Her Dark Lies

by J. T. Ellison

  “Is it that obvious I don’t drink Scotch?”

  “Yet. You don’t drink Scotch yet. After this, you will. It’s all about knowing how to enjoy it.”

  I follow his lead and suddenly, instead of sharp spirits, I smell caramel and peat and salt and rain. I take another, more cautious sip, and he’s right, it does taste good.

  “Fascinating trick.”

  “I’m surprised Jackson hasn’t taught you already.”

  “I’ve always been more of a wine girl.”

  We sit together, he and I, by the fire, with our drinks, with the storm screaming at the windows, my hair curling wildly from the soaking. My heart rate drops, and I draw my legs up onto the chair, cradling the drink between my knees and my body. Romulus whines once, in question, and I rub his ears. He is wet, too. Poor guy. Remus has wandered over to the fire, is toasting himself dry. “Go on. Go get dry.”

  I swear the dog understands me, he pads to the rug and joins his brother, shaking himself once to rid the exterior of his fur of water.

  “Remarkable. I’ve never seen him be so protective of anyone before.”

  “They saved my life in the labyrinth.”

  “You were worth saving,” Will says quietly, then cracks a grin that makes him seem much younger than his years. “Though Fatima is going to be livid when she sees the mud on these rugs. The dogs aren’t allowed in the house, you know.”

  “They are now,” I say.

  Will watches me for a moment. “I daresay you’re right.”

  The fire is hypnotic, dancing and crackling. It could be now, it could be a moment ago, ten years ago, a thousand years...the same grate, the same wood, the same fire has warmed the people of the Villa forever. I sink further into the chair, my body finally relaxing.

  Safe. I am safe.

  I’m so used to the silences of the Compton men that when Jack’s grandfather asks, quite conversationally, “So Claire? What secrets are you hiding from my grandson?” I blurt out the truth and he doesn’t blink an eye.

  “I killed my father.”

  I’ve never spoken of the night my father died. I didn’t tell my mother. My sister. My friends. I certainly haven’t told Jack.

  But Will Compton sits to my right in the dim light, ready to hear my confession.

  “Tell me,” he says softly. And I do.

  * * *

  The party was loud. Raucous. So much fun. Shane scored some Molly and gave me a double dose. I was crawling all over him soon enough, which made him happy. For a while. After an hour, he got tired of my frisky sloppiness and dumped me onto the couch next to a couple of his Hillsboro friends, who were more than happy to let me coo and pet them. Everything was perfect. Everything was right in the world. I was present, and they were present, and we were present together.

  Someone gave me a beer. I didn’t like the taste, even then, but I drank it. It mellowed me out, so I was able to sit on the couch and stare into space.

  And then Shane decided it was time to go.

  I didn’t want to leave. I don’t know that I could have walked, I was so fixated on the couch, but he grabbed my hand and dragged me upright.

  I put my arms around his neck and kissed him, but he was in a bad mood and pushed me away. I don’t know what had gone wrong with his evening, but mine was great, I was rolling hard, and had no desire to be put off.

  I still remember the pain when he grabbed my ponytail and yanked. “We’re leaving now. I want a fucking Coke and they don’t have anything but this pansy diet shit.”

  I didn’t have enough room, or energy, to fight. He dragged me to the car, and we got in.

  There are parts of the night that I don’t remember. But this part I do. Shane was in rare form, ranting, frantic. Someone had screwed him over, reneged on paying for their drugs, leaving him dangerously short. He had to pay it up the line that night, or he faced “consequences.” Even I, in my stupor, knew what that meant. A broken leg, a broken arm. If he showed up short, his distributor was going to take it very badly. I’d met the guy once, and trust me, he was terrifying.

  But Shane had a plan. “We’ll take it from your parents. Your dad will have money at his office.”

