Page 126 of Her Dark Lies
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 afterThe Hebridesexploded.
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 together 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 ofFlairto 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.
