Page 25 of Her Dark Lies
When we are alone, Henna practically growls the words “Who would do such a thing?” Her voice is quaking with anger and that sets me off.
“Someone who clearly hates me. And it must be someone close. How else could they get to the dress?”
That’s it. The tears pour down my face unchecked. The shock has passed, and reality is setting in, and I can’t dance away from it any longer.
Someone broke into my house, and died there. My wedding dress is ruined. A storm is bearing down on the island, Jack’s grandfather is addled, there’s a dead body down by the pier, and I don’t even want to think about what else might go wrong.
I don’t have panic attacks anymore. It’s something I left behind when I met Jack. He makes me feel so protected, so safe, that my lifelong anxiety has faded away. With Jack by my side, I feel in control again, strong, capable. I’m not that destabilized little girl who blamed herself for everyone’s bad moods and sharp words. I felt no need to pop pills or smoke joints to help me retreat from the world into a tiny cocoon of safety and warmth. His loved healed me, smoothed all my broken edges.
So I thought.
All of that progress, gone in a moment.
When I come back to myself, legs drawn into my chest, the slate floor hard beneath me, I realize Henna has put some sort of cold cloth on my neck and is stroking my back.
“Oh, Claire. Poor girl. I’m sorry. We’ll figure something out. It’s just a dress. It’s the vows that really matter.”
Just a dress. This from the woman who insisted on Louboutin bags for our hostess gifts. I am filled with a sudden desire to slap her hand away. Another vestige from my past, my anger, my impulse to lash out, to hurt, rearing its ugly head.
I struggle to my feet, pushing away her proffered hand, dragging in deep breaths.
“I’m okay. I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.”
“I am. It was a shock. I’m fine now. I’d like to be alone. Please.”
Henna frowns but takes the hint. “I’ll see what can be done for your dress. I still think it can be saved. We’ll get to the bottom of this, Claire. We’ll find out who did it. It’s a terrible, nasty prank, and we’ll find the culprit, I promise you.”
It is a good speech. I almost believe her.
With one last appraising glance, Henna strides out, heels clicking on the slate. I lock the door and make myself a cup of tea, go back to the bedroom, sink onto the heavenly soft bed, losing myself in the fluffy cream duvet. The scent of overripe lemons and dank vegetation and wet concrete drift through the room. I need to talk to Jack. There is no longer any doubt—we are under attack. The question is, from whom? And even more importantly, why?
I pull my phone from my pocket and send him a text—I need you.
I get nothing in reply. My phone has only one bar inside the room. I drag myself from the bed. I feel achy and sore, like I’m coming down with the flu. My throat is scratchy, my eyes burn.
I go out onto the terrace, into the salty, ozone-laden air.
The text still doesn’t go through.
I should go find him. But I don’t know where he is.
I feel another keening building inside, a desperate fear that something has happened to him, that I’ll never see him again. What would my life look like without Jack? Empty. Desolate. Over.
Grow up. Stop being such a spastic little girl. Why do you always act like such a child?
I leave the doors ajar so the air circulates and lie back down on the bed.
I haven’t felt this helpless and alone since my dad died.
And I can’t gotherenow, or I will fall apart completely.
I hear a scraping noise and let out a startled cry when the calico I was petting outside earlier leaps onto the foot of the bed. “My mother’s cats,” Jack had said, and it makes sense that the cat had sought out her spot, considering this room had long been Brice and Ana’s space, was just given over to us as the newest Compton bride and groom.
But the door is locked. I locked it myself when Henna left. How did the cat get in?
Off the terrace, perhaps. Or she could have been hiding under the bed. Stop being so spooky, Claire.
