Page 58 of Her Dark Lies

My mind is laughing at me, mocking.You knew it was him. You knew. When Malcolm took off his mask, you saw him and you knew.

He was older. He’d gained a lot of weight and a lot of muscle. He looked hard, and dirty, and that half smile etched on his dead face was just as terrifying now as it was a decade ago.

The last time I saw it was in the courtroom before he was sent to prison. He smiled at me as I sat on the stand, testifying against him, more a sneer than a smile, though it somehow still held some promise of love in it. The wrong kind of love. The kind that hurts and tears, not comforts and hugs.

“Claire? Did you know it was him? Did you recognize him? It’s okay if you did, we are not deviating from the narrative. Malcolm shot him, and that’s the end of it. But I have to ask, because the police will, too. Did you know it was him?”

My voice sounds strangled. “No. Not before...not until Malcolm took off his mask. Even then, I wasn’t sure.”

“Has he been in touch? Has he reached out? When did you speak to him last?”

“At the trial. Before. No, he hasn’t been in touch.”

All the strange incidents over the past few months that I’ve shrugged off to my being clumsy, accident prone, having bad luck, line themselves up in my brain. Everything comes into startling, terrifying clarity.

I’m wrong. Shane has been in touch, in his own insidious, awful way. He wasn’t just trying to intimidate me. Or watch me. He was getting back at me. He was trying to kill me.

I should get Jack. Right now. I shouldn’t be telling anything to Karmen Harris before I tell my fiancé. But this feels very big, and very scary, and the urge to confess is overwhelming. Karmen is staring at me as if every thought I’ve just had was spoken aloud.

I sit up straight, cross my legs.

“He hasn’t been in direct contact, no. But a lot of weird stuff has been going on.”

I tell her about the odd happenings over the past several weeks. The feeling of being watched. The window in my bedroom left open when I knew it had been closed. The near misses by cars as I walked to the coffee shop down the street. The horrid food poisoning that sent me to the hospital; Jack had shared the same meal and had been totally fine. And here at the Villa, the French doors being open, then closed, the knocking from inside the walls, the broken glass on the rug. That creepy ass note.

The blood on my dress.

WHORE

Kamren isn’t taking notes, thank God, just committing my words to memory. When I finish, she asks the obvious question.

“Have you told Jack?”

“No. I didn’t want to seem like an idiot.” I didn’t want to seem weak.

She must understand what I’m saying, and what I’m not, because she gives me a sympathetic smile. “Thank you for trusting me with this information, Claire. It helps. It helps tremendously. I’d like to pivot for a moment. Let’s talk about the art dealer who came to see you. Ami Eister.”

“Were you able to speak with her?”

“Not exactly. She’s dead.”

I’m sure my jaw has dropped unbecomingly. Dead? Shit. Am I going to get blamed for this, too? I don’t know ifMalcolm killed the art dealeris going to fly.

“What? When did that happen?”

“Six months ago. She died on vacation, out of the country.”

So I can’t be blamed. Is it ungracious of me to feel utter, complete relief at this? I never said I was a good person.

“I don’t understand. She was just at my studio three weeks ago. How could she have died six months ago?”

“I think it’s clear whoever was at the studio, it wasn’t the art dealer Ami Eister. It’s entirely possible someone was using her identity to get to you.”

She breaks off, watching me closely, allowing me to catch up.

“They were working together. Shane and this imposter.”

“There’s a solid chance that’s true. Until we ascertain her identity, we won’t know for sure. What exactly did she say to you? What did she ask you?”