Her Dark Lies Read online

  I want to say no. Harper has already said she’d manage my hair for the wedding, and who knows what sort of skills Fatima has. But she is peering at me, her eyes the shiny ebony of a crow’s wing, expecting me to say yes. I don’t want to offend her, and truth be told, I don’t want to be alone. Plus, Fatima is going to be a major part of my life. Jack would want me to be polite.

  “That would be lovely, Fatima. Thank you. Please be careful, though, I hit my head and have a cut that they stitched up.”

  I pull the robe tight and sit at the dressing table. Fatima wastes no time. She assembles the blow dryer with the diffuser and a curling iron. I shut my eyes and allow myself to enjoy the ministrations. She is gentle, so very gentle. Before long, my curls have been tamed into smooth, stylish, beachy twists that I’ve never been able to master on my own. She pins the unruly shorter pieces around my face and declares herself done.

  “Your hair is like silk, Signorina. So soft.”

  “Thank you. There must be something in the water here. It won’t normally do this.” I admire the back of my hair in the hand mirror, fluff the front a touch. “Wow. It looks great.”

  She seems pleased with my reaction. “I agree. Signore Jackson will approve. Do you want me to do your makeup as well?”

  “I don’t normally wear much.”

  “You do not need much. You have such a glow of youth about you. I will make it look very natural.” She opens the vanity door and pulls out a large quilted leather case stocked with brand-new high-end cosmetics.

  She’s true to her word. With creamy eyeshadows and a touch of mascara, a berry-stain lip gloss that makes my lips feel buzzy and plump, I look fresh, not made up. Damn. I could get used to this kind of pampering. I’m starting to understand exactly why Ana would want someone like Fatima on staff. She seems quite versatile, and quite dedicated. Without Henna at Ana’s side, I wonder if Fatima might get the job.

  “Were you a hairdresser before you came to work for the Comptons, Fatima?”

  “Ah, no. I’ve worked for the family most of my life. My mother did as well.”

  She finally looks down, and I see a tick in her jaw.

  “I am so sorry for your loss. It must be hard to continue working when...well, when she’s just been found.”

  “I prefer to work than to grieve. My family have been caretakers of the Villa since the Comptons bought it. We have been treated very well by the Comptons, for many years.”

  “So, you’ve been with them since before Jack was born?”

  “Yes. Though it is only me now, my family has been on Isola for many generations.” She begins putting away the makeup. “My mother was housekeeper here before me. For a time, I thought I wanted a different life, a bigger life. I went away to school, in Milano. I loved fashion. I worked at Prada, and Ferragamo. With the models, for the shoots. But it was not meant to be. When my mother disappeared, I was needed. So, I left Milano and came back to Isola.”

  “When did she disappear?”

  “It’s been twenty years now.”

  I do the math. Jack would have been eighteen. Which means Fatima is younger than I thought. Midfifties, maybe. The years have not been kind. And I doubt I could be as calm talking about my history if it was my mom, lost for years, then found.

  God, Claire, what a horrible thing to think. Why are you transferring your emotions to her? And what exactly happened to her mother? “I am so sorry, Fatima. This must be hard for you.”

  “Si, grazie. We grieved my mother’s death long ago. Now... yes, it is good to have closure. I’m sure my father is looking down in joy at the resolution of the mystery.”

  “When did you lose him?”

  “He passed two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, reflexively. I know how hard it is, losing a father.

  “You are very kind, Signorina. I love working here, though. It is a beautiful place, and as I said, the Comptons, they have been so kind to us, always. It was good to see the boys grow into men.”

  “I would love to hear more about young Jack. Was he terrible?”

  Her face is briefly suffused with something akin to love. “He was always a sweet boy. I will tell you more later. Now, would you like to see how your hair looks with your dress for the dinner tonight? In case you’d like to make changes?”

  I resist glancing at my watch. I get it; Fatima has been instructed to distract me. And I am more than happy to be distracted. Playing dress up is as good a way as any.

