On Sale Date: March 9, 2021
Trade Paperback
$16.99 USD, $21.99 CAD
Fiction / Thrillers / Domestic
416 pages
Fast-paced and brilliantly unpredictable, J.T. Ellison’s breathtaking new novel invites you to a wedding none will forget—and some won’t 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 friends…and 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 Claire’s otherwise
blissful relationship—the strange mystery surrounding Jack’s first wife.
Then a raging storm
descends, the power goes out—and the real terror begins…
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Claire drove me crazy with the way she constantly questioned small statements until she drove herself insecure. I get it's her wedding and stuff is falling apart but Lord, pull it together. She wasn't the strong heroine I was expecting that’s for sure. She tended to let Jack take the lead and just accepted his word as gospel. That bugged me because I could see Jack was hiding some secrets... some secrets that were buried around 6-feet under. Jack wasn't the only one with secrets thought. His family, the Compton's, are just as pompous as they sound. There's so many secrets in this family that you have to sign an NDA to even join the family... rolls eyes.
With all that said, I did like the story. It started out slow and very slowly picked up pace. When the first person dies, I literally thought, finally, let's get this story moving. Thankfully it does start to move after that death. The past is ripe with secrets and it isn't as dead as the Compton's would like. Oh no, they have some unburied secrets hiding along passageways waiting to mess up Jack's idealistic future. I'll be real; any thriller lover will see this ending coming from a mile away. However, that doesn't ruin the storyline per say. The writing is good and well developed. The characters are easily dislikable for the most part with a few being likeable. So you don't mind everything going down as it is. Even with the ending pretty laid out for anyone to guess, I liked it. I was happy with it and found the ending to be satisfactory.
I received an ARC of this book with the hope that I would leave an Unbiased Opinion. I was not required to leave a review, positive or otherwise, and my opinions are just that... my opinions.
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 arch’s 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 cliff’s
base. She thinks the ruins are to her right. From what she remembers, they are
between the church and the artists’ 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.
Don’t panic. Don’t 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 she’s 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 isn’t
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.
She’s 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 can’t 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.
—Graham Greene, The End of
the Affair
2
The Party
Nashville,
Tennessee
The last few days before a wedding are the most
stressful of a bride’s 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; I’m wearing my five-hour heels but I’m 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 doesn’t seem
stressed at all. Quite the opposite; he is as relaxed and calm as I’ve 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 quarterback—impossibly handsome,
easy smile, thick hair, oozing sex appeal. The kind of guy who doesn’t 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 that’s where the resemblance ends. I’m an
artist, a painter. My talent is large canvas abstracts, modern oils. And even
that has been enhanced by Jack’s influence.
These
assets don’t 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 Comptons’ private centuries-old villa, packed with modern
art and old secrets. It’s 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 be—Ana,
and our wedding planner, Henna Shaikh—decided a precursor event would be
fitting. A reception before the wedding, complete with a tanker truck of
champagne, heavy hors d’oeuvres, 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 I’m 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 isn’t going to happen. A—I don’t
often like the results when I paint drunk. B—We 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. He’s not upset, he’s 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.
“Darling, darling, my beautiful, lovely, wet
darling.”
“Oh good, you’re tipsy, too. Set me down, you silly
man.”
But
there is a tinkling noise, metal chiming against the champagne
flutes, which is how I’ve 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 this—this man, me in his arms, our lips
touching. Forever. He’s mine forever.
“Want to
get out of here?” he whispers, stopping finally. I slide down his body like a
ballerina until my toes touch the hardwood.
“God, yes.
Now?”
“Now.”
“Excellent.
Can we just sneak out? Irish goodbye in three, two, one…”
“Darling,
we can do whatever we want. It’s our party. But let’s say goodbye, just to be
polite.” 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 father’s company,
the world would bend over backward to pave his way. Lucky for me, Jack is
content with the Foundation.
“Thank
you, all, for a lovely evening. So glad you’ve been able to celebrate with us.
We’ll see you on the other side.”
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 anyone’s guess. I suppose I’ll learn. Though Jack moved into
my house in 12th South several months ago, he still travels constantly, and
I’ve rarely accompanied him on business.
So far,
I’ve managed to escape the Crows’ scrutiny. It is only at my insistence that
they don’t flank Jack and me twenty-four/seven. Once we’re married, that will
change. The Crows will be at my side, too, and I don’t 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. “You smell like Möet & Chandon.”
“I suppose
there are worse things. The party was fun. I’m sorry your mom had to miss it.”
“No,
you’re not. But that’s 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.”
“I love
your mom. She’s just a bit…intimidating.”
“She will love hearing
that. Speaking of, did you speak to yours tonight?”
“For a moment. She called when they arrived in Rome.
Said Brian and Harper are making noises about never coming home. She said
they’ll meet us on Isola Thursday. At least we’ll have a day to decompress
before my family descends.”
An inadvertent sigh slips from my lips. I love my
family, but we aren’t terribly close. Everyone is pursuing their own agendas,
their own lives. My sister has been acting especially weird lately, and that’s
saying something.
Truth be told… I think there’s a little jealousy
going on. Things have been more strained than usual since Jack and I announced
our engagement.
“Good. 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.”
“I like the sound of that.”
He kisses me lightly. “I do, too.”
Jack’s
hand is wandering up my thigh, but I bat it away. “If you’re
looking for postprandial treats, you’ll have to wait until later, cowboy.”
“They
don’t care,” he murmurs into my ear, but I shake my head.
“I care.
Wait until we’re alone, and then you can have your dessert. I noticed you
passed on the macarons.”
He flops
back into the seat. “They were stale. Mom will be livid.”
“They
were? I thought they were yummy.”
“You’ll
learn. Once you’ve had one fresh out of the ovens on the Champs-Élysées, you’ll
see what I mean.”
“You, my
darling, are a snob.”
“And you
love me.”
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 we’re 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, it’s hypnotizing. He sees me watching and makes it into a tease,
stepping closer with each turn of the fabric.
“You
should try that with the buttons,” I say, running my tongue over my lips.
He grins,
lazy and confident. “Naw. I’ll let you have the honor.”
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.
“What
the hell is that?” he says, pulling away.
“I don’t
know. It smells terrible. Like burning hair. Is something on fire?”
“Shh,” 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.
“Get
Gideon and Malcolm,” Jack shouts over his shoulder, throwing himself headlong
into the darkness. But I am frozen. My mind can’t process what’s happening. I
am cold with terror, the adrenaline rush forcing away my reason. I can’t
think. I can’t 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 man’s windpipe, but the intruder is quick, kicking out at
Jack’s 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 man’s arm just as his fingers
close around the gun’s 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.
About the Author:
J.T. Ellison is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than 25 novels, and the EMMY® award winning co-host of the literary 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. She lives in Nashville with her husband and twin kittens.
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