  I recall the intense alarm at that idea. I may have been a fuckup, but I wasn’t stupid enough to jeopardize my already-precarious relationship with my parents like that. I was perfectly happy getting high on Shane’s dime, but I wasn’t willing to steal from my family for him. Besides, my head still hurt from his mistreatment of my hair, and I had a massive bruise on my bicep. I wasn’t feeling generous.

  “He doesn’t. It’s Saturday. They would have taken everything to the bank last night.”

  “We’ll go by your house, then.”

  “Shane, there’s no money there, either.”

  “Then get your fucking ATM card out, bitch.”

  The bank haul was meager, two hundred measly dollars. He needed upward of two thousand.

  He yelled at me then, how I was ruining his life, how I was responsible for...well, everything that was bad in his world. I tried to get out of the car, and he pulled me back in and took off, driving erratically. We made it all the way out Highway 70 to Bellevue when he remembered his vital need for a Coke. He pulled into the Mapco. Threatened to kill me if I got out of the car. He left it running. He always left the car running when he went into a store. I thought it was dangerous, but whatever. It was his thing.

  He wasn’t in his right mind that night, I testified to that. Though the word of a screwed up fifteen-year-old was hardly enough to sway the jury in his favor.

  He came out of the store at a run, shouting, “Drive, drive, drive!”

  I remember his eyes, flared so wide I could see the bloodshot whites around his brown irises. He looked like one of the hounds of hell I’d seen in one of my mythology books. Slavering at the jaw and utterly enraged.

  I scooted over to the driver seat and he dove inside.

  “Go, for fuck’s sake. Go to 40.”

  The interstate was a mile west of the Mapco. There was only one problem. I didn’t know how to drive. I hadn’t even gotten my learner’s permit yet. Add in sheer panic, a beer, two doses of Molly, and an irate boyfriend?

  I put it in Reverse, gunned it, and backed straight into the dumpster. He howled in fury at me and slammed it into Drive. “Drive, now.” That’s when I realized he had his gun out, and it was currently pointed at me.

  “Did you rob the Mapco?”

  “What do you think? Drive.”

  We didn’t make it far. The police nailed us by the Taco Bell, and despite Shane’s screams to gun it, I took my foot off the gas. We coasted to a stop against the curb, and they were on us moments later. Honestly, I was relieved. Shane was out of control; who knows where the night was taking us.

  Shane wrestled with them like a prize fighter, but a quick jab with the Taser had him down on the pavement a heartbeat later.

  I stood and shook, tears coursing down my face. The car was mangled. I was still high as fuck and terrified into silence. The policeman wasn’t gentle when he slapped the cuffs on me and shoved me into the back of his cruiser. It was fear that made my adrenaline rush so hard it blotted out my memories. But I did hear the word arrest before I passed out in the back of the car, sitting awkwardly on my hands.

  Then my dad was there.

  They called him.

  He came for me.

  It was three in the morning and he came without a moment’s hesitation. The policeman took the cuffs off me and I heard him talking quietly to my dad. I caught only a bit of it, but the gist was Shane told them he kidnapped me from the party.

  I will never, ever understand why he lied for me.

  My dad got me settled in the car, gentle as an egg, putting the safety belt across my body and latching it without a word. When he climbed in, he said, “Claire. Wh
at did you take?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You want to try telling me the truth, for once?”

  “Fine. Some Molly. It’s no big deal. Everyone was doing it.”

  “Are you going to be sick in my car?”

  “No.”

  Though I did feel sick, the remnants of the adrenaline rush ready to spill from my pores.

  “Did that boy hurt you?”

  He was looking at the livid red bruise on my arm, and I tucked it to my body and stared out the window. The patrol car bearing Shane was pulling out, and he didn’t look my way, not even once. “It’s fine. It’s nothing.”

  My father didn’t speak anymore, only started the car and put it carefully in gear. He didn’t speak until we were nearly home.

  “Your mother and I have decided you’re going to rehab. It’s the best thing for you to do.”

  “Since when do you and Mom talk?” I spit out, my fear abating in the face of anger and something else, a combination of hope and humiliation. Rehab meant I could get away from Shane and get straight, the former of which was appealing, but rehab also meant leaving all my friends and having the stigma of a recovery center forever in my past. No. No!

