Chapter 1 #2
“Oh, that’s fantastic,” said Celeste. “I’ve been meaning to pick up something like this.
” She accepted the paperback gratefully and flipped it open to scan the chapter titles.
“What a tricky time for our girls, can you believe they’re almost teens?
I’ll give it a read and we can discuss over some PG. Thanks, Immy.”
Imogen thought it was embarrassing that Celeste had started saying PG to refer to Pinot Grigio—it made her sound like one of those cringey wine moms that Ari had shown her online.
Ugh, and now she was going to have to go buy a second copy (or look up a summary online) because no doubt Celeste would want to have an extended chat about it.
But that didn’t matter right now. What mattered right now was the photos.
“Your picture frame.” Marta pointed. Shutupshutup.
Marta was getting on Imogen’s last nerve this evening, despite doing nothing objectively wrong.
The only other person who could piss her off so quickly (for such offences as breathing too loud or cracking his toes) was her brother.
“You forgot to flip it back up,” Marta continued, unnecessarily spelling out what was plain to see.
“Oh god, no, that was deliberate!” Imogen forced a laugh.
“Caleb sent another full moon pic. Confession time: That’s what made me spill my wine.
He may be thirty-three, but he’s so juvenile!
Believe me, nobody wants to see a picture of my little brother’s bare ass.
” The fist gripping Imogen’s heart relaxed its hold a fraction as Celeste, Bernie, and Marta giggled, apparently buying her story.
Imogen sat back down and tried to refocus, but there were hornets buzzing in her ears and she was having trouble keeping track of the thread of conversation, which was weaving wildly between serial killer trivia and regular gossip.
Eventually, she settled for toying with her MURDER MAMAS bookmark (gifted to everyone by Celeste last Christmas) and sipping her wine in silence as Bernie entertained the group with anecdotes from the emergency room at Sunnyvale, where she was chief of surgery.
The only thing keeping Imogen grounded in reality was the cheese and charcuterie board.
As soon as they leave, she promised herself, you can have whatever you want.
In the meantime, she ogled the rolls of prosciutto, dates stuffed with blue cheese, and wedges of baguette.
The evening stretched on, a cheesy pull from the baked brie, never-ending, excruciating.
Bernie left at a reasonable hour, but Marta and Celeste settled in for the long haul, pouring themselves more wine as though Imogen had a bottomless cellar.
When it was finally eleven (earlier than they usually ended, but not so early as to seem strange), Imogen stood and announced that she needed to get to bed soon.
She practically had to shove Celeste and Marta out the door—each lingered as though she expected the other to leave first. Marta insisted on carrying the empty bottles to the garage, telling Celeste that she should go home and enjoy a rare night with the house to herself.
Not to be outdone, Celeste stacked their plates in the dishwasher and insisted that Marta should feel free to leave, speculating that Derrick was probably home and eager to make up.
Imogen had to shoo them both out of the kitchen, promising that her housekeeper would take care of everything the next day.
Then Celeste had to use the washroom. Then it was Marta’s turn.
Then they took a million years to put their shoes on.
Finally, Imogen shut the door behind them.
She collapsed onto the couch, undid her belt, and unhooked her bra.
On automatic, she annihilated the remains of the snacks, cramming stray figs, broken crackers, and leftover pickles into her mouth, then licking smears of soft cheese from her fingers as she stared at the bookshelf.
When she’d eaten every last scrap, she got up to grab the picture frame.
She sat back down, poured herself the dregs of the Chardonnay, and watched the photos cycle through.
This time she was more prepared when the first image filled the screen, but the sight of Derrick still made her stomach flip, and she let out an involuntary bleat of laughter.
The photo was taken from a distance, but it was unmistakably Derrick and Imogen, standing close together.
A second image replaced the first: Imogen’s face contorted in anger, Derrick’s equally intense.
Then a third image popped up, one Imogen hadn’t seen yet.
It was worse than she’d feared. Imogen could barely breathe.
All the cheese she’d eaten was suddenly expanding, compressing her lungs, rising up her throat.
Is this what a panic attack feels like? She put her head between her knees, but that didn’t seem to help.
Sliding off the couch onto the floor, she lay flat on the carpet, staring up at the ceiling until her breathing returned to normal.
Eventually, she sat up and forced herself to think about who could have sent the photographs.
The digital photo frame worked by connecting to Wi-Fi.
Anyone could email a photo to the unique email address associated with the frame, and the image would appear in the frame a few seconds later.
But the number of people who had the email address for Imogen’s frame was small.
She ticked them off in her head. Her parents, who were permanent snowbirds living in Florida.
Her brother, Caleb, who was currently in the Arctic on a research trip.
Ariana—but that was impossible. Imogen hadn’t bothered to give Mark the email address because he never took photos, plus he’d been in Chicago for the past week, visiting his parents. That left her book club.
After their book club retreat last summer, Imogen had given Marta, Bernie, and Celeste the email address and encouraged them to share their cutest cottage shots via the frame.
How could one of them do this to me? Imogen mentally scrabbled for an alternative explanation.
Could she have been hacked? She didn’t know much about hacking, but neither did anyone else she knew.
And whoever was doing this definitely knew her.
Plus, the timing of the photos showing up in the frame was too perfect—the first had appeared shortly after Marta broke the news about Derrick.
Which meant it had to be one of her friends.
Imogen rewound the evening in her head to the best of her ability, trying to pinpoint if and when any of the other women might have been using their cellphones.
She remembered that they’d disagreed over what years the serial killer who terrorized the gay village had been active.
Marta had said something about him not getting caught for almost a decade because of police prejudice, and how the murders had shaped nightlife on Church Street.
“I thought it was fewer than five years? Wasn’t it the early 2000s, like, turn of the millennium?” said Celeste. “I’m pretty sure.”
“It was longer,” said Bernie. “And it was later, I swear. I’m sure it was the 2010s.”
“Google will tell us,” said Marta.
All the women pulled their phones out, ultimately confirming that between 2010 and 2017, eight men from Toronto’s gay community were murdered by the city’s most prolific serial killer. They decided to put Missing from the Village on their list of potential books for a future meeting.
Imogen took a deep drink of wine with her eyes closed. It could have been any one of them, they’d all had an opportunity at approximately the same time. And that wasn’t even factoring in trips to the washroom; there was no way she could remember who’d been on their phones and when.
Marta, Bernie, or Celeste. One of them had sent the photