Page 55 of Her Dark Lies
Harper could find nothing else to dispel the known narrative. All the reports, articles, news stories—everything about Morgan Compton said she died off the coast of California, a boating accident.
Every instinct Harper had screamed the Comptons weren’t what they seemed. And now, with her exposé, Harper was positioned perfectly to pull back the curtain and reveal them as liars, and possibly even murderers.
When Claire called to say the Comptons were a go for the interview and photoshoot, things moved quickly. The editor Harper pitched atFlairsquared away the details with the Comptons’ PR folks. Harper sent in her bio, her headshot.
A few days after that, a new editor reached out, from the magazine’s investigative editorial team. She asked if Harper was interested in making the story meatier, if at all possible. Not the usual fluff piece. She offered to bump the piece to a five-page spread and three thousand words, if Harper could provide anything internal to the family that might be of interest? The editor had heard that there was a history to be delved into.
Bingo.
Harper confided what she’d found. Pitched a slightly different angle to the story, the nobody marrying the prince, not knowing the prince’s family had secrets. Deep, dark, secrets. The kind that see dead bodies washing ashore.
The editor took her seriously. Helped her shape the piece. Helped with the research. Helped Harper find the perfect voice. A perfectly clear and devastating voice.
And the decision was made, the story was going to print with or without the photos, with or without the quote from Brice Compton. If Claire’s life got upended in the process, well, maybe then they’d really be even.
The horn sounds, and the ferry captain gives them instructions on where to go as they disembark, first in Italian, then English. Harper gathers her bags, helps her mom, finds her stepfather, Brian, who is wet and grinning after watching the approach from the outer deck.
They dock, and make their way off the hydrofoil. The island Villa is easily spotted above, looming over the beach. They are met with umbrellas, hustled into the funicular, and are rising up the hillside moments later.
Harper texts her editor that she is on the island, and to stand by for the quote to finish out the story.
Three dots greet her, then a wide smiley face emoji pops onto her screen.
33
Did You Even Know Her?
Jack types quietly so he doesn’t wake Claire. When he’d gotten back to the room earlier she’d been totally sacked out, so asleep she didn’t even notice him climb into bed. She’s still asleep now, an arm flung up over her face defensively, as if blocking the morning from finding her. It makes him laugh, and feel tender things, when he sees her like this.
He does not feel tender things toward the text message he received. In fact, fury is a better emotion. The audacity of whoever is trying to ruin his wedding weekend is off the charts, and he is not going to put up with it any longer. His phone dings with a text, from Elliot. As angry as he is with his little brother, he was forced to ask for his help. He’d sent the text and all the details. Elliot is unparalleled at tracking. In a past life, he would have been the village’s best hunter. Now he’s not searching for wolves in person, but online. Hunt. Trap. Kill. Elliot’s specialty.
I need to talk to you. I’m in the library. Let’s take a walk.
Great.
Jack logs out and grabs his phone. He casts a last glance toward the bedroom, decides not to wake her. He writes a note instead, props it on the pillow.
One more day, soon-to-be Mrs. Compton. I’ll see you before the brunch. Love, J
Elliot is waiting for him in the library. His nose is swollen and his eye slightly blackened, but he seems otherwise unharmed, and no longer pissed off. A fire roars in the grate, and the room is warm and cozy.
“Sure you want to go out? It’s pouring,” Jack says.
“Better to be outside. What, afraid you’re going to melt? Such a delicate flower you are.”
Elliot grins, and Jack knows all is forgiven. This is how brothers work.
The door to the back patio is latched tight against the rain. They pull on Wellies and grab umbrellas, lumber off onto the grounds. Mud squelches under their boots, and the air crackles with static electricity. Thunder rolls in the distance. The dogs come tearing around the corner, their coats glistening, running in happy circles around them. They like rain, the fools. Thunder dogs, Will calls them.
“Maybe we shouldn’t linger out here,” Jack says. “I don’t want to get struck by lightning.”
“You’re such a pussy.”
Jack shrugs and starts walking again. “Whatever, El.”
“The server was breached from inside the system. Someone coded a back door. We’re running checks on every employee who left the company in the past three years.”
“Does Dad know it was an inside job?”