  “Sure.”

  “Good, because now, I have a surprise for you. Since your beautiful dress was ruined.”

  Fatima disappears into the capacious closet and comes out with a yellowed garment bag. She hangs this on the hook and unzips it with a flourish.

  Organza and silk spills out of the bag. The heady scent of camphor follows.

  “Phew, that’s strong.”

  “I can air it out. I believe it will fit.”

  She shakes the fabric free and I realize this is a wedding gown.

  An elegant, beautiful wedding gown.

  49

  Mermaids in the Closet

  “I—I don’t know what to say.”

  “Why don’t you try it on? If it fits, I thought it might do for the wedding,” Fatima says, and she smiles. It completely transforms her. She seems young again, shy. Girlish.

  “Whose dress is this?”

  “It belonged to my mother. When I heard about what happened to your dress, I went immediately and took it out of storage. Mrs. Compton loved the idea. Try it on. Let’s see if it will do.”

  A dead woman’s dress? Great.

  But I have to admit, I am touched. And Fatima watches me so hopefully, how can I say no?

  “That’s awfully kind of you, Fatima.”

  I let her pull the dress over my head and feel the heavy fabric glide down my body and settle. I slip my feet into my ivory heels and go to the full-length mirror.

  The dress truly is beautiful, a modified mermaid with a delicate crystal and lace embroidered bodice and plunging pearl neckline. The close-fitting skirt has a layer of sheer organza that makes it feel more like an evening ball gown. It really isn’t my style, and the shape of the underskirt emphasizes my hips, but it fits like a dream. There would be no need to alter it. Amazing.

  The woman I’m staring at looks elegant, grown-up. No more messy little girl. No more tattoos. No more piercings. I am a lady in satin and pearls now. I am ready to face the world as a Compton.

  Oddly, though my hair is light instead of dark, I look a bit like Ana. I’ve never seen it before.

  It’s the makeup, the dress. Spit and a polish. But still.

  I turn to see the view from the rear. The backline sweeps down nearly to my waist.

  “Can you see my scar?”

  Fatima looks at me, concerned. “You have a scar? From what?”

  “Yes, on my lower back. I was in an accident when I was younger.” I leave out the dreadful words, the accident that killed my father. Though Fatima confided her family’s deaths, something makes me hold back on the whole truth. It isn’t that I don’t trust Fatima, of course I do. I just don’t know her well enough to bring her into my confidences.

  Fatima stares at my back, where the gown cuts low. “No, Signorina. Nothing shows. You are perfect. So young, and so sweet.”

  Feeling suddenly vulnerable and nervous, I catch the older woman’s hand.

  “Do you have any advice for me, Fatima? Marrying into the Comptons, I mean.”

  Fatima’s face closes. “No. They are a lovely family, Signorina. You will fit in very nicely.”

  I feel absurdly pleased by this benediction.

  “That’s kind of you to say, but I fear I’m in over my head.”

  “Oh, no. Signore Jackson would never bring home another woman who wasn’t perfe
ct.”

  What? What did she say?

  “Another woman? He’s brought women here before?”

  Fatima pales, then her face flushes bright red. “I did not mean that.”

  Oh, yes, she did. Though she’s blushing and looking away, there is a small smile on her face, something quick and cruel. I feel slightly better that I haven’t confided too much in her.

  “You can tell me. I hardly think Jack was a monk before we met. He is ten years older, after all. And I know he was married before. It’s not a secret. Was it his first wedding? I thought that was in California.”

  But Fatima is done with true confession girl time. “I will check on things now. Let me unzip you. Hang the dress and I will be back soon to air it out. Mi scusi.”

  She yanks the zipper down roughly, practically knocks me out of the dress, then leaves me standing alone in front of the floor-length mirror.

  I hang the loaned gown carefully. The dressing room closet is dark and smells of cedar and the mustiness of the mothballs this dress was stored with.

