Page 117 of Her Dark Lies
“Where is she now, Gideon?” Ana asks.
“Karmen had a note on her desk. A flight number and a date. JFK to Rome. Two weeks ago.”
“She’s here,” I say, utterly aghast. “My God, she’s here. On the island. That’s who I saw in the labyrinth. That’s who pushed Henna down the stairs. That’s where Malcolm was taking me. To her. To Morgan.”
“Fatima,” Ana says, venom lacing her tone. “She must be involved with this. She knows. She has to. She could be behind Henna’s death, too.”
But Jack is still in shock, still holding out some sort of hope that we’re going to be able to pull this off, that we’re going to have a future together. He turns to me and softly, softly, with the finger that traced his wife’s jaw on the computer screen a moment ago, traces mine.
“Claire. This means nothing. She means nothing.Youare the love of my life.”
“Oh, please. He told me that too, once upon a time.”
The contralto voice is familiar and strange at the same time, and I whirl around in time to see the massive tapestry behind the statue of Venus slip back into place. The woman who is Morgan but is not Morgan stands before us, a gun in her hand.
“Surprise,” she calls, then pulls the trigger.
68
Drifting Down the Seas
Gideon goes down first.
Ana is hit and crumples to the floor without a sound.
Jack dives for her with a shrill cry of “Mom!” just as a third shot rings out, and to my horror, Jack collapses on top of Ana.
Blood. There is so much blood. I can’t see where she hit him, but he’s not moving.
I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I am frozen, and she is here.
Morgan struts to Jack’s body, stepping around Gideon with a small sneer of distaste.
“Tsk. Fatima will never get the stain out of this rug...”
She focuses her dark gaze on me.
“Hello, Claire. It’s nice to see you.”
She’s going to kill you, too.Be brave, Claire. Don’t let her win.
It takes every ounce of my being to look away from the black, empty cyclops eye of the gun, which is now pointed at my chest, and meet the eyes of the madwoman before me.
Her hair is a mass of tangles, and her clothes—what was once a white knee-length dress and thin sandles—are stained with mud, and blood. All hail the ghost of Isola. The haunter. Jack’s Gray Lady.
“Hello, Morgan.”
“Oh, I like hearing my name fall from your lips. Morgan, she says. Morgan. Such a strong name. A witch’s name. For witch I am, sweet, darling, little Claire. A witch who rises from the dead to exact revenge on those who hurt her. My dress looked fabulous on you, by the way. I thought it might.”
“How? How are you alive?”
“It seems remarkable, I know. But I didn’t die when I went off the cliff. Not then. Not like he thought.”
“Hard to make that mistake.”
“Oh, I was dead. I’ve been dead ever since. Dead in my heart. Dead in my soul.”
She’s not kidding—her eyes are flat as rocks.
