The Stats
đ BOOK REVIEWâ đ
BOOK: Her Dark Lies
AUTHOR: J.T. Ellison @thrillerchick
Publisher: MIRA @_mira_books_
Stars: âââ1/2
Published: March 9, 2021
The Review
⨠The Title/Cover Draw:
- I really enjoyed Good Girls Lie and this one sounded a lot like The Guest List.
đ What I liked:
- The clues were given subtly and while some were totally obvious, some were hidden. There was a lot of good and descriptive writing here.
đą What I didnât like:
- Not everything is clear, motive-wise. While there is a lot of suspicion thrown, you still donât have a firm idea of why.
đââď¸ The Characters:
- Morgan is the wife who died. Jack is getting married to Claire on his family’s island.
đŚ The Ending:
- There are still a lot of questions I have about this book.
đ Reminds me of:
- The Guest List
I voluntarily read and reviewed an advanced copy of this book. All thoughts and opinions are my own. Received from Netgalley.
About the Book:
Fast-paced and brilliantly unpredictable, J.T. Ellisonâs breathtaking new novel invites you to a wedding none will forgetâand some wonât survive.
Jutting from sparkling turquoise waters off the Italian coast, Isle Isola is an idyllic setting for a wedding. In the majestic cliff-top villa owned by the wealthy Compton family, up-and-coming artist Claire Hunter will marry handsome, charming Jack Compton, surrounded by close family, intimate friendsâŚand a host of dark secrets.
From the moment Claire sets foot on the island, something seems amiss. Skeletal remains have just been found. There are other, newer disturbances, too. Menacing texts. A ruined wedding dress. And one troubling shadow hanging over Claireâs otherwise blissful relationshipâthe strange mystery surrounding Jackâs first wife.
Then a raging storm descends, the power goes outâand the real terror beginsâŚ
About the Author:
J.T. Ellison is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than 25 novels, and the EMMYÂŽ award winning co-host of the literary TV show A WORD ON WORDS. With millions of books in print, her work has won critical acclaim, prestigious awards, and has been published in 28 countries. Ellison lives in Nashville with her husband and twin kittens.
Social Links:
Website: https://www.jtellison.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/JTEllison14/
Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/thrillerchick
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/thrillerchick
Bookshop: https://bookshop.org/shop/jtellison
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/jtellison
Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/j-t-ellison
Mailing List: https://www.jtellison.com/subscribe
Excerpt
1
Beginnings and Endings
She is going to die tonight.
The white dress, long and filmy, hampers her effort to run. The hem catches on a branch; a large rend in the fabric slashes open, exposing her leg. A deep cut blooms red along her thigh, and the blood runs down her calf. Her hair has come loose from its braid, flies unbound behind her like gossamer wings.
In her panic, she barely notices the pain.
The path ahead is marked by towering cypress and laurel, verdant and lush. A gray stone waist-high wall is all that stands between her and the cliffside. It is cool inside this miniature forest; the sky is blotted out by the purple-throated wisteria that drapes across and between the trees. Someone, years ago, built an archway along the arbor. The archâs skeleton has long since rotted away and the flowers droop into the path, clinging trails and vines that brush against her head and shoulders. It should be beautiful; instead it feels oppressive, as if the vines might animate, twist and curl around her neck and strangle her to death.
She tries not to look down to the frothing water roiling against the rocks at the cliffâs base. She thinks the ruins are to her right. From what she remembers, they are between the church and the artistsâ colony, the four cottages cowering on the hillside, empty and waiting.
A horn shrieks, and she realizes the ferry is pulling away. A crack of lightning, and she sees the silhouette of the captain in the pilothouse, looking out to the turbulent seas ahead. A gamble that he makes it before the storm is upon them.
Donât panic. Donât panic.
Where is the church?
There it is, a flash of white through the trees. The stuccoed walls loom, the bell tower hidden behind the overgrown foliage. Now the path is moving upward, the grade increasing. She feels it in her calves and hopes again she is going the right way. The Villa is on the hill, on the northwest promontory of the island. If she can reach its doors, she will be safe.
It is too quiet. There are no birds, no creatures, no buzzing or cries, just her ragged, heavy breath and the scree shuffling underfoot as she climbs. The furious roar of the water smashing its frustration against the rocks rises from her left, echoing against the cliffside.
