Her Dark Lies Read online

  He glances at Henna’s body, situated in the middle of the corridor, so close to the staircase. Trisha would have had to step over Henna to knock on the door of the bridal suite.

  It still appears Trisha had been the only one in the hall.

  Except for Jack and Claire themselves, when they came up from the brunch earlier. But they hadn’t seen Henna. Had someone managed to kill her—silently and quickly—in the intervening moments between Trisha stumbling down the hall and Claire taking her drunk mother back to her room?

  The thunder is booming still—that could easily have masked a cry of surprise. A stranger strikes, the body drops, and the killer has easy egress up or down the stairs.

  Unless, it was someone Henna knew. Someone who wouldn’t cause her alarm.

  He hates his next thought.

  Will.

  After his earlier run-ins, it’s clear that Will slips his nurse’s steady gaze on occasion. Fatima’s reaction was easy testament to that. So where is his grandfather now? Could he be responsible? Will’s rooms are down the north hall, so if he sneaked away from his minder again, it is possible.

  But stealth isn’t a hallmark of the dementia-addled Will Compton. He is a bull in a china shop. When he was younger, it was a different story. He was a shark though water, sleek and silent. Deadly. Will had deftness and stealth that Jack still tries to emulate.

  Lightning flashes, and in the brief illumination from the window at the end of the hall, Jack can swear Henna’s body twitches, though that is impossible. He tries not to look at her eyes, her beautiful eyes, already starting to cloud. No, it is a trick of the light, the strange flashes of lightning doubly reflected on water and glass, warped in the dark. She is definitely deceased. He bites down on his lip in frustration. Damn it, Claire should be back by now. He’s going to have to go find her.

  Perhaps Tyler is right. Maybe Henna simply tripped in the darkness and hit her head on the corner of the table. They won’t know for sure until an autopsy can be done, evidence collected, things Jack isn’t sure will happen, now or ever. That is up to his parents. But to be able to put the specter of doubt onto the situation is a help. A reach, yes, but a help. Even though he knows, deep in his heart, with everything that’s been happening, he’s grasping at straws. That candlestick covered in blood tells the story, one he can’t deny.

  Henna has been murdered.

  44

  Twist Again

  The Villa has so many rooms and suites and hidden nooks to choose from to set up the photo shoot, Harper was thrilled to find this one on the third floor, which overlooked the labyrinth and the sea beyond. It seemed perfect.

  Now, alone with the Comptons, it feels too small, too close. Ana Compton is intimidating. So still, so self-contained. A wolf, wary, watchful. Harper has a hard time meeting her eye, is fumbling around with the camera and the screens.

  Get it together, Hunter.

  “Okay. I’m nearly ready. This is a beautiful room,” Harper says.

  “I’m glad you chose it. It’s always been one of my favorites,” Brice says. “It was my mother May’s sitting room at one point.”

  Brice glances once more at his phone, a reminder of how important he is, how many more pressing matters he has to handle, before shoving it into the pocket of his jeans. Going along. He is easier than his wife today, more mellow. Jovial, almost. On the way up here he’d been downright chatty, pointing out paintings and tchotchkes. He is proud of his things, proud of his life, proud of his unique history. Harper sees her opportunity, butters him up.

  “Your home truly is outstanding. Thank you so much for having us. And I really appreciate you doing this.”

  “We’re happy to have a chat, Harper. It was kind of you to think of us,” Ana replies, smooth as silk, and Brice nods, smiles. “We ready to go?”

  “Almost. One more second.”

  “What’s the agenda here?” he asks.

  Harper finishes straightening the screen. “If you’re okay with it, I’d like to shoot some photos as we do the interview. It allows me to talk with you instead of just firing questions at you. In my experience, it ends up being a more natural interview. Are you willing to let me do that? Tape this, so we can have a conversation?”

  “Certainly,” Ana replies. “Just so you’re aware, we’ll need to wrap by 4:00 p.m. There are still things that need to be dealt with for the rehearsal dinner.”

