Page 95 of Her Dark Lies

“Someone painted the wordWHOREon it. In blood.”

“Oh. Your poor dress. I’m sorry, Claire. I know you must be disappointed.”

“That’s an understatement,” Katie says.

Mom actually looks stricken, and approaches me as if she’s going to give me a hug, like any normal mother would do in this situation. I don’t fight the embrace, allow myself to be wrapped in her arms. I can’t remember the last time my mother hugged me of her own accord.

I wonder if I’ve been too hard on her. On Katie. On everyone. I’ve been so blinded by my love for Jack, so romanced by the idea of our perfect lives together, of all the things I can have, all the things I can do, I’ve been pushing everyone else away. Pushing away their worries, their concerns.

Mom ends the hug. “I’m so terribly jet-lagged. I took a Unisom last night and it hasn’t worn off. I’m going to rest some more before the rehearsal. If you need me, Claire—” She stares at me as if challenging me to contradict her. When I don’t, she relaxes a little. “I’ll be right here.”

She sweeps out of the room like a queen.

“Wow. Is she still drunk?” Katie asks.

“Possibly. That’s the nicest she’s been since I took out my nose ring. We should go look for Harper, shouldn’t we?”

“Where are we going to look? This place is massive. Call her first. See if she’s just off doing something and not back here yet.”

I glance at my signal, see the Wi-Fi is back up and running just fine. That’s a relief. But Harper’s phone rings and rings, with no answer. I leave a voicemail. I text. We wait a few minutes. Crickets.

“Have you checked her Instagram?” Katie asks.

“Well, duh. No.”

I open the Instagram app and scroll to my sister’s feed. Amazing, after this weekend, she’s pushing toward the two-million-follower mark. Good for her.

The most recent post is shot from someplace I don’t recognize. It’s dark. There is water. I can see the glint of silvery light that indicates ripples. It doesn’t have the usual artistic composition of Harper’s shots—though it is beautiful in its starkness—and there is no caption. No platitude, no inspiration, no celebration of life, no words of wisdom. No carefully chosen hashtags. Nothing except 53,567 likes and 3,254 comments. None of which appear to be from Harper, who I know spends five minutes per post responding to as many people as she can. That is her secret to success.

Alarm creeps up my spine.

“What sort of picture is that? It looks like a cave.” Katie twists the phone in my hand, and when the screen turns, I look closer. It does look a bit like a cave. And the shot has been taken landscape, but not rotated, so it’s off. Like it was taken and uploaded from the side. What in the world?

I quickly scroll back through the rest of Harper’s feed. Shot after shot from Rome, Naples, the boat, the island—I recognize the cliff face from my own journey in. Shots of the Villa’s exterior, the labyrinth. My room. The three of us in a selfie on my terrace, the rain pouring down.

A few of the art inside the Villa—I bet Ana will be thrilled with that—a shot from one of the Villa’s many terraces with the caption:It was a dark and stormy night. Then, the weird, unlabeled shot from the darkness.

“Check her stories. See if she went live at all,” Katie says. There is concern in her voice, which almost surprises me. Almost. Katie might be jealous of Harper, might fight with her like a rabid cat, but she certainly doesn’t wish her genuine ill.

Her stories are more shots of the island, the labyrinth, the cottages—gosh, Harper was a busy bee—a silly shot of her and my mother sticking out their tongues; that must have been from the brunch. Yes, my mom is clearly tipsy, her nose is red and eyes glassy.

The photo is in her stories, too, but this time, there is a caption, written across it in bland courier type. Not at all what Harper usually uses.

Three words.

Big News Coming...

Katie turns the phone around, trying to get the photo to straighten. “Okay, this seems...weird.”

“I agree. Something’s off. She is never coy, or vague.”

Katie starts taking apart Harper’s room, quickly, systematically. Drawers, the wardrobe, under the bed, under the mattress. She finds Harper’s tote, pulls out her passport and wallet, her laptop, notebook, and camera. No phone.

“If she was in trouble, why wouldn’t she just call?” Katie asks.

“I don’t know. We’re making a big leap that she’s in trouble. Maybe she’s just playing a joke.”

“With everything that’s going on...”