Her Dark Lies

by J. T. Ellison

  An inadvertent sigh slips from my lips. I love my family, but we aren’t terribly close. Everyone is pursuing their own agendas, their own lives. My sister has been acting especially weird lately, and that’s saying something.

  Truth be told... I think there’s a little jealousy going on. Things have been more strained than usual since Jack and I announced our engagement.

  “Good. The majority of the guests should be arriving Thursday morning as well. The rehearsal is Friday, and Saturday, you, my darling, will officially be Mrs. Compton.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  He kisses me lightly. “I do, too.”

  Jack’s hand is wandering up my thigh, but I bat it away. “If you’re looking for postprandial treats, you’ll have to wait until later, cowboy.”

  “They don’t care,” he murmurs into my ear, but I shake my head.

  “I care. Wait until we’re alone, and then you can have your dessert. I noticed you passed on the macarons.”

  He flops back into the seat. “They were stale. Mom will be livid.”

  “They were? I thought they were yummy.”

  “You’ll learn. Once you’ve had one fresh out of the ovens on the Champs-Élysées, you’ll see what I mean.”

  “You, my darling, are a snob.”

  “And you love me.”

  He kisses me sweetly, and the Suburban pulls to the curb in front of our house. We spill out, both loose and uncoordinated, under the watchful eyes of the Crows. Gideon stays with us while Malcolm sweeps the house. He gives us the all clear. Once we’re inside, they disappear into whatever crevice they live in overnight.

  I carry my heels in one hand, grateful for the lack of stress on my arches. Jack tosses his jacket over the bar stool at the eat-in counter, tugs at his tie and unbuttons his collar, rolls up his sleeves, the motions so quick, so practiced and fluid, it’s hypnotizing. He sees me watching and makes it into a tease, stepping closer with each turn of the fabric.

  “You should try that with the buttons,” I say, running my tongue over my lips.

  He grins, lazy and confident. “Naw. I’ll let you have the honor.”

  A step closer, another. My hand lands on his chest. My mouth tips up to his.

  I smell something odd, something acrid and primordial, and step back.

  “What the hell is that?” he says, pulling away.

  “I don’t know. It smells terrible. Like burning hair. Is something on fire?”

  “Shh,” he says, straining, listening. All I hear is the air-conditioner. But no, there it is. A thump. A creak. The unmistakable sound of footsteps.

  Someone is in the house. Someone is upstairs in our house.

  Jack bolts from my side, takes the stairs two at a time. I follow, just in time to see the door to the attic is open.

  “Get Gideon and Malcolm,” Jack shouts over his shoulder, throwing himself headlong into the darkness. But I am frozen. My mind can’t process what’s happening. I am cold with terror, the adrenaline rush forcing away my reason. I can’t think. I can’t move.

  A masked man bursts from the darkness above and launches himself down the stairs. I am in his way, and he knocks me to the ground in his haste. I smash backward into the wall, banging my head hard against the chair rail. Jack is there a heartbeat later, calling for the Crows as he throws himself at the intruder, arms out, a perfect flying tackle. They go down hard on the landing, scuffling, locked in a deadly battle. Jack is the bigger man, he has the leverage he needs to get an arm on the man’s windpipe, but the intruder is quick, kicking out at Jack’s stomach until he connects and Jack is knocked off.

  This gives the intruder the upper hand. He flips Jack onto his back, punching wildly while reaching behind to his waistband. My mind registers the gun, and the peril Jack is in, and without another thought, I kick the man’s arm just as his fingers close around the gun’s grip. It spins away, clattering against the baseboards. We lunge for it at the same time. I am closer. I get there first.

  The shot is deafening.

  The intruder falls to the floor at my feet, moaning, squirming. Blood pours from his side. So much blood. The man bleeds and bleeds and bleeds until he is still. I watch, fascinated, as a small trickle of crimson runs toward my bare foot.

