Page 79 of Her Dark Lies
“Generator was out of gas, though hell if I know how that happened. We were down working on it.”
“All right. Gideon,” Jack says to the slightly taller of the two men, “I see no need to inform the Italian authorities, since there’s no chance of them reaching us in this storm. I can’t see that it would be wise to raise the alarm bells right now. For our own knowledge, we must document every inch of this crime scene, and then move the body and clean the scene. We can’t have her lying on the floor out here.”
“Yes, sir,” Gideon says.
“Is there any chance the cameras were online?”
Malcolm shakes his head. “Since the generators went down, we’ve all been in the dark. Something’s wrong with the generators, other than being low on fuel. I’m not sure how much light we have, and the cameras are still offline.”
“Convenient.”
Gideon is assessing the scene with a practiced eye. “You think it’s murder?”
“You don’t?”
“I hoped it was an accident.”
“I did, too. See the edge of the table?”
Gideon gets close. “Could be,” he says. A few seconds pass, and he nods again. “Yes, I can see it. She tripped down the stairs—the momentum took her headfirst into the table, smashing her temple, and she went down. Knocked the candlestick down the hallway. I bet the only prints on that thing are from the staff, the most recent cleaning. Fatima, maybe, arranging things.”
Malcolm nods his agreement. Jack exhales, hard.
“That’s the party line, do you understand? Until we can figure out who might be behind this, who might be trying to hurt me, or Claire, or the family, the rest of the guests will only be told that Henna’s death is a tragic accident.”
“Understood.”
“And get rid of that fucking candlestick.”
“Yes, sir,” Malcolm says, retrieving it.
Jack wipes a sleeve over his forehead; he’s started to sweat. “We have to figure out what the hell actually happened. I didn’t hear anything like an attack. Claire and I were in our rooms when Claire’s mother, Trisha, knocked on the door. She and Claire tripped over Henna on their way back to Trisha’s room. Perhaps we say she was going to handle the problem with the generators.”
Gideon nods again, brushes his hands together as if washing them of the subject. “Yeah, that’s a small window, there can’t be too many other people around. I think it’s safe to say Ms. Shaikh slipped and hit her head. Poor woman. What a shame. I liked her, very much. We’ll figure it out, Mr. Compton. Go talk to your parents. Your mother is waiting.”
“Don’t let anyone down this hall until you’re finished. And when you’re done, Malcolm, I want you on Claire exclusively. Just in case. She’s not to be left alone out of my presence, do you hear me?”
Malcolm doesn’t seem surprised. He nods. “Yes, sir. I’ll keep her safe.”
“And I need a weapon.”
Malcolm lifts a pant leg and pulls a Beretta Nano from his ankle hostler, hands it to Jack. Jack gestures, and Malcolm gives him the holster, too. Jack racks the slide, clearing the chamber, snaps out the magazine, then reseats it and chambers a bullet. He straps the holster to his ankle, tight, so it won’t slide—his leg is smaller than Malcolm’s—but keeps the Beretta itself in his right hand. Regardless of the situation, accident or otherwise, he is not about to get caught flat-footed with just a knife and a flashlight to defend himself.
His bodyguards immediately get to work.
Jack watches for a moment, then, satisfied, sets off to his parents’ suite.
His phone dings and he glances at the screen as he walks. The unidentified number, with the same message as before, only the video this time is slightly altered. This time, it shows Jack with the gun, rubbing it down.
Rubbing off Claire’s fingerprints.
Repent, Jackson. Repent.
If this video is released, they all go down.
48
Playing Dress-up
