Page 73 of Her Dark Lies
“I have to ask, Ty. Could Henna have been killed?”
“What, like someone pushed her? Who would do that?”
“I don’t know. The damn candlestick is covered in blood. Claire’s mom was clearly intoxicated. She could have been surprised by Henna coming down the stairs and, not thinking clearly, feeling threatened, reached out for the closest thing to keep herself safe.”
“It is entirely possible, though not probable. These stairs are steep, and without the lights, and Henna wearing those damn heels... It’s not your fault, Jack. I’m sure this is just a terrible accident.”
“God, I hope you’re right. I’m being paranoid, but with everything that’s been happening, it feels too coincidental for my liking.”
“One of us needs to go tell Mom.”
“You do it. I can’t bear to.”
Tyler nods sympathetically, puts a hand on Jack’s arm. “Hang in there, okay? We’ll figure this out.”
When he’s alone again, Jack looks at the area with fresh eyes. This part of the house is built in compass-driven architectural wings—east, north, and south. The west wing, two floors up, meanders back into the cliffside, meeting up with the original fortress, and is blocked off from the main areas of the house. It is accessible from the north wing through a back staircase originally built for servants, but no one ever goes there except the Italian restorers his father has hired to make the fortress rooms livable. With three sons, Brice hoped his brood would eventually expand, and wanted room for all the families to visit at once, and their families in the future.
The three main spokes—east, south, and north—are all accessible through the grand staircase. None of these hallways have access to one another. They are full of furniture and the accumulated bric-a-brac of the Comptons’ life well-lived: framed movie posters from the thirties and forties Italian cinema compete with trophies from early hunts, moth-eaten fur and threadbare animal heads with fuzz covered antlers, soulless brown eyes staring reproachfully; marble tables with family heirlooms; wing chairs; shallow armoires—the original design of the Villa didn’t include closets, so the linens for each room are stored in the hallway armoires.
Perhaps someone could have been hiding in the shadows, or inside one of the heavy walnut pieces, lying in wait for Henna.
The thought of someone lingering, watching, chills him, and he shines his light up and down the carpeted hall. Ready for mayhem, braced for someone to spring from the nearest dark wood cupboard, Jack checks them, one after another, only to discover nothing more threatening than fresh sheets and towels, redolent of the cedar blocks stashed in the corners.
He glances at Henna’s body, situated in the middle of the corridor, so close to the staircase. Trisha would have had to step over Henna to knock on the door of the bridal suite.
It still appears Trisha had been the only one in the hall.
Except for Jack and Claire themselves, when they came up from the brunch earlier. But they hadn’t seen Henna. Had someone managed to kill her—silently and quickly—in the intervening moments between Trisha stumbling down the hall and Claire taking her drunk mother back to her room?
The thunder is booming still—that could easily have masked a cry of surprise. A stranger strikes, the body drops, and the killer has easy egress up or down the stairs.
Unless, it was someone Henna knew. Someone who wouldn’t cause her alarm.
He hates his next thought.
Will.
After his earlier run-ins, it’s clear that Will slips his nurse’s steady gaze on occasion. Fatima’s reaction was easy testament to that. So where is his grandfather now? Could he be responsible? Will’s rooms are down the north hall, so if he sneaked away from his minder again, it is possible.
But stealth isn’t a hallmark of the dementia-addled Will Compton. He is a bull in a china shop. When he was younger, it was a different story. He was a shark though water, sleek and silent. Deadly. Will had deftness and stealth that Jack still tries to emulate.
Lightning flashes, and in the brief illumination from the window at the end of the hall, Jack can swear Henna’s body twitches, though that is impossible. He tries not to look at her eyes, her beautiful eyes, already starting to cloud. No, it is a trick of the light, the strange flashes of lightning doubly reflected on water and glass, warped in the dark. She is definitely deceased. He bites down on his lip in frustration. Damn it, Claire should be back by now. He’s going to have to go find her.
Perhaps Tyler is right. Maybe Henna simply tripped in the darkness and hit her head on the corner of the table. They won’t know for sure until an autopsy can be done, evidence collected, things Jack isn’t sure will happen, now or ever. That is up to his parents. But to be able to put the specter of doubt onto the situation is a help. A reach, yes, but a help. Even though he knows, deep in his heart, with everything that’s been happening, he’s grasping at straws. That candlestick covered in blood tells the story, one he can’t deny.
Henna has been murdered.
44
Twist Again
The Villa has so many rooms and suites and hidden nooks to choose from to set up the photo shoot, Harper was thrilled to find this one on the third floor, which overlooked the labyrinth and the sea beyond. It seemed perfect.
Now, alone with the Comptons, it feels too small, too close. Ana Compton is intimidating. So still, so self-contained. A wolf, wary, watchful. Harper has a hard time meeting her eye, is fumbling around with the camera and the screens.
Get it together, Hunter.
“Okay. I’m nearly ready. This is a beautiful room,” Harper says.