  Then Malcolm and Gideon are hoisting me to my feet, and the roaring in my head overwhelms me.

  3

  The Long Night

  When I look back on that night, I still can’t be entirely sure of the sequence.

  Everything happened at once, with a blurred intensity so strong that, under the influence of alcohol and terror and a blinding concussion, all I know for sure is that my life was irrevocably changed. A split second, a reaction, a protective urge, and my entire axis shifted. If it weren’t for Jack, I don’t know what might have happened to me. What if I had come home alone to this monster in my house? The tables would be turned, I’m sure.

  It would be me who was dead.

  * * *

  I remember shouting.

  Muffled curses.

  A yelp of pain.

  The crash of the front door.

  The pounding of feet on stairs.

  The acrid scent of burning wire.

  The adrenaline rush of stark fear.

  The vision of a hand wrapped around the grip of a gun—is it mine? Is it Jack’s? Gideon’s? Malcolm’s?

  The gunshot.

  The hard finality of the crash when the body of the intruder landed at my feet, knocking me backward into the wall with such force I sustain a concussion.

  A Crow ripping off the intruder’s mask, but I can’t look. I can’t look.

  Jack screaming at them.

  The haziness begins there.

  There are flashes, moments that feel like dreams, like movies. It doesn’t feel like it’s happening to me. It doesn’t feel like something I’ve done.

  Who is he? Who is this man who’s broken into my home and tried to kill me?

  * * *

  When the police ask me later what I saw, what I knew, what happened, and why, I reply with the truth I’ve been given.

  Malcolm shot the intruder.

  Malcolm shot the intruder.

  Jack had me repeat it, again, and again, and again, before the police and EMTs arrived. There needed to be a consensus among us. It was the only safe way to proceed.

  Me: Malcolm shot the intruder.

  Jack: Malcolm stepped to the landing and shot the intruder.

  Malcolm: Yes, sir, I shot the intruder.

  * * *

  I don’t remember.

  Three words, so simple, yet so duplicitous.

  What is memory, anyway?

  Echoes of reality twisted and molded into what we want to believe. What we want to remember. Our brains allow us grace to cope with trauma. They give us space to heal, to come to terms with our actions, our fears.

  Couple extreme trauma with alcohol and the events blur.

  How can I remember with exact precision my lassitude at the party, the stale macarons, the hard crystal flute against my lips, the floral tang of the champagne, getting into the car and divesting myself of my shoes, Jack’s kisses, light along my jawline, the gaping maw of the attic’s blackness, and not remember the exact moment I killed a man?

  WEDNESDAY

  “If adventures will not befall a young lady in her own Village, she must seek them abroad.”

  —Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

  Welcome to Italy! We are so honored you could join us for our getaway wedding! We have scheduled plenty of downtime so you can get a little vacation while you’re here. You’ll find a book we chose just for you in your welcome package, something to inspire you to find a hammock and chill.

  The Villa has a boat launch for you to catch the hydrofoil back to the mainland if you wa
nt to visit some of the other small cities in the area. But stick around! The island’s occupation dates to Roman times, which you will be able to see on guided tours of the Villa, the towns, and the incredible ruins. It was also once a

  famous artists’ colony. Both Hemingway and Picasso spent time here.

  Conservation of the island is ongoing, so we ask that you keep to the paths and follow all the signs. There are some dangerous areas that are totally off-limits, but they are well marked. Irony alert: the internet signal isn’t the strongest, but we hope you find the break

  restful instead of infuriating.

  And now for fun, some spooky history... The island is haunted! Legend has it there is a Gray Lady who appears to only the purest of heart. Which means we

  will absolutely see her this weekend!

  Lots of love,

  C & J

  4

  Our First Glimpse

  Isle Isola, Italy

  The prow of the boat powers through the stormy waters, the spindrift lacing the air. Misting water gathers on my cheeks and hair. I’m grateful for Jack’s bulk behind me. His hands are warm on my shoulders, his mouth almost touching the tender skin of my neck.

  “That’s it, darling. There’s the island. What do you think?”

  It’s a good thing he’s standing behind me—it gives me time to school my face into a somewhat neutral expression. My pulse betrays me, though, rioting blood through my body, singing through my veins, making me feel more alive than ever before.

  What do I think?

  Oh. My. God.

  The island is stunning. It shoots straight up from the water, the sheer rock face stark and unforgiving. We’re approaching from the southwest, this I know from eavesdropping on Jack’s conversation with the captain. From this vantage point, Isola seems to drift on top of the water, though I know it is an illusion.

  The cliff is adorned with tiny shoots of bougainvillea desperate for purchase and a steep stone edge that makes my heart go into my throat. I’m not afraid of heights, but the idea of standing up there, looking out over the water, and stepping wrongly, makes me suddenly terrified, even as I long to set the colors of the cliffside on a canvas.

  The formula begins brewing in my head. Two parts ultramarine, two parts raw umber, a dab of titanium white to brighten up the edges, tone the middle with Payne’s—

  “Claire?”

  “Incredible,” I manage, brought back to earth, voice breaking on the words.

  Jack squeezes me closer. “I know. I love that cliff. We used to scare Mom and Dad, promising one day we’d try diving off the edge. There’s no way—it’s much too high, but it was so fun to watch them panic.”

  “Cruel children.”

  “All children are cruel, aren’t they?” Jack says absently. “They don’t know any better. Look, there’s the Villa.”

  I can’t see it, not yet, not until the boat rounds the promontory. The shoreline appears, a rocky beach with lines for a few small boats stretching into the channel. To the left, a smattering of pastel-colored houses built one atop the other stagger drunkenly up the cliffside. Gunmetal stone walls bisect the hills to the west, the terraced olive groves and vineyards that produce for the family’s bespoke line verdant with promise. And then the edges of the Villa appear, copper and rust and molded stone, and I fight back a gasp.

  Truly, it is misnamed; not a villa, it is a castle. A modern fortress, down to its gated entry, state-of-the-art security system, and helicopter landing pad.

  An island castle, beautiful and forbidding, and soon to be mine. No, ours. This vivid, lush, foreboding Italian paradise where I am going to marry the man of my dreams belongs to his family, to whom I am about to pledge my life.

  I glance down at the teak deck of the boat carrying us to the island like Odysseus home from the wars. The Hebrides, it’s called, named for another set of isolated islands popular amongst the Compton clan.

  A boat. Who am I kidding? This is a full-blown mega-yacht.

  “It’s perfect,” I say. I turn in his arms and kiss him full on the mouth. Jack isn’t fooled.

  “What’s the matter, darling?” He lifts my chin and searches my face, his cobalt eyes full of concern—they are the color of the sea, where the waves meet the rocks. “You look a little green. Is your head hurting?”

  I fight the flashback as it happens—the searing pain, the confusion, the rough edge of the EMT’s blanket. My hand travels to the lump on the back of my skull. It is tender, and the stitches itch. I tap the scopolamine patch behind my ear, just to make sure it’s still there. Check.

  Despite my precautions, I am feeling a little peaked. The waves have been surging on the trip over from the mainland, and the yacht moves in time.

  “I’m fine. I just love you. For making all of this happen, for...everything.” I rest my forehead against his collarbone. He smells good, of cedar and sunshine and home.

  As if he can discern my thoughts, Jack gives me a tight squeeze, then turns me around and starts pointing out landmarks. “See that white building, halfway up the hill? That’s the entrance to the artists’ colony. I can’t wait for you to see all the sculpture. With luck, we’ll have enough time for you to set up a canvas and capture some of the cliffs. The labyrinth is just there, follow my finger, look straight. See the dark spot in between the trees? And above that is part of the original fortress, built by Julius Caesar. Dad says it will be fully restored in another couple of years, enough for people to visit safely. It takes forever because of all the permits and conservation rules they must follow. But we’ll take a walk through it, naturally. And ahead, on the right, by the old houses? On the second floor of Villa la Scogliera? See the terrace?”

  I do. It has the same cheery patina as the Villa’s coral stucco walls. A lemon grove pours over the wall, meeting the gaily striped ochre-and-tan umbrellas by the infinity pool below. On the terrace itself, on either side of the French doors, petunias spill from terra-cotta pots in bursts of aubergine and gold. It’s like a Condé Nast photo shoot for the perfect Italian retreat.

  It had been in a Condé Nast spread, but that was years ago. I read the piece when Jack first suggested we have the wedding here. I’d cut it out and used it as the basis for a painting I’d called Scylla, it inspired me so. It sold for $40,000 to a couple in Nashville with an obsession with mythology.

  Hidden away on the western edge of Italy in the southwest of the Tyrrhenian Sea, out of sight from the mainland and the more popular islands of Capri and Anicapri to its north, lies the isolated Isle Isola. Originally a remote, hard-to-reach private armory of Julius Caesar, it is sometimes thought to be the island from which Homer’s Scylla perched in the cliffs, waiting for unsuspecting questing sailors like Odysseus, who had to choose between sailing closer to the six-headed beast or sinking into the gaping maw of Charybdis’s whirlpool. It is also said the island houses an oracle, but no documentation has been found to prove this claim. There have been a disturbing number of shipwrecks in the waters of the bay, surprise waves driving ships against the rocks at the base of the cliffs, and storms are known to arise without warning.

  A more speculative fiction surrounds it; like any remote area, rumors abound about the island’s many hauntings over the years, including a famed Gray Lady who lingers about the fortress, supposedly the ghost of the daughter of one of the island’s many generals, who was sacrificed, given to an enemy who brought a mighty navy to attack the island. When he came ashore to parlay, the young woman was given to the man in good faith and disappeared that very night in a terrible storm. The storm raged for weeks, and the invading navy was driven away.

  Sea monsters and unverifiable history aside, Isola’s occupation dates to Roman times, and is home to the stunning Villa la Scogliera, the house on the cliff, currently home to famed cinematographer Will Compton. The Villa, a former monastery, perches on the hillside and ties into the abando
ned Roman fortress. While the Villa itself is of this century, and has been modernized with electricity and water, the fortress, abandoned for centuries, is undergoing a full renovation, sponsored in part by the Italian antiquities committee and the Compton Foundation.

  In addition to grapes and olives, the island is known for its lemon groves. It also houses a natural rookery, home to the many birds who fly off course, find themselves lost in the straights and unable to return to land.

  * * *

  How romantic, how very Gothic and creepy, and how very Compton to choose an island in the middle of nowhere surrounded by sea monsters and exhausted birds to call their own.

  “I see it. It’s lovely. Say the name again?”

  “Villa la Scogliera.”

  I try to mimic the way the R rolls off his tongue and bungle it massively, which makes Jack laugh.

  “I’ve been studying the tapes and everything. I swear it.”

  “Say it slowly, like this. Sko-lee-AIR-a. It means cliffside.”

  “Skola-air-a.”

  “Close. Emphasis on the third syllable, and roll your R,” he says, planting a soft kiss on my cheek. “Chef Boy-ARRR-dee. Sko-lee-AIRRR-a. You can just call it the Villa, you know. No one will mind.”

  “I need to learn Italian properly.”

  “And you will. But let’s focus on one thing at a time, shall we? We have our whole lives ahead for me to teach you.”

  Our whole lives. Lives that can be changed in an instant.

  Stop it, Claire.

  “The terrace is lovely. Is it special? Historically important? Did Medusa stand there or something?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Not Medusa. Venus, maybe. The whole island is loaded with odes to Venus. No, my dear, it’s special because that’s where you will spend your first night as Mrs. Compton. Just you, and me—”

  “And thirty of our nearest and dearest.”