The dogs begin to howl.
Climb. Climb. Keep going.
She must get to the Villa. There she can call for help. Lock herself inside. Maybe find a weapon.
A branch snaps and she halts, breathless.
Someone is coming.
She startles like a deer, now heedless of the noise sheâs making. Fighting back a whimper of fear, she breaks free of the cloistered path to see an old decrepit staircase cut into the stone. Careful, she must be cautious, there are gaps where some steps are missing, and the rest are mossy with disuse, but hurry, hurry. Get away.
She winds up the steps, clinging to the rock face, until she bursts free into a sea of scrubby pines. Two sculptures, Janus twins, flank a slate-dark path into a labyrinth of rhododendron and azalea.
This isnât right. Where is she?
A hard breeze disrupts the trees around her, and a rumble of thunder like a thousand drums rolls across her body. Lightning flashes and she sees the Villa in the distance. So far away. On the other side of the labyrinth. The other side of the hill.
Sheâs gone the wrong way.
A droplet of water hits her arm, then her forehead. Dread bubbles through her.
She is too late. The storm is upon her.
The howls of the dogs draw closer. The wind whistles hard and sharp, buffeting her against the stone wall. She canât move, deep fear cementing her feet. Rain makes the gauzy dress cling to the curves of her body, and the blood on her thigh washes to the ground. None of it matters. She cannot escape.
When he comes, at last, sauntering through the storm, the barking beasts leaping and growling beside him, she is crying, clinging to the wall, the lightning illuminating the ruins; the ancient stones and stark, headless statues the only witness to her death.
She goes over the wall with a thunder-drowned scream, the jagged rocks below her final companions.
MONDAY
Insecurity is the worst sense that lovers feel; sometimes the most humdrum desireless marriage seems better. Insecurity twists meanings and poisons trust.
âGraham Greene, The End of the Affair
2
The Party
Nashville, Tennessee
The last few days before a wedding are the most stressful of a brideâs life.
I repeat this mantra to justify accepting a fourth glass of champagne from the slim, silent, white-gloved server. The champagne is delightful, cool and fizzy against my throat.
I am well past tipsy, and thankfully, it seems the evening is winding down. The quartet is looking decidedly tired, and the servers have been circling with the macarons for over half an hour. All I want to do at this point is sneak off to a corner to discreetly rub the bottoms of my feet; Iâm wearing my five-hour heels but Iâm pushing hour six and feeling it. I am smiled, chatted, and air-kissed out.
I take a second sip, then cast a glance across the crowded ballroom to my bridegroom. Jack doesnât seem stressed at all. Quite the opposite; he is as relaxed and calm as Iâve seen him in weeks. He is in his element, surrounded by benefactors and businessmen, people of standing and stature. His dark blond hair is mussed, his eyes a bit glassy from all the toasting. The quintessential quarterbackâimpossibly handsome, easy smile, thick hair, oozing sex appeal. The kind of guy who doesnât flame out after college, but goes the whole way, becomes a brand, gets endorsement deals, marries a supermodel and has two perfect kids and an architecturally interesting home.
Though Jack is not a quarterback, and I am hardly a supermodel. I am tall, and I do have an awful lot of blond hair, but thatâs where the resemblance ends. Iâm an artist, a painter. My talent is large canvas abstracts, modern oils. And even that has been enhanced by Jackâs influence.
These assets donât seem enough, and yet, William Jackson Compton has chosen to spend his life with me.
Yes, that Jackson Compton, eldest son of the illustrious computer magnate William Brice Compton III, and his brilliant wife, Ana Catalano Compton.
This party is our last obligation before hopping a flight to Italy. To have our wedding on Isle Isola, in the Comptonsâ private centuries-old villa, packed with modern art and old secrets. Itâs belonged to the family for generations.
Personally, I would have been fine with the courthouse, but there will be nothing but the best for Jack.
At my request, the ceremony itself will be for our closest family and friends only, but because so many people wanted to celebrate with us, the powers that beâAna, and our wedding planner, Henna Shaikhâdecided a precursor event would be fitting. A reception before the wedding, complete with a tanker truck of champagne, heavy hors dâoeuvres, five hundred well-heeled strangers, enough staff to circulate food and wine for the masses, one gregarious groom, and one extremely shy bride.
