding planner, Henna Shaikh—decided a precursor event would be fitting. A reception before the wedding, complete with a tanker truck of champagne, heavy hors d’oeuvres, five hundred well-heeled strangers, enough staff to circulate food and wine for the masses, one gregarious groom, and one extremely shy bride.

  And twinkle lights. One must never forget the twinkle lights.

  This prewedding extravaganza is why I’m now standing in an outrageously expensive Elie Saab column of the palest ivory satin and sky-high Jimmy Choo heels in the ballroom of Cheekwood mansion quaffing champagne as if my life depends on it. One wall of the ballroom has been lit up all evening with tasteful black-and-white photographs from our courtship, interspersed with photos of Jack on-site in foreign countries, holding babies during their inoculations and drilling water wells, part of his duties with the Compton Foundation, a hugely successful and popular philanthropic endeavor. There are even a few shots of me in my studio and my paintings. They look so fascinating in monochrome, it has me itching to sneak away to my studio tonight, though this isn’t going to happen. A—I don’t often like the results when I paint drunk. B—We leave tomorrow for Isola, ergo, there is no more painting time for me until after the wedding.

  Jack senses me watching him. His smile grows wider, into a grin that is pure, sheer delight. You are mine, and I am yours, and we are so very lucky, it says. He tips his glass my direction, and I tip mine in return, then take a sip, promptly spilling a teensy bit onto the front of my dress. Shit. I have definitely been overserved.

  I set the glass down on the nearest table and discreetly dab at my collarbones with my cocktail napkin, feeling the scratchy embossing of our conjoined initials in golden scroll against my bare skin.

  Jack must have seen my faux pas because he crosses the room like a torpedo. He’s not upset, he’s highly amused, judging by the rumbles of laughter coming from his broad chest. His arms encircle my waist and he sweeps me up into a hug that takes my feet off the ground. He whirls me in a circle.

  “Darling, darling, my beautiful, lovely, wet darling.”

  “Oh good, you’re tipsy, too. Set me down, you silly man.”

  But there is a tinkling noise, metal chiming against the champagne flutes, which is how I’ve gotten so merry to start with. So. Many. Toasts.

  Jack kisses me, still twirling. The crowd cheers uproariously, and my head spins in all the right ways. Nothing matters but this—this man, me in his arms, our lips touching. Forever. He’s mine forever.

  “Want to get out of here?” he whispers, stopping finally. I slide down his body like a ballerina until my toes touch the hardwood.

  “God, yes. Now?”

  “Now.”

  “Excellent. Can we just sneak out? Irish goodbye in three, two, one...”

  “Darling, we can do whatever we want. It’s our party. But let’s say goodbye, just to be polite.” He turns to the crowd and puts up a hand, and silence descends on the room.
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  His power over people is magnetic. If he ever wanted to take over his father’s company, the world would bend over backward to pave his way. Lucky for me, Jack is content with the Foundation.

  “Thank you, all, for a lovely evening. So glad you’ve been able to celebrate with us. We’ll see you on the other side.”

  Quick as a magician, Jack has us out of the room and on the slate path to the black Suburban waiting outside before the applause and calls of best wishes and congratulations fully dies down. His personal security guards, Gideon and Malcolm, materialize like well-armed ghosts and fall in silently behind us. I call them the Crows because they are practically identical, with their buzz cuts and beefy arms, dressed in unrelenting black from head to toe, and hover, continuously, over their prize. How his people know when and where to be ready for him is still anyone’s guess. I suppose I’ll learn. Though Jack moved into my house in 12th South several months ago, he still travels constantly, and I’ve rarely accompanied him on business.

  So far, I’ve managed to escape the Crows’ scrutiny. It is only at my insistence that they don’t flank Jack and me twenty-four/seven. Once we’re married, that will change. The Crows will be at my side, too, and I don’t have a choice in the matter. There have already been too many security briefings for my taste.

  I collapse into the back of the Suburban and kick off my heels, sighing in relief.

  Jack leans over and nuzzles my neck. “You smell like Möet & Chandon.”

  “I suppose there are worse things. The party was fun. I’m sorry your mom had to miss it.”

  “No, you’re not. But that’s fine. She and Henna are going wild at the Villa, running the servants ragged getting everything prepared. All we have to do is show up and smile.”

  “I love your mom. She’s just a bit...intimidating.”

  “She will love hearing that. Speaking of, did you speak to yours tonight?”

  “For a moment. She called when they arrived in Rome. Said Brian and Harper are making noises about never coming home. She said they’ll meet us on Isola Thursday. At least we’ll have a day to decompress before my family descends.”