Page 80 of Her Dark Lies

I walk woodenly to the suite, trying not to think about the crypt, or the sticky blood on my hands, my clothes. I must have touched my face, too; I feel something slick on my cheek. I swipe it away with the hem of my shirt, see the crimson smear, and my head swims. I fight against the urge to faint—being unconscious won’t help anything.

Until Monday, I hadn’t been close to a corpse since my father died. In the past three days not only have I’ve killed my former boyfriend, a lost body has shown up, Henna’s fallen down the stairs, and I’ve found out the whole Villa is perched over hundreds of dead. Was it too much to ask that Jack warn me we’d be living in a graveyard?

Henna’s blank eyes. I glance at my hand, at my cuticles rimed in blood, and shudder.

Do I really want to go through with this?

It is a mutinous thought, and I try to wrestle it back into its lidded box, but once I’ve thought it... I’ve had the sense that something is wrong for days now. Maybe the universe is trying to tell me something. Maybe I shouldn’t marry Jack. Maybe this is the wrong path.

The door to the suite opens with a discreetbeep, and Fatima bustles me inside.

“Where will they take Henna? Will they put her in the crypt?”

“I do not know, Signorina. It is best for you not to worry about such things. You need a shower,” she says softly, leading me through to the big marble bathroom. She starts the water and gestures for me to strip and get in.

When I hesitate, Fatima gives me a knowing, reassuring smile. She seems kind, now, not scary or bossy. Solicitous. “I’ll be right outside. You’re safe. Go on, now.”

The bathroom door closes and I am alone.

I slip inside the shower, have a moment’s shame that I am the one standing here, not Henna, then push the thought away. I’ve been fighting the battle against survivor’s guilt since my father’s accident, I’m not going to go down that destructive wormhole again.

The hot water feels good, clean. I let it wash away the physical evidence, and the emotional aftermath.

I hear a knock on the bathroom door, and though I’m hidden in the shower by the wall, I reflexively clutch the washcloth to my chest.

“Yes?”

“Fresh towels for you, Signorina. I’ll leave them on the chair.”

“Thank you, Fatima.”

The door closes again, and I try to breathe and relax. Once I’m feeling more in control, I scrub myself clean, wash my hair carefully, trying not to catch my fingers along the edge of the stitches, then, recognizing I can’t waste any more time, dry off with a warm, fluffy towel, wrap another around my hair. I pull open the drawer to grab my comb and remember the freaky note I found in Jack’s drawer earlier.

Don’t you miss me, darling?

Just in case, I open his top drawer, but there’s nothing unusual. I resolve to ask Jack about it when he gets back.

I drop the towel, pull the comb through my hair, and walk to the dressing room. Fatima has hung my dress for the rehearsal and dinner. I found it in a shop on 12th South in Nashville, and it is one of the most beautiful creations I’ve ever seen, next to my wedding gown, of course. It’s Laura Blake couture, pale crushed satin cut on the bias, the barely-there pink of a delicate shell, gathered at the bust and shoulders, with a long skirt that clings to my body. When I move, the satin slips against my legs in sensual swishes. I made sure it pulled up to my hips easily, without ripping, when I tried it on. Jack is going to go mad for it.

I call out the door. “Fatima? My dress is out. Are we really going forward with everything?”

“Of course we are. The weekend has not been cancelled, Signorina Claire. It goes on as planned.”

“But Henna—”

“Your guests expect the rehearsal party tonight. We shouldn’t disappoint them.”

“We should cancel.”

Fatima comes in without waiting for my approval. I scramble into the robe that’s hanging on the dressing room door. I’ve never been the kind of girl who can strut around naked in front of strangers. Even with Jack, if it’s not dark, I still sometimes hesitate before dropping my towel.

Fatima ignores my discomfort, picks up the damp towels and opens a small door in the wall—a laundry chute, I realize. The towels disappear with awhoosh.

“Signora Compton has indicated all is moving forward as planned.”

“But...I thought...and with your mother, too...”

Oh, well done, Claire. Toss that in her face.