Page 72 of Her Dark Lies

“Brian,” she says, mumbling now. “Money. So much money. This place...it’s...it’s...ostentatious. Gaudy. So tacky, all just to show off...”

We’re close to her room now; the huge Palladian window is at the far end of the hall. Using my light, I see the hand-lettered names tacked to the doors atop the room’s usual definers—Bell Tolls, Blue Danube, Starry Night. The rooms in the guest wing are named for famous figures or the room’s creative inspiration. Supposedly, it started when an artist stayed in the room and declared it their own, but there’s no way to know if that’s verifiable. The truth of their pasts died with them; we’re only left with the legends.

I feel a spike of sadness. Henna hand-lettered the personalized signs for the guest wing herself, the calligraphy elegant and precise. My flashlight turns the signs ivory as we walk down the hall. Katie Elderfield, Harper Hunter, ah, here it is—Trisha and Brian Reed.

I prop my mother between the door jamb and my left shoulder and pound on the door.Oh please, Brian, don’t you be drunk, too. “Brian? It’s Claire. Are you in there?”

“Brian, you in there?” my mother echoes with a tiny giggle, losing her balance as she reaches for the knob. “Briiiiiannnn... Mommy’s home.”

Oh, ew. There are just some things you aren’t ever supposed to know about your parents.

Brian opens the door, red hair standing on end as if he’s been buried face-down in a pillow. The light lilt of his Irish accent heavier than I’m used to. “What in the world?”

I shove my mother into his arms. “She’s drunk.”

“She’s covered in... Is that blood? Trisha? Honey? Where are you hurt? What happened?” To me: “I had no idea. I was beat after brunch, came up for a nap. She stayed downstairs, chatting. I am so sorry, Claire. I’ll get her straightened out. But where is she bleeding from?”

“It’s not her blood. Get her cleaned up and keep her in here, okay?”

Without waiting for an answer, I take off back toward my wing of the Villa.

I stop briefly at Harper’s door, listening. I hear nothing, so I knock. She doesn’t answer. She must still be with Ana and Brice.

Someone will need to tell Ana. Please let that not be me.

As I hurry back, I realize something. Brian didn’t seem too shocked that Mom was wasted. Which means Harper’s insistence that it’s just been a couple of glasses here and there while they’ve been visiting Italy is probably not true.

Mom’s drunk. Henna’s dead. What a mess. My God, what else can go wrong?

I mentally smack myself as soon as the thought forms.Don’t curse yourself, you idiot. But now it’s too late; the thought is out there in the universe, ripe for the picking.

I don’t realize I’ve taken the wrong hallway until I come to a staircase that is not the main route up into the Villa. Damn it. I turn and head back, but within minutes it’s clear that in my distraction, I’ve managed to get myself lost.

I go to the closest window to get my bearings. The rain is hammering the house, the grounds, coming down so intensely I can hardly make out what’s below me.

The sea. That’s all I can see, the whitecaps frothing against the rocks.

“Shit.”

The stairwell down is my only course. It must lead to the kitchens, must be the servants’ access to these floors.

Should I try to go back, or should I try to go down? Surely this will lead somewhere I’m more familiar with. If I can find the foyer, or the kitchen, I’m golden.

Decision made, I shine the flashlight on the steps and start down.

43

Surmising, Surprising, Sizing Things Up

Henna’s body is on the floor between the bridal suite and the guest wing, just at the turn toward the staircase, the staircase that leads to the lower floors between the two halls. Malcolm and Gideon stand guard to make sure no one accidentally comes up or down the stairs, allowing Tyler to do an assessment without being interrupted.

“I think she tripped down the stairs and cracked her head against the marble table,” Tyler says. “Broke her neck. God. Henna. Mom’s going to be devastated.”

Considering the series of events over the past few days, Jack tries to look at this with altitude. He doubts Trisha is anything but an inconvenient scapegoat. No, if Henna’s been killed, this attack is personal. What stronger message could their unseen tormenter send? Taking out Henna, beloved, innocent Henna, means all bets are off.

But if she hadn’t fallen, had been pushed, who could be capable of such a thing? The very thought makes him squirm. The pool of possible suspects can only be drawn from two groups: the staff, or the wedding guests.

Where is Claire now? Damn it, what was he thinking, letting her go off alone?