Her Dark Lies

by J. T. Ellison

  Don’t panic. Don’t panic.

  Where is the church?

  Yes, 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. I feel it in my calves and hope again I’m going the right way. The Villa is on the hill, on the northwest promontory of the island. If I can reach its doors, I will be safe.

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

  Climb. Climb. Keep going.

  I must get to the Villa. There I can call for help. Lock myself inside. Maybe find a weapon.

  A branch snaps and I halt, breathless.

  Someone is coming.

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

  I wind up the steps, clinging to the rock face, until I burst 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 am I?

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

  I’ve gone the wrong way.

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

  I am too late. The storm is upon me.

  The wind whistles hard and sharp, buffeting me against the stone wall. I can’t move. Deep fear cements my feet. Rain makes the gauzy dress cling to the curves of my body, and the blood on my thigh washes to the ground. None of it matters. I cannot escape.

  When Jack comes, at last, sauntering through the storm, I am crying, clinging to the stone, the lightning illuminating the ruins, the ancient stones, and stark, headless statues the only witness to my death.

  I go over the wall with a thunder-drowned scream, the jagged rocks below my final companions.

  His name echoes across the water, rising up the cliffside, the shriek audible across the island, dying off a little at the end, as I get closer to the water, to the rocks, to the ground.

  “Jaaaaaaack!”

  * * *

  “Is she dead?” Jack asks.

  “What have you done?” Elliot replies with horror.

  “That doesn’t matter now. Is she dead?”

  A pause. They must be looking over the edge. Yes, the light, the flashing of a light as it sweeps across the rocks, looking for my body.

  I know there is blood. I know I must look broken. I was able to move my mouth away from the water, yes, but that won’t save me for long. I hold my breath, only taking tiny sips of air when it seems I will die if I do not.

  The light finds me. It lingers.

  Lingers.

  Lingers.

  “She’s not moving,” Elliot says.

  “But is she dead?” Jack asks.

  “How am I supposed to know? She’s got a broken leg, it’s twisted funny. And she’s not moving. There’s blood. A lot of blood.”

  I feel a deep, strange satisfaction by the fear and revulsion in Elliot’s voice.

  Good. I hope you drown, broken and bloodied, on these very rocks.

  If I get out of here, I will make sure you do.

  “You shouldn’t have chased her,” Jack says.

  “You shouldn’t have pushed her,” Elliot spits back.

  The water, again the water, lapping, lapping. It’s splashing over my face now, and I time my breaths to coincide with the recession of the small waves.

  Splash.

  Breath.

  Splash.

  Breath.

  The light disappears.

  Jack says, “If she’s not dead, she will be shortly. The tide is coming in. It will wash her body away. When they find her—if they find her—we can say she disappeared and must have fallen off the cliff.”

  “Should we get help?” Elliot asks.

  It is Ana who answers, her voice hard in the night. “No. Absolutely not. Come away. There’s nothing to be done now. It’s over.”

  JULY

  Rough wind, that moanest loud

  Grief too sad for song;

  Wild wind, when sullen cloud

  Knells all the night long;

  Sad storm whose tears are vain,

  Bare woods, whose branches strain,

  Deep caves and dreary main—

  Wail, for the world’s wrong!

  —Percy Bysshe Shelley, A Dirge

  EPILOGUE

  Second Deaths

  It has long been known that sparrows flee disaster. I don’t know if seabirds do the same, but as I watch from our terrace, there are flocks shooting south, ahead of what exact tragedy, I do not know. I thought we’d had all the tragedy we could handle.

  Morgan’s second death was only the beginning.

  Brice reacted quickly. The carabinieri in Naples were alerted to the chaos and dispatched two teams who arrived at the island soon after The Hebrides exploded.

  Morgan lied, thank God. It’s what she did best. The whole wedding party was not on the boat—they were still in their procession from house to church. We lost a few of Jack’s childhood friends who’d gone ahead to have a cocktail, and the crew, but we didn’t lose the family.

  Still, there were so many questions. Questions to which I didn’t have the proper answers. I knew only what she told me, and what we found on the island.

  She’d been living there, off and on, for several years. She had invaded a small shop down by the beach that had closed its doors, and she set up a massive surveillance network she’d tied into the Comptons’ security system.

  The shop itself was attached to the Villa through a tunnel, which led also to the cottages, and to the labyrinth, and to a side passage that had been cleared of rock and debris and allowed her to move into the crypt, too. All were former escape hatches for the emperors, or for the Disciples of Venus, or for the ancient witches who lived in the island’s heart. Who knows how she discovered them all, but she did.