  “Right. We’ll be done well before that. This won’t take long.”

  No. Not long at all.

  Harper gets them set in the chairs she’s picked out—dark wood frames with deep red velvet coverings, so regal—and takes a few last test shots. She adjusts the lights. Picks up her phone. Clears her throat. Tries not to wither under Ana’s impenetrable gaze.

  “Excellent. Let’s do this.”

  Snap. Snap. She checks the result in the screen.

  “Chin up, please,” she murmurs, and Brice squares off to the camera. She checks again.

  “There it is. Perfect. I’d like to talk a bit about your family history. Is it true your grandmother Eliza was friends with Gellhorn and Hemingway?”

  Brice’s smile shows his dimples. “She was. An amazing woman, Eliza. Started as a Parisian model, but when the war began, she stepped to the other side of the camera and turned war photographer. Before that nasty incident with Franco’s Guarda, she was on the lines with Hemingway and Gellhorn. We have letters, notes, a few discreet photos of the three of them she mailed to my grandfather. Of course, in the end, the Guarda took her cameras and ruined the remainder of the footage. She fought them all the way. She was a rare woman.”

  “She sounds like it. And her husband, your grandfather William Compton, he’s the one who bought the Villa and restored it?”

  “Yes. They fell in love with the views, the people, and decided to buy the Villa and fortress. He started the restoration in 1938, and we’ve been slowly improving it to modern standards since. My dad, Will Compton—”

  “The cinematographer.”

  “Yes. You’ll want to talk to him this weekend—he’s a fascinating man. He ran with an exceptional crowd and continued the artists’ colony so his friends could enjoy the island as well. It became quite an exclusive invitation.”

  “I would like to talk to him. What happened to his wife? Your mother?”

  Harper feels the tension bubble off them. Don’t lose them yet...

  “Sorry, none of my business.”

  Ana replies instead of Brice. “May died, tragically. An accident in one of the grottos. The tide rose quickly and she wasn’t able to get out.”

  “That’s so sad. I’m sorry to hear it. And you took over the magazine from her, Mrs. Compton?”

  “I did. May started Endless Journey with Eliza’s photographs. It had grown, obviously, but I wanted it to be a household name. I tried to continue their legacy in the only way I knew how, by sharing their vision with the world.”

  “It’s a great magazine. We always had copies growing up. My dad had a subscription for his doctor’s office, but he had to have five copies at a time because people walked off with them.”

  There, a rare, sweet smile from Ana. Harper depresses the shutter before it flees.

  Snap. Got you. You’re human after all.

  “And Eliza Compton, she died here on the island as well, didn’t she? A hunting accident?”

  No answer, but a glance between the two of them. Damn it. Has she gone too far?

  “I’m sorry. We’ll stay with the present family, if you’re more comfortable. You went into computers instead of following your father to Hollywood, right, Mr. Compton?”

  “Yes. I was fascinated by the advances in technology. And I was better at math than he was.”

  Harper laughs obediently. “That’s awesome. Could you look over at Mrs. Compton for a moment, please? Thank you, that
’s great. You’re both household names. What is that like? I mean, you seem so...normal. But your lives, your histories, are extraordinary.”

  “We’ve been very blessed,” Ana says, practically stretching under the praise. The wolf is gone, the wariness fled. Harper can practically hear the thoughts: This is a puff piece. This girl is just an Instagram phenom who might or might not be able to write—isn’t she sweet with her “new method” for interviewing. She’s being nosy, who can blame her. “It’s our mission, our calling, to give back to as many people as we can. The Foundation is the perfect example of this.”

  “True altruism.”

  “You’re too kind. We’re not doing this for ourselves. We’re trying to make a real difference in the lives of the world’s less fortunate. It’s the least we can do. With Jack at the helm, the Foundation has grown exponentially. We’re saving lives, changing the course of humanity.”

  Harper stands upright, camera down. “You have made a difference in so many lives. It’s amazing. And that’s something I’m confused about. Why would you risk four generations of genuine legacy over one woman’s death?”

  The wolf is back. “Excuse me?”

  “Morgan. Jack’s first wife. She didn’t die in California. She died here. On Isola. Why would you want to cover that up? If it was an accident...like May was an accident. Like Elevana was an accident. Like Eliza was an accident. Morgan died falling off the cliff here. If it was an accident, like all the others, why would you pretend it happened in California?”

  Ana’s face is stone and she is out of the chair like a shot. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. We’re done here, Harper.”

  Brice, too, is in motion, though he’s headed toward Harper’s phone, which is on the table.

  She scoops it up before he can get there. “I’m still taping. Don’t come any closer.”

  Brice continues advancing.

  “I’ll scream.”

  He sighs. “They always do. Give me that. You’ve abused our hospitality, and it’s time for you to go.”

  “Why did Jack kill Morgan?” she says into the phone, praying, praying it’s still live, still working. “Why did you cover up her death?”

  Brice has her backed up against the wall now. He wrenches the phone from her hand.

  “Stop that. You’re hurting me.”

  He ignores her, goes to turn off the audio. She watches his face fall when he realizes that it’s a phone call, an open line. He clicks it off, carefully. Turns off her phone completely.

  “Who did you call, Harper?” His voice is quiet, but the intensity makes her squirm. Shit.

  “My editor. She was listening.” This is said with no small amount of pride—they can’t do anything to her, there was a third party. A witness. Thank God Ami suggested it—it worked perfectly.

  “And who is your editor, pray tell?”

  “Her name is Ami Eister. And she is transcribing the conversation as we speak. She heard everything.” God, I hope she did. Between the words and the video, because Harper was recording the last few minutes on her camera, too, and thank God Brice doesn’t seem to know this, because he hasn’t even glanced at the camera on the table.

  This will be a smash. Even if they deny it, the look of fear on both of their faces when she mentioned Morgan’s death is enough to lodge doubt. The way they swung into action confirmed it. They clearly covered it up. My God, Ami was right.

  “Ami Eister?” Ana asks sharply. “Your editor’s name is Ami Eister?”

  “Answer the question,” Harper tries again, forcing herself to stay with the story, stay engaged with exposing their deception, just like Ami taught her. “Why would you lie about Morgan’s death?”

  Brice is making a call now. He taps a nail against his front teeth as he waits for it to connect. “Yes. I need Karmen, please. Thank you.”

  He doesn’t seem fazed. Neither does Ana. Their entire demeanors have changed.

  What the hell? They should be freaking out. “I’d like my phone, please.”

  “Karmen, I need you to trace a number for me.” He reads it off. “Yes, it belongs to this Ami Eister woman. She’s now posing as an editor for Flair.”

  “Posing? Ami isn’t a real editor?” Harper is confused, but she’s not stupid. Everything is about to go south, she can feel it. “What the hell is going on?”

  Ana smiles, and there is nothing friendly about it. “You’ve been taken for a ride, Harper. Ami Eister is an imposter. She’s not an editor with Flair. I assume she gave you all of this salacious information? Made this ridiculous claim for you to run with?”

  “No...no. I found it on my own.”

  “That’s a lie, and we both know it.” Ana is almost pleasant now. “Even you had to know we have no reason to lie about where Morgan died. Now, you’re going to have to give us everything. The photos. The video. And every detail on this situation, how you were contacted, how she tricked you. You’ve been used, Harper. And you’ve also insulted Mr. Compton and myself. Our family. We can’t allow this to continue, do you understand?”

  “What are you going to do to me? I wasn’t kidding, I’ll scream. I won’t let you hurt me or make me disappear.” Harper starts toward the door, but Ana gets a hand on her, clamps her fingers around Harper’s wrist.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We will sit down like grown-ups and discuss what’s the best course of action here.” The smile is now motherly, and Harper recoils from it, trying and failing to yank her hand away.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Ana situates herself between Harper and the door, glances at her husband, then releases her wrist.

  “Ami Eister is playing a cruel joke on us all, I’m afraid. She approached your sister a few weeks ago as well, posing as an art dealer who was there to buy a painting. She seems to have planted cameras in Claire’s home with the help of an associate. And she’s clearly gotten to you as well. How did she reach you?”

  “Wait, she knows Claire?”

  “Please, just answer me. How did she reach you?”

  “Email, then by phone. This is bullshit. She’s legit. She sent me all her information.”

  “I’m afraid she’s not. The real Ami Eister died six months ago. Whoever you’ve been dealing with is an imposter.”

  Harper tries to wrap her head around this news. God, she’s been taken for a fool.

  There’s a knock on the door, and Tyler, the hot younger brother, comes into the room, looking flustered.

  “Mom, I’ve been looking for you. There’s been an accident. Henna’s dead.”

  45

  Sabotage

  When the power went out on the island, they didn’t panic. Jack’s family knew the storm was coming; they’d brought everyone in early to be safe and laid in supplies. Plenty of gas for the generators to keep the overly stocked refrigerators and water running, mounds of candles and cute little matchboxes with C&J printed on them in embossed gold foil, flashlights with baggies of batteries in each room.

  They were ready. Prepared. They’d done this a hundred times over the years.

  What they didn’t count on was the sabotage.

  What they didn’t count on was me.

  46

  The Dark Beyond

  The stairs lead me directly down three stories to the kitchens, as I suspected. The kitchen itself is gleaming, and empty. They must have already moved everything to The Hebrides for the dinner tonight. Now I just have to find my way back up. The halls in both directions are pitch black, as if it’s the dead of night instead of afternoon. What the hell is the deal with these magic generators that are supposed to keep the Villa lit and safe?

  Choices are limited; I have a 50 percent chance of getting it right. I look both ways like I’m about to cross a busy street. Left. Right. Left again.

  Oh, hell. I don’t know. It’s dark down here,
smells slightly spicy, garlic and basil and something darker, something off. Maybe the trash needs to be taken out. That makes sense—with the rain, the staff couldn’t clear out the waste.

  Deep breaths. Through the mouth, not the nose. You went left before.

  I wind into the darkness, glad for the powerful flashlight. Jack said the generators would kick in and the lights to the common areas would come back on automatically, but the private areas would stay in darkness to conserve energy. And he said the kitchens would be considered necessary. I stop again. Things are too quiet. The refrigerators aren’t running, which means the generators aren’t on. I have a spike of practical concern—if they haven’t moved everything to the yacht, what are we going to feed the wedding guests if the food spoils?

  But rational thought reigns supreme. What is actually going on here? Henna is dead, the power is out, the storm is raging, my dress is ruined, and my mother is hammered. Someone has been spying on me, is clearly trying to derail my wedding, and I’m getting pissed off. Whoever Shane was working with, because he’s not smart enough to figure this out himself, that’s for sure, has to be behind this. It’s not just bad luck. And whoever it is, they will underestimate me. Everyone does. Oh, she’s such a lovely painter. Oh, she’s so sweet and kind. Claire Hunter? She wouldn’t hurt a fly. Lost her nerve after her father died.

  Wanna bet? Bring it, bitch. I am fed the fuck up with this nonsense. I’m wearing as many disguises as you are.

  Determined now, I head off again. The temperature in the hall is getting cooler, so I did go the wrong way. I should have turned right, instead of left. Okay then. I’ve eliminated this path. If I retrace my steps, I’ll be back at the kitchens.

  I start to turn but see a wood and iron door ahead that is cracked open. I shine the light around the edges, then inside. There is a slate floor that looks like it leads downhill. What’s down there? I swear I hear water. I listen intently, yes, there’s the small roar of the sea against the rocks. I take a few steps inside, shining my flashlight. Indentations in the walls hold iron sconces, and wooden braces with iron fittings creep overhead. It feels very old. What would this look like if the lights were on? Illumination in the past would come from candles or oil lamps, but the Villa has been completely modernized. I flash my light on the wall to the door’s interior—there it is. A light switch.