  My mind whirls while I slip on my jeans and a button-down, pour a cup of tea from the pot Fatima has brought. I take a sip, careful not to mess up the lipstick Fatima put on me. It is too strong; I abandon the cup on the table.

  Who else did Jack bring home to Isle Isola? Is there someone else in his life Jack hasn’t told me about?

  That note: Don’t you miss me, darling?

  Damn it, I am missing something. Something major. Something important.

  Stop it, Claire. You’re borrowing trouble. Just wait for Jack to come back, and you can talk to him about all of this.

  But I can’t help myself. I start to obsess. The dark whirlpool of emotions that seized me earlier swirls into my mind, and I feel my breath coming short again.

  Everything, the trip, the storm, the break-in, the fear in Will Compton’s voice, the horror of finding Henna in the hall—God, what are they going to do with her body? Oh yeah, the crypt, I bet they put her down there in that cold, cruel darkness. And now there is the specter of another faceless woman who once captured Jack’s heart enough that he brought her home to his parents.

  A chill flows through my body, and tears begin to prick at the edges of my vision. My heart rate starts to climb, and I see spots. The strange nausea from earlier surges; I put a hand to my mouth and swallow hard, again, and again, choking back my sobs. I’m torn between hurt and fury. Jack never mentioned another serious girlfriend. Something like that would have been all over the news; Katie would have laid it at my feet like a Labrador with a tennis ball. But the way Fatima shut down so abruptly was troubling. She had overshared, and she knew it. So, there is something to her claims.

  The Comptons and their damnable secrets. Do they not understand how impossible it is to lie to people in this world? To keep a life private? How am I supposed to live inside this gilded cage?

  Come on, stop it. You can’t keep having panic attacks for no reason. And quit whining. Women would kill to be in your shoes. Quit it.

  I breathe deeply, trying to hold on, trying so hard to keep it together.

  Don’t think about this now, Claire. Don’t ruin everything. It’s all going to be okay.

  Jack will handle things.

  I catch my breath and start to calm. What a cop-out that thought is. It disrespects Henna’s memory and my own nature to step aside and let the big strong man take care of everything. But what am I supposed to do? Jack does make me strong. I have to be strong for him now. I have to be strong for the family I am joining.

  I cross the room to the French doors, unsteady on my feet, my steps oddly loose. The rain is lashing the panes, coming down in opaque sheets. There will be no sun today, but the view has lightened as an unseen orb mounts the sky. The fragrance of the lemons is subdued by the sharp scent of ozone. The worst of the severe weather is past for now; it’s just heavy rain with some occasional flashes of lightning. The thunder is distant. Watching is meditative, calming. After a few moments, I’m surprised by how warm and snug I feel inside. That’s it, Claire. Warm and snug. You’re safe. You’re safe, and nothing will happen to you. Or to Jack. Everything’s going to be okay.

  As pretty as it is, I don’t want to wear a stranger’s dress. I want my own gorgeous gown. I want my glorious, fun-filled wedding weekend, not this drizzly, murderous mess.

  My thoughts are jagged, disrupted, kaleidoscoping through my head. I can’t focus on anything for more than a second at a time. I think briefly about Henna again but shake the vision of her broken body away. The blood. The blood, everywhere. My mom. She’s going to have one hell of a hangover.

  All I had was a cup of tea with that pinch-faced woman.

  I cross the room unsteadily to the teapot. Fatima made me the tea, did she? Or did I make it?

  I can’t remember. I lift the lid and sniff. It smells like English Breakfast with a hint of something floral.

  Claire. Your mother lies. You know this. There were plenty of opportunities for her to drink some champagne, or something stronger. There is nothing in your tea. You have a concussion—they told you the side effects: dizziness, nausea, blurred vision, headaches, fatigue. Don’t be an idiot.

  I toss the tea anyway, pour myself a tall, cool glass of water and gulp it down. The dizziness is passing. They said I could take ibuprofen, and I do. I breathe through it, feeling better, steadier, with each inhalation.

  See? You aren’t being poisoned. Way to get all paranoid there, Claire.