  I’d almost found her nerve center myself when I ran into the huge iron gate. I saw it later, the next day, with Brice and the police. I had to walk them through the tunnels to find Katie’s pale body, to try and explain what happened under the earth.

  The back room of the shop was a dark rabbit warren of wires and screens, a jumbled jackdaw mess of a lair. I half expected to see the bones of small animals littering the floor.

  From this vantage point, Morgan saw every move we made. The Villa was wired top to bottom with cameras and microphones. Our house in Nashville, my studio. She watched, and watched, and watched. Cameras, cameras, everywhere, for her to enjoy the show.

  We would never know for sure if Fatima helped her plant them in the Villa, or if she did it herself, sneaking in when the family was gone and the Villa shuttered, with just Will and his nurse wandering the halls. She could easily have haunted him, helped drive his dementia with little games and tricks.

  But it wasn’t Jack, or the family, that she wanted.

  It was me.

  The material the police collected told the whole sordid story. Once I came into the picture, her obsessions with the family shifted. There were hundreds of hours of tape of me. Watching TV. Talking on the phone. Painting. Sleeping. Having sex with Jack. Many of those she’d spliced together to play on repeat, so we writhed tog
ether in ingenious positions for hours.

  And my obsession with her was well documented. We think she must have thought I had feelings for her, and that piqued her interest. With the software she had installed on my computer, she was able to see my private folders, all the photos and articles I’d clipped. Every letter I typed, every moment of my days. While I was looking at her, she was watching me. Always, always watching me.

  I was only trying to understand why he’d loved her. But she wouldn’t have seen it that way.

  I spoke at length with the carabinieri about what transpired in the crypt. Granted, it was self-defense, but I still killed a woman. They don’t know I killed Malcolm. That I killed Shane. And of course, only Will knows I killed my father and after the stress of the wedding, he’s been more confused than usual.

  The police decided it wasn’t worth pursuing charges against me for killing Morgan. The Compton influence at work.

  I have taken so many lives. The first time was the hardest. It gets easier after that.

  * * *

  Katie’s absence is a hole that will never be filled. Harper handled all the arrangements for getting her body back to Nashville. We’re going to have a memorial service once Jack and I come home. I don’t know when that might be. Harper and I talked about it, and she thought it best that I stay in Italy for now. Too much attention on me in Nashville. The press has been speculating, as they do. Easier for me to be absent.

  My parents have been sent home, and my mother, bless her heart, went straight to Cumberland Heights and is getting herself straightened out again.

  I sent Harper to the editors of Flair to explain she’d been lied to. Told the FBI she’d been tricked. They had cause to believe her—Morgan resurrecting herself was enough to lay ample doubt. There may be consequences for the lies about the hand that washed up, but Brice has already been out spinning it. We discussed our options at length, and at my suggestion, he went back to New York with Harper to handle the FBI inquiry, which I’ve been told will be going away shortly. Nothing to charge any of the Comptons with.

  Elliot had a bad few weeks. Morgan wasn’t the forgiving type. With one last twist of her knife, she’d signed an affidavit, had it witnessed, too, that Elliot threw her over the cliff. The carabinieri, not being as easily swayed as the Compton-friendly US media, took him into custody while they did a thorough investigation. I admit, this didn’t upset me.

  But with Ana and Fatima dead, Will an unreliable narrator, Jack in and out of consciousness, and Brice vociferously denying the charge, they were forced to let Elliot go.

  No one asked about the fresh bodies in the crypt. Henna was given a spot of honor. I have no idea what happened to Malcolm and Fatima, nor do I care.

  The bones, though, were not Elevana’s. I don’t know whose they are, nor the story behind them. I fear... No. I will not think of that now.

  * * *

  I slept in Jack’s hospital room the whole first week. It was touch and go for a couple of days. The bullet hit him in the stomach. He lost a lot of blood, so much that after an extensive surgery, he had to have three transfusions and they’d removed his spleen, but that finally stabilized him.

  When Jack was discharged from the hospital, we took the chopper back to the Villa. Flying in was surreal. The pier where The Hebrides was docked was gone, the asphalt to the shops carved out as if a giant took a bite of a sandwich.

  Otherwise, it all looked the same. As if the events of the past weeks were erased entirely.

  Our rooms were resurrected. The terrace doors replaced, all the shattered glass removed, though I will wear shoes inside for the foreseeable future, just in case. Venus Genetrix lost a shoulder, but a restoration team from Milan is working on her.

  The tunnel to the grotto had been sealed, the door bolted and cemented into the wall. No one will be able to get in or out this way ever again.

  I debated whether I wanted to stay here, considering how many rooms the Villa has, but in the end, decided I did. I like the view. Romulus and Remus love the terrace. Ana’s cats are in mourning, and the dogs like to tease them into happiness in the sunshine.

