The Wives of Murder Club

Chapter 1

IMOGEN

Imogen was constantly learning how many ways there are to die.

Ever since finishing I’ll Be Gone in the Dark earlier that week, Imogen hadn’t been able to sleep without wedging a sawed-off hockey stick into her ground-floor sliding doors.

Last year, after the Murder Mamas discussed City of Omens, Imogen had cancelled a planned vacation to Mexico and booked an all-inclusive in Turks and Caicos instead.

But despite the heavy topics they covered, book club soirees with the Murder Mamas were all about laughing and drinking.

It was Imogen’s turn to host this month and she’d pulled out all the stops, setting out an elaborate table of snacks and stocking up on alcohol.

Celeste and Marta both arrived early, so they were already into the wine by the time Bernie rocked up (late, as usual, even though she lived next door).

Aside from the hum of anxiety in Imogen’s chest, she felt like the evening was off to a decent start—but then Marta shattered the mood with the news that her husband had not come home the night before.

An intense feeling of claustrophobia washed over Imogen as a drop of sweat snaked its way from the nape of her neck down into the back of her bra.

She wished she could go outside and gulp the autumn air, fill her body with freshness, leave no room for the oily-hot fear that was seeping into her limbs.

With her thumb, Imogen pressed the fresh Band-Aid on her index finger. The jolt of pain helped her to focus.

“Babe, it’s going to be okay,” said Imogen.

“I’m sure he’s fine.” Her voice betrayed none of the chaos swirling in her mind as she launched into a pep talk about marriage and trust and boundaries, regurgitating much of what she’d read in an article (or did she see it on TikTok?) on relationships.

Bernie and Celeste both lobbed generic words of comfort in Marta’s direction as Imogen got up to rub her back.

“I know, I . . . I know I’m probably just overreacting.

It’s just . . . I’m just upset.” Marta sighed, wiping the tears from her eyes.

“I just want him to come back.” Marta’s justs flitted around like gnats, asking to be swatted.

Even in this moment, it amazed Imogen how different they were; you’d never catch Imogen being just anything.

She loved Marta, of course she did (this was her oldest friend!

practically a sister to her!), but their differences had grown starker in recent years, the sharp realities of their present lives jabbing awkwardly into the comfortably soft foundation of their decades-old relationship.

Imogen was certain that if they’d met today, they wouldn’t have become friends.

Marta shook her head and visibly pulled herself together, sitting up straighter in her chair.

“I’ll be fine. This isn’t even the longest stretch he’s disappeared for, and he has his phone and wallet with him, so it’s not like he’s helpless, but .

. . sorry, I’m just . . . Thanks for letting me get that off my chest. I really don’t want to derail the night.

Derrick will probably be waiting for me when I get home.

So, um, Bernie, you were saying something about the yearbook research in the case? ”

Bernie tucked her black bob behind her ears and valiantly took up the conversational baton, joking that half the men in her own high school looked like serial killers and that she would be more than pleased to provide her yearbook to the police when one of them inevitably killed his wife.

Celeste chimed in with a judgmental comment about online armchair sleuths (as if we’re all that different, thought Imogen, meeting every month to dissect the most twisted true crime books), then looked to Imogen to agree with her.

Imogen briefly considered arguing, but she didn’t have the bandwidth to be combative.

Plus, Celeste’s opinion wasn’t one worth taking seriously.

Celeste was prone to repeating what someone else had already said but with, like, a question mark at the end?

Like, maybe she’d thought about it a bit more deeply than everyone else?

Or was scared to ever express, god forbid, a truly unique opinion?

As Imogen globbed a schmear of Boursin onto a hunk of baguette—I’ll just have one, that’s it—she reflected, not for the first time, that she wouldn’t have had to welcome Celeste into her social circle if their daughters weren’t besties.

She hoped that Ariana would outgrow her friendship with Milly when they started junior high next year, but the girls were currently joined at the hip.

Maybe she’d sign Ari up for dance classes or something, give her the opportunity to meet some new girls.

Imogen stuffed the cheesy piece of bread into her mouth and chased it with a slug of wine, revelling in the creamy-carby fullness in her mouth.

That’s when she saw the photo.