  Still a little lightheaded, I take a seat in the dressing room, and assess.

  My rehearsal dinner dress hangs inert, waiting for me to slide into it and practice my vows. I suppose if my wedding gown is truly ruined, and I don’t want to accept Fatima’s gift, I can swap it out with my Laura Blake. It is more appealing to me than wearing the loaner from Fatima, but maybe that’s me being stubborn.

  I pull it from its hook and hold it in front of me, thanking whatever ironic elves decided to have Fatima do my hair and makeup. I’m basically ready to go for tonight already.

  Yes, the Blake is lovely, though a bit sexy for a church wedding. The world won’t end if I have to pivot. And I won’t have to bedeck myself in someone else’s dream.

  There. Better. Logic brings calm.

  I’m tired of making compromises. I’m tired of not feeling 100 percent. I’m sick and tired of the rain. And as bad as it sounds, I’m ready to just get this weekend over with. Say our vows and go home. I’ve had enough of the Comptons for the time being.

  I’ve answered my earlier traitorous thought. I do want Jack. I want him badly. And I’m willing to fight for him.

  My phone squawks, and I grab it, relieved to be drawn away from my dark thoughts. I recognize the New York number this time. Karmen, again.

  “Karmen?”

  “Hello, Claire.” She sounds rushed, harried. “I’m sending you some screenshots, just to confirm this is the same woman who came to see you. The picture isn’t the best.”

  My phone dings. “Hold on.”

  She’s sent a series of grainy shots; I recognize the intersection near my studio. And I recognize the woman who stands so stiffly, waiting for the light to change.

  “That’s Ami Eister. Absolutely.”

  “Okay. I’m going to load her into our facial recognition system and see what pops. You hang in there, Claire. I’ll be in touch.”

  Seconds after I hang up, I get another text, this time from Harper.

  I think I have a solution for your dress. Come see!

  Finally. Finally. Something good.

  I text her back with a lightness in my heart I haven’t felt in days.

  On my way!

  50

  The Deepest Betrayals Start at Home

  Jack finds his parents sitting together quietly in their bedroom. Brice has an arm around Ana’s bac
k. Her shoulders move delicately as she cries. Henna was more than her right hand, she was her best friend, her confidant. Ana ruled the family with an iron fist; Henna was the velvet inside that glove.

  “Mom. I’m so sorry.”

  Her back stiffens. “Thank you, Jackson.”

  “Tell me what I can do.”

  She tosses a tissue into the trash and faces him. He hates this, her tear-streaked face, her nose red, her eyes swollen. He’s never seen his mother so distressed before. He doesn’t remember ever seeing her cry, outside of May’s funeral. Ana is the strong one. She is their backbone.

  “There’s nothing that can be done, my darling. Nothing will bring her back. Accidents happen.”

  “Mom. It wasn’t an accident. Henna was murdered.”

  “By who?” she snaps. “Who in this house could possibly be a killer? It’s a ridiculous thought and I won’t have it, do you hear me?”

  Brice waves him off, jerks his head toward the terrace. Jack follows his father outside.

  “I disagree with your mother,” Brice says. “Ami Eister is the common denominator. Karmen is working on an identification now. We find her, and we take her out, before she can do any more damage to the family.”

  “Agreed,” Jack said. “She sent me another text on my way up here. More footage from Monday night. If this gets out... But why hurt Henna?”

  “Why do people ever get killed, Jackson? She knew something, or she saw something.”

  Jack blows out a breath, hard.

  “Henna’s death. The break-in, the cameras. Finding Morgan’s body... It’s all tied together. It’s coming from within the house, Dad.”

  “I know. Come. Let’s go comfort your mother. Security is on high alert, everyone is being watched. We’re safe, for now.”

  Inside, Brice’s phone is ringing.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, now what?” Ana grumbles.

  “It’s Cay.”

  “Put her on speaker,” Ana says.

  “What is it, Cay?” Brice asks.