  * * *

  There has been no more talk of a wedding, though once Jack is stronger, we’ll have a quiet ceremony. It’s warm and beautiful on Isola, now that the hellacious storms have passed. The terrace is the perfect place to do some sketching. I’ve spent a lot of time out here. Remembering. I hiked to the cliff top once. Looked over the edge. Imagined what it must have been like that night. The night Morgan died.

  Will joins me. He and I have taken to having an afternoon walk. I like it. He’s a fascinating man. He has good days, and bad. I’ve never asked him about our first meeting, when he snapped and punched Jack, crying out about the killer in our midst.

  It is a long fall.

  * * *

  The blood test the Italian did to manage the legalities of our Italian wedding came back with a bit of a surprise. I wasn’t seasick on The Hebrides after all. I haven’t told Jack yet. I will, once I wrap my head around the situation. I should tell him now. I really should. But it needs to be my secret a little longer. Just until I decide what is to be done. The family’s needs must come first now.

  * * *

  The library has become my refuge. I sit under the stained-glass window, wondering about what choices drove Eliza Compton to have Mephistopheles and Faust looking over her books.

  These records are so hard to keep. But I write my thoughts anyway. One day, one of my children will find this notebook and perhaps they will hate me. Perhaps they will understand the choices I made.

  Their mother is a murderer. I have taken life. I have done it through accident. I have done it on purpose.

  The former was harder.

  * * *

  Our world slowly comes back to center. I’m surprised to realize we’re moving into August now. Sunrises. Sunsets. Waves crash. Winds blow. Tired birds settle with relief in the branches of the trees. Flowers bloom and die. The island never seems to change. It is perpetually alone, in the midst of a roiling azure sea, a harbor for all our secrets.

  I hear Jack stirring inside, he’s been napping most of the afternoon. He still needs his rest. That’s how he will heal.

  He joins me on the terrace, all smiles. He has been so solicitous. Love is solicitude, is it not?

  “What are you doing, darling?”

  I slap closed the cover of the sketchbook. He doesn’t need to see.

  “You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

  “I feel good. Are you hungry? I thought we could ask Chef to make us some carbonara. Maybe a glass of wine?” His eyes twinkle. He is getting back to himself. He is happy. It is all over.

  “No wine for you, mister. Not yet. Not until the doctor says you can.”

  “You’re a tyrant, you know that? Drawing something?”

  “The labyrinth,” I lie. “I have a wonderful idea about incorporating the statuary into the view. I think we should transform the first cottage into my studio. I’ll need at least forty feet for the canvas. I think I’ll call her Venus.”

  “We can make that happen. Anything you want, darling. Sounds amazing. I can’t wait to see her.”

  He kisses me and goes inside to make an order to the kitchens. I’ve come to realize living in the Villa is something like living in a five-star hotel. Anything you could possibly want or need is a call away. If we want to eat in our rooms, we do. If we want the dining room, we have it. If we want a picnic on the beach, it’s ours for the taking.

  The sun is starting to set, the cliff’s shadows lumbering across the beach. I may go for a swim in the morning.

  I turn to the page in my sketchbook where I’ve left off. My finger is holding the place.

  I’ve been drawing Morgan’s death again. That moment has become my dearest subject. There is something arresting about the combination of her old b
eauty mingled with her new at the moment of her death that is irresistible to me. It’s terribly morbid, yes, but I can’t seem to get her face out of my head.

  The fall crushed her jaw and an occipital lobe. She had to have them reconstructed, and that’s why she seemed so much softer, so less intense than what she was born with.

  I’m sure you’re wondering. It’s only natural.

  I had Morgan buried in the crypt. I wanted to keep her close. After all the Comptons put her through, it seemed only fitting. A gesture of respect for a valiant adversary. We loved the same man, and we handled that love differently. But the Comptons were hard on her.

  Weren’t they?

  * * *

  I can’t get her last words out of my head.

  I have replayed the moment of her death over, and over, and over, and I’m virtually positive what she said was “...killed me.”

  She could have said anything.

  I love you.

  Fuck you.

  Forgive me.

  But with her eyes bugging out of her head at the pressure of my hand on her windpipe, she provided this narrative: “...killed me.”

  I replay this moment again, and again.

  It had to be “Elliot killed me.” Had to be.

  I suppose it could have been her begging for me to end it. A declarative “Kill me.”

  But no, there was a word that came before, I saw her lips move.

  They touched together lightly before the harsh whisper came out. I am probably imagining it. I mean, if you run through the people who were there the night she went over the cliff, sound them out, and then match them to how her lips touched...

  I’ve done it in the mirror. So many times, now.