And twinkle lights. One must never forget the twinkle lights.
This prewedding extravaganza is why Iâm now standing in an outrageously expensive Elie Saab column of the palest ivory satin and sky-high Jimmy Choo heels in the ballroom of Cheekwood mansion quaffing champagne as if my life depends on it. One wall of the ballroom has been lit up all evening with tasteful black-and-white photographs from our courtship, interspersed with photos of Jack on-site in foreign countries, holding babies during their inoculations and drilling water wells, part of his duties with the Compton Foundation, a hugely successful and popular philanthropic endeavor. There are even a few shots of me in my studio and my paintings. They look so fascinating in monochrome, it has me itching to sneak away to my studio tonight, though this isnât going to happen. AâI donât often like the results when I paint drunk. BâWe leave tomorrow for Isola, ergo, there is no more painting time for me until after the wedding.
Jack senses me watching him. His smile grows wider, into a grin that is pure, sheer delight. You are mine, and I am yours, and we are so very lucky, it says. He tips his glass my direction, and I tip mine in return, then take a sip, promptly spilling a teensy bit onto the front of my dress. Shit. I have definitely been overserved.
I set the glass down on the nearest table and discreetly dab at my collarbones with my cocktail napkin, feeling the scratchy embossing of our conjoined initials in golden scroll against my bare skin.
Jack must have seen my faux pas because he crosses the room like a torpedo. Heâs not upset, heâs highly amused, judging by the rumbles of laughter coming from his broad chest. His arms encircle my waist and he sweeps me up into a hug that takes my feet off the ground. He whirls me in a circle.
âDarling, darling, my beautiful, lovely, wet darling.â
âOh good, youâre tipsy, too. Set me down, you silly man.â
But there is a tinkling noise, metal chiming against the champagne flutes, which is how Iâve gotten so merry to start with. So. Many. Toasts.
Jack kisses me, still twirling. The crowd cheers uproariously, and my head spins in all the right ways. Nothing matters but thisâthis man, me in his arms, our lips touching. Forever. Heâs mine forever.
âWant to get out of here?â he whispers, stopping finally. I slide down his body like a ballerina until my toes touch the hardwood.
âGod, yes. Now?â
âNow.â
âExcellent. Can we just sneak out? Irish goodbye in three, two, oneâŚâ
âDarling, we can do whatever we want. Itâs our party. But letâs say goodbye, just to be polite.â He turns to the crowd and puts up a hand, and silence descends on the room.
His power over people is magnetic. If he ever wanted to take over his fatherâs company, the world would bend over backward to pave his way. Lucky for me, Jack is content with the Foundation.
âThank you, all, for a lovely evening. So glad youâve been able to celebrate with us. Weâll see you on the other side.â
Quick as a magician, Jack has us out of the room and on the slate path to the black Suburban waiting outside before the applause and calls of best wishes and congratulations fully dies down. His personal security guards, Gideon and Malcolm, materialize like well-armed ghosts and fall in silently behind us. I call them the Crows because they are practically identical, with their buzz cuts and beefy arms, dressed in unrelenting black from head to toe, and hover, continuously, over their prize. How his people know when and where to be ready for him is still anyoneâs guess. I suppose Iâll learn. Though Jack moved into my house in 12th South several months ago, he still travels constantly, and Iâve rarely accompanied him on business.
So far, Iâve managed to escape the Crowsâ scrutiny. It is only at my insistence that they donât flank Jack and me twenty-four/seven. Once weâre married, that will change. The Crows will be at my side, too, and I donât have a choice in the matter. There have already been too many security briefings for my taste.
I collapse into the back of the Suburban and kick off my heels, sighing in relief.
