Page 40 of Her Dark Lies
I have to stop thinking about the family this way. I am about to be a Compton. I belong to this servant-laden, helicopter-flying, island-owning, yacht-sailing, computer-mogul-gazillionaire privacy-at-all-costs family.
“Jack?” A voice is calling from up the path, and I scramble to make sure I’m truly decent. Private, my ass. My God, anyone could have come out and seen us in flagrante delicto in the colony. I’m mortified at the thought. I’m no prude, but I’m not entirely comfortable around the Comptons yet. I always feel like I’m about to make a misstep. Boinking the heir in the shadow of the Villa counts.
“We should go,” Jack says. I twist my hair back from my face in an effort to smooth it just as Fatima appears at the entrance to the labyrinth.
“There you are. Karmen needs to speak with you.” She looks amused and I have the most horrible feeling she knows exactly what we’ve been doing.
Despite myself, I yawn, a jaw-cracking yawn, and Jack grabs my hand.
“Come on, sleepyhead. Let’s get you back to the Villa.”
23
Somebody’s Watching Me
The library is clearly the staging area for the family. Fatima disappears discreetly after showing us to the door, which feels so damn weird. I mean, Jack knows the way around his house, he hardly needs to be escorted. Especially with Malcolm and Gideon lurking around.
Ugh... I’d forgotten myself outside. Bet they got an earful. How mortifying.
Karmen Harris waits for us. She has taken a seat by the fireplace. Two chairs sit opposite her. I look for Brice or Ana, but we’re alone. Jack closes the doors behind us and we take our seats.
Up close, I’m surprised to see how small she is. She can’t be more than five feet tall, but she commands the room. She has a large gun in a holster under her jacket. I suppose if I had that kind of firepower, I’d reek of confidence, too.
“Jackson,” she says by way of greeting. “And this must be Claire. Lovely to meet you.”
“You, too. I’ve heard good things.”
She smiles but doesn’t offer her hand, and I don’t offer mine.
“Karmen, someone’s been camping in the cottages. You need to look into it,” Jack says.
“Camping?”
“Living, camping, spying. Who knows? There’s a sleeping bag and other stuff out there.”
Her eyes shutter, and she nods. “I’ll deal with it. First, though, we have a bit of a situation. The Nashville police want to speak with Claire again.” I must have leaned forward because she puts up a finger. “Don’t worry, it’s routine for them to follow up, especially when a suspect is killed. They’re just looking for confirmation of your story.”
Jack squeezes my hand in reassurance, or to warn me not to speak again, I’m not sure which. “Did they talk to Malcolm? He was the one who shot the intruder.”
“They have. Like I said, this is routine, so long as everything shakes out the same.”
It is hard for me to explain the flush of panic that surges through my body. It’s as if I’ve grasped a live wire. Before she can explain further, Jack’s phone rings, the 615 area code flashing on the screen.
“Put it on speaker,” Karmen says with a reassuring nod. “It’s all going to be fine. I’ll explain what they don’t afterward.”
Jack gives me a sharp look, his brows furrowed, and presses the speaker button. “This is Jack Compton.”
A sharp male voice speaks. “Mr. Compton. This is Lieutenant O’Donnell, Metro Nashville Police. I’m joined by Officer Cooper—you met him on Monday, he was the responding officer to the break-in.”
We did? I don’t remember.
“We wanted to follow up, and discuss our findings.”
“I appreciate that. My fiancée is here with me, Claire Hunter, and our head of security, Karmen Harris. What can you tell us? Who is he?” Jack asks.
“We’re having some trouble with a formal identification,” O’Donnell says. “He didn’t have any ID on him. We did find a car down the street from your house. It was rented in California by a man named Francis Wold. Does that name ring a bell?”
I shake my head. “No. Not at all. Jack?”