Imogen’s night had already gone off the rails with Marta’s news, but the photo meant that the situation was now a full-on mangled train wreck. She gasped as she swallowed, choking on a combination of crumbs and Pinot Noir, coughing and splattering a fine mist of red wine onto her ivory top.

The digital photo frame, a gift from her parents two Christmases ago, sat in its usual spot on the bookshelf in her living room.

It had been cycling through shots of Ari playing volley-ball, her parents on the golf course, her brother’s golden retriever, the usual shit.

But now it was displaying a new image, one Imogen had never seen before. A photo that shouldn’t exist.

“Imm! Are you all right?” asked Marta.

Imogen nodded but continued coughing wetly, spitting a partially chewed lump of cheese and bread into a napkin.

“I know a good dry cleaner,” Marta continued. “An older Greek gentleman, he’s been in my neighbourhood forever. I can take your shirt with my stuff next time I go.”

Marta was always trying so hard to be useful, but sometimes it could be cloying, her goodness as sticky as pine sap on fingers, and equally annoying.

Still, Imogen was touched that Marta would offer to go out of her way to help her—she really didn’t deserve such a devoted friend.

She tried to smile at Marta with her eyes while she horked the last bit of wine from her lungs into the napkin pressed to her mouth.

Imogen rearranged her face into an approximation of a normal expression, but she could already feel it slipping.

How was she supposed to refill the cracker basket, replenish the empty bottles of wine (Celeste and Marta were slurping it down at rec-ord speed tonight), make conversation, and generally act normal when that photo was being—Oh god, there’s another one?

Imogen’s skin felt prickly and wrong, like velvet rubbed the wrong way.

“I’m good!” This can’t be happening. “All good, don’t worry about it.

” Imogen blotted ineffectively at her chest before giving up.

The silk was likely ruined, but that was the least of her problems. She darted her gaze to the picture frame, which was displaying the second, even more alarming image.

Desperate not to call attention to it, Imogen redirected the conversation to Celeste, who was more than happy to continue sharing her thoughts on the book.

Pouring herself a fresh glass of wine for something to do with her hands, Imogen concentrated on breathing evenly through her nose.

Her hand trembled slightly as she topped up Marta’s glass, but she’d regained control by the time she got to Celeste.

She needed a minute to herself, just a minute.

Imogen saw her opportunity in the half-empty Perrier bottle sitting in a ring of condensation on the coffee table.

Leaping to her feet, she nodded in Bernie’s direction.

“I’ll get you a fresh bottle. This one looks like it’s gone flat.

” Imogen zipped into the kitchen before Bernie could tell her that it was fine or offer to go in her place.

On her way out of the living room, she scanned the space to see who else might have a clear view of the picture frame.

Celeste was in the armchair with her back to the bookshelf—there was no way she’d see it.

Marta was in the rocker on a side angle and would only see it if she turned her head.

Bernie was on the couch facing the bookshelf, but she didn’t have a head-on view as she was curled up in the corner.

Almost certainly no one would notice . . . but still. She couldn’t chance it.

When Imogen returned with the Perrier, she detoured to the bookshelf, then turned the digital photo frame—now displaying her parents’ most recent vacation to the Bahamas—face down.

She grabbed a book behind it at random. “Sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to get this while I remembered. It’s .

. . uh . . . this”—she paused to read the title—“this, oh yes, amazing mothering-through-puberty book that I’ve been reading to deal with Ari.

Yeah, it’s great. I thought you might like to borrow it, Cee. ”

Imogen wasn’t entirely sure how the book had ended up on her bookshelf.

Maybe Ari had bought it? It would be just like her to do something like that; Imogen often felt that she was the one being subtly parented by her daughter.

Ariana’s father seemed to have an easier time connecting with her, even though he only had custody of her for two months of the year.

Ari flew to visit him in Montana every summer (where he took her canoe camping for weeks at a time), while Imogen and her new husband, Mark, jetted off to Capri or Paros or Cannes.

The arrangement suited Imogen perfectly, but every year Ari came back taller, tanner, and a little bit more of a stranger.

This past summer she’d acquired a new fondness for trail mix and an aversion to Pop-Tarts (previously her favourite snack).