  “I won’t go. You can’t make me.”

  “Claire. You’ve been acting out for months now. You’ve been expelled from school, you’re covered in tattoos and piercings, you’re doing drugs and God knows what else. Your mother and I don’t recognize you anymore. You’ve been hurting yourself. No one else. But tonight...no, my little girl, you crossed the line. I don’t know what really happened with you and that greasy jerk back there, but he robbed that Mapco, with a weapon, and you were driving the car. He has drugs on his person, and you’re clearly messed up. You’ve given us no choice. The police are being rather generous, I think, not just hauling you downtown. It’s rehab or jail, and I think you’ll enjoy rehab much more.”

  “Fuck off.”

  He looked over at me, the shock and hurt rippling across his face, and I felt at once ashamed, so ashamed, and emboldened. If he had been stronger, Mom wouldn’t have fucked some other guy. If he’d paid more attention to all of us instead of his precious patients, they wouldn’t be getting divorced. If...if...if...

  I screamed all of this at him, followed it up with “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you!” for good measure, reached for the wheel of the car, and—

  * * *

  I wipe the tears from my cheeks.

  “And that’s all I remember. When I woke up, in the hospital, he was dead, and I was broken.”

  “And you’ve never healed, have you,” Will says, reaching over to pat my knee. “You’ve carried this for so long. You poor girl.”

  I get that ridiculous feeling of outrage and unease that accompanies any show of pity for my plight. I don’t deserve pity. I never have. I killed my father. I deserve hell.

  “I’ll always carry it. It’s my fault he’s dead. I killed him. I think I was trying to kill myself. I never thought it would take him instead.”

  Will nods, slowly, sadly. “Ah, but look at you now. You learned a very hard lesson, and you changed. You altered the course of your life, by choice. Many, many young women would have plummeted, would have been dragged into the abyss. But you didn’t. You showed great courage, my girl. It takes grit to change.

  “And now you’re a celebrated painter. About to be married. You know he’s looking down on you, so happy that you’re happy. It’s all any father wants for his child. Trust me. Brice said some terrible things to me growing up. I knew he didn’t mean it, not really. Something you need to remember, though. As a Compton, there will be extra scrutiny on you. Perhaps even judgment. But it’s your heart that matters. Follow your heart, young Claire. It will never steer you wrong.”

  I swallow the last of the Scotch. It’s strong, and I’m feeling lightheaded.

  “You’re kind to listen. I appreciate it. And the advice.”

  When Will Compton smiles, it’s easy to see how he charmed half of Europe. “You’re my granddaughter now, dear. You can talk to me about anything.”

  I don’t know what makes me say it, but the words are out before I have a chance to think.

  “Tell me about Morgan. Tell me how she died.”

  “I think that’s my story to tell,” Jack says, stepping into the library.

  60

  The Truth, at Last

  “Jackson!”

  Will seems so happy to see his grandson I can’t help but smile, though it quickly flees when I see Jack’s face. He looks as thunderous as the sky.

  “Everything okay?” Will asks, clearly sensing the mood.

  “No.” Jack pours himself two fingers of Oban. He offers to top off mine, but I shake my head. I’m feeling quite warm enough, thank you. Warm, but...lighter. Alcohol always has loosened my tongue. Confessing, even to an old man who will probably forget all I’ve said or twist it around, has helped me. I’ve never spoken the words aloud: I killed my father. I feel shriven.

  Eventually, I will be able to say the rest.

  I killed Shane.

  I killed Malcolm.

  But for now, admitting to my first murder is enough.

  Jack tosses back the Scotch. “No, things are not okay. But I hope we’re at least on the path to normalcy. Did you two have a nice visit?”

  “We did,” Will says. “And now I sense it’s time to leave you alone.” He rises, slowly, with a small groan. “Don’t get old, Jack my boy. It’s a pain in the ass.”