Jack leans over and nuzzles my neck. âYou smell like MĂśet & Chandon.â
âI suppose there are worse things. The party was fun. Iâm sorry your mom had to miss it.â
âNo, youâre not. But thatâs fine. She and Henna are going wild at the Villa, running the servants ragged getting everything prepared. All we have to do is show up and smile.â
âI love your mom. Sheâs just a bitâŚintimidating.â
âShe will love hearing that. Speaking of, did you speak to yours tonight?â
âFor a moment. She called when they arrived in Rome. Said Brian and Harper are making noises about never coming home. She said theyâll meet us on Isola Thursday. At least weâll have a day to decompress before my family descends.â
An inadvertent sigh slips from my lips. I love my family, but we arenât terribly close. Everyone is pursuing their own agendas, their own lives. My sister has been acting especially weird lately, and thatâs saying something.
Truth be told⌠I think thereâs a little jealousy going on. Things have been more strained than usual since Jack and I announced our engagement.
âGood. The majority of the guests should be arriving Thursday morning as well. The rehearsal is Friday, and Saturday, you, my darling, will officially be Mrs. Compton.â
âI like the sound of that.â
He kisses me lightly. âI do, too.â
Jackâs hand is wandering up my thigh, but I bat it away. âIf youâre looking for postprandial treats, youâll have to wait until later, cowboy.â
âThey donât care,â he murmurs into my ear, but I shake my head.
âI care. Wait until weâre alone, and then you can have your dessert. I noticed you passed on the macarons.â
He flops back into the seat. âThey were stale. Mom will be livid.â
âThey were? I thought they were yummy.â
âYouâll learn. Once youâve had one fresh out of the ovens on the Champs-ĂlysĂŠes, youâll see what I mean.â
âYou, my darling, are a snob.â
âAnd you love me.â
He kisses me sweetly, and the Suburban pulls to the curb in front of our house. We spill out, both loose and uncoordinated, under the watchful eyes of the Crows. Gideon stays with us while Malcolm sweeps the house. He gives us the all clear. Once weâre inside, they disappear into whatever crevice they live in overnight.
I carry my heels in one hand, grateful for the lack of stress on my arches. Jack tosses his jacket over the bar stool at the eat-in counter, tugs at his tie and unbuttons his collar, rolls up his sleeves, the motions so quick, so practiced and fluid, itâs hypnotizing. He sees me watching and makes it into a tease, stepping closer with each turn of the fabric.
âYou should try that with the buttons,â I say, running my tongue over my lips.
He grins, lazy and confident. âNaw. Iâll let you have the honor.â
A step closer, another. My hand lands on his chest. My mouth tips up to his.
I smell something odd, something acrid and primordial, and step back.
âWhat the hell is that?â he says, pulling away.
âI donât know. It smells terrible. Like burning hair. Is something on fire?â
âShh,â he says, straining, listening. All I hear is the air-conditioner. But no, there it is. A thump. A creak. The unmistakable sound of footsteps.
Someone is in the house. Someone is upstairs in our house.
Jack bolts from my side, takes the stairs two at a time. I follow, just in time to see the door to the attic is open.
âGet Gideon and Malcolm,â Jack shouts over his shoulder, throwing himself headlong into the darkness. But I am frozen. My mind canât process whatâs happening. I am cold with terror, the adrenaline rush forcing away my reason. I canât think. I canât move.
A masked man bursts from the darkness above and launches himself down the stairs. I am in his way, and he knocks me to the ground in his haste. I smash backward into the wall, banging my head hard against the chair rail. Jack is there a heartbeat later, calling for the Crows as he throws himself at the intruder, arms out, a perfect flying tackle. They go down hard on the landing, scuffling, locked in a deadly battle. Jack is the bigger man, he has the leverage he needs to get an arm on the manâs windpipe, but the intruder is quick, kicking out at Jackâs stomach until he connects and Jack is knocked off.
This gives the intruder the upper hand. He flips Jack onto his back, punching wildly while reaching behind to his waistband. My mind registers the gun, and the peril Jack is in, and without another thought, I kick the manâs arm just as his fingers close around the gunâs grip. It spins away, clattering against the baseboards. We lunge for it at the same time. I am closer. I get there first.
The shot is deafening.
The intruder falls to the floor at my feet, moaning, squirming. Blood pours from his side. So much blood. The man bleeds and bleeds and bleeds until he is still. I watch, fascinated, as a small trickle of crimson runs toward my bare foot.
Then Malcolm and Gideon are hoisting me to my feet, and the roaring in my head overwhelms me.