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April 2, 2021

Her Dark Lies by J.T. Ellison ~ a Review & Excerpt

by MK French


Isla Isola is an idyllic island off the coast of Italy, and where Claire Hunter will marry Jack Compton. The idyll is shattered almost the moment Claire arrives on the island. A body is found, and then there are creepy texts, a ruined wedding dress, and the mystery of Jack's first wife. When the power goes out, it all goes downhill from there.

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Her Dark Lies
March 2021; MIRA; 978-0778331988
audio, ebook, print (416 pages); thriller
We have different POV chapters which aren't labeled. Most of it is told from Claire's POV, but we also get her future mother-in-law Ava's POV, a chapter from her sister Harper's POV, and several chapters from a mysterious person that deliberately wants to take down the Compton family. The family is rich thanks to generations of investment, ties to celebrities, and now IT; the power they wield also is a force to be reckoned with. Jack is far older than Claire and utterly besotted with her and wants to use the power of his name and money to protect her from whatever force wants to destroy them. She genuinely loves him, but she's not so out of her head in love that the odd events are glossed over. She pauses, considers that the marriage should be postponed, and cares more about the safety of others than the money. The Comptons certainly have their moments where hidden secrets are hinted at, making the reader doubt how genuine they are in the interactions they have with Claire, her friends, and her family.

Her Dark Lies is a thriller that sucked me in almost immediately. I can see Jack's charm for Claire, but he has a dark side of his own. Claire is young and uncertain in the glitzy world of the Comptons, but she also isn't an idiot. She has her own demons, which we learn more about as the book progresses, and the guilt still drives her. In essence, it's why she's so loyal to Jack and his family, even in the face of increasing drama and a rising body count. I didn't expect the ending to go the way it did, but it's also one that fits the scope of the story. It's a taut story, keeping me up long past my bedtime!

Buy Her Dark Lies at Amazon

Read an excerpt from Her Dark Lies

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.


Born and raised in New York City, M.K. French started writing stories when very young, dreaming of different worlds and places to visit. She always had an interest in folklore, fairy tales, and the macabre, which has definitely influenced her work. She currently lives in the Midwest with her husband, three young children, and a golden retriever. 

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