  Will takes my hand. His blue eyes are sad, but he smiles. “My dear. It’s well past time for you to stop punishing yourself. Let it go.” He pats my hands sweetly, and takes his leave.

  “What was that about?” Jack asks.

  “I’m afraid your grandfather got me drunk and I confessed all my sins. It’s a tragedy that he’s suffering from dementia. He’s a kind, dynamic man. I wish I’d gotten to know him sooner.”

  “I wish you had, too. He is a great guy.” Jack settles into the chair his grandfather vacated. “Sins, is it?”

  Oh, Jack. You have no idea.

  “First, what happened out there? Did you... Is Malcolm’s body gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that why you look so fearsome?”

  “Actually no. I had a bit of a tiff with my dick of a brother. Elliot,” he adds, unnecessarily. I know he doesn’t mean Tyler, who is the sweetest and worships Jack’s very being.

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  He sighs. “I think I have to. Because I’m starting to believe my brother killed Morgan.”

  * * *

  I listen, incredulous at first, then with a general wariness, as Jack talks of his former wife for the first time.

  “I hardly know where to begin.”

  Why did you love her? Why did you choose her? Was it her red hair, her sky eyes, her talent, her voice? The way she made you feel? Will I ever be enough?

  Though I already know the answer, I settle for, “Start at the beginning. Tell me about your first meeting.”

  “We were at a cocktail party, in Tiburon. We were both on the back deck, staring over the bay. The wind was blowing, her hair was flying around in the breeze and she didn’t move to capture it. It whipped around and she looked wild, and free, and lovely, and so alone, and I fell, hard. I found out later that she had just gotten a massive round of VC funding and was celebrating. We didn’t talk much about the important things. We simply started hanging out, and she was beguiling.

  “I found out after it was all a ploy. She knew I was going to be at this party. She positioned herself so I would notice her. She wanted an in to Compton. She wanted my father to buy her out. Which, for the record, he did. She could have taken that money and retired on the spot, but for some reason, she wanted to stay in the game. By that time, she decided she wanted
me, too.

  “I was flattered. She was stunningly gorgeous, and smart, and charming in the way only a true sociopath can be. But she was deeply, deeply disturbed. More so than I ever knew.”

  He stands and moves to the shelves behind me. I watch as he pulls out a thick old book. He opens the cover and out comes a slim notebook. “I found this after she died. I kept it... I don’t know why I kept it. Maybe to remind myself. You know how the memory of terrible things tends to lessen over time? I didn’t want to forget. I didn’t want to make the same mistake twice.”

  He hands it to me. The notebook is worn, well used. I flip open the cover. The handwriting is tiny, cramped, so dark on the page that it seems impossible that the paper didn’t rip under the weight of the pen scratching across it.

  It doesn’t take me long to ascertain that the writer is disturbed beyond reason. In the way of all genius, most of what I’m reading makes a certain kind of sense, but then it drops off the edge of reason into clear insanity.

  J was out late again last night. He swears he was working, but I know he is lying. Surveillance to begin tomorrow. Will use 4G Spark nano GPS tracker, adapt with extended battery—no reason to think this behavior will change anytime soon. If I find him under the moon, I will kill him. If I find him under the sun I will not.

  Surveillance commenced. Laid in a bridge to his T1 line that allows for a wired keystroke analysis. He bears watching. He mustn’t be trusted.

  40,000 years ago, paintings in Chauvet Cave—did they know what was coming? Were they prepared for their extinction? Did they have one last party before they died, dancing around the fire naked and leering? Insert 6. They are watching again.

  I watch him when he sleeps. Wonder what it would feel like to slip the edge of a dagger into that spot where his heartbeat pounds at the skin. To see the blood purl through the opening in his skin. What does he taste like inside?

  J not cheating so far as I can tell. His nocturnal ramblings are simply running errands for B. GPS track shows straight lines between 500 and 1500 longitudinally aspect ratio. What happens on the jet stays on the jet. Flower agate is needed.