Page 8 of Her Dark Lies

I watch Jack stride away and wrestle my urge to confess back into place. What purpose will it serve? He’ll just get upset, and who knows, maybe I’ll change my mind.

You know what they say about digging your own grave.

I turn back to the island.

Unlike the smoky gray open waters of the bay, the water in the shallower edges of the channel is cerulean and almost clear; schools of dark fish race away. What are they running from? The boat? A predator?

The breeze cools, the azure Mediterranean early summer sky turning hazy. Bad weather is coming. Italy is under a Red warning this long weekend, a severe weather alert, expecting the worst storms in a decade.

I hope everyone gets here in time. The channel crossing to Isle Isola is too dicey to manage anything smaller than the yacht or the hydrofoil ferry in bad weather, and the hydrofoil normally runs to Isola only once a week, though it’s running three days in a row for us to get all the guests on the island. And obviously, the choppers can’t fly if the storm is too bad.

The Hebridesis approaching the cliff’s edge now. The imposing granite face is sheer and unforgiving. We’re so close I can see the striations of the stone, the moss growing in the cracks. At the top, there is a flash of white. What is that?

A scarf, my mind fills in.A woman’s scarf.

And then it is gone.

Someone is watching for us.

5

Old Bones

The crew begins to shout, and Jack appears back at my side. “We’re putting in. The radar looks nasty, the first of the storms is coming in faster than they were expecting. I hope the hydrofoil is right behind us. They might have some trouble if they haven’t launched yet.”

“What did the Crows want?”

“Malcolm and Gideon,” he corrects automatically. “You have to stop calling them that, darling. Especially now. They were just running me through the new schedule. Mom called, she thought it might be wise to move everything up a day. The storm will blow through during the night and day tomorrow, then there will be a break in the weather. So, the rehearsal dinner will be Thursday night instead of Friday, and the wedding Friday instead of Saturday. Is that okay?”

I fight back the urge to snap—Are you kidding me? We’ve had this schedule laid out for months.What if the guests don’t get here on time?

But the girl who’s marrying Jack isn’t the type to get fussed over something so insignificant as a schedule change. No bridezillas here. Ana and Brice are funding most everything for the wedding anyway, and with Henna planning everything, I’m just along for the ride. My only goal is Jack’s—our—eternal happiness.

“No problem. With everyone here I suppose it doesn’t really matter when things happen. If Henna’s cool with it, so am I.”

“Good. Thanks for being so understanding. Now the only issue is getting the ferry here before the worst of the storm hits.” He looks over his shoulder to the open waters as if he can conjure the hydrofoil. I run a hand along his arm, for once reassuring him.

“I’m sure they will. I have faith in the Compton magic. Everyone will be here safe and sound before the heavens start to squall.”

“I love how you talk.”

“I love you. By the way, someone was watching for us on the cliff. I saw a flash of white, a scarf, I think. Your family must be expecting us.”

Jack’s brows furrow. “No one should be up there now. It’s blocked off for the renovations.”

“Someone cheated then.”

“You’re sure you saw someone?”

Am I? The flash of white, the sense that a woman had turned and walked away...

“Yes. Of course, I am.”

“All right. I’ll mention it. We don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

The engines reverse, growling their displeasure. The teak deck shifts beneath our feet, and I grab onto the railing for extra balance. The island looms ahead, its lush, forested hills gleaming, the massive cliffside disappearing from view as the boat comes around. The sun catches my ring, making it flash and sparkle.

I breathe in the sea air, taking a moment to revel in the warm sun, the shrieks of the gulls, the calls of the crew, the strong arms folded across the rail next to mine. The incessant whapping of a helicopter’s rotors bleeds through the bucolic seascape. Jack’s father and brother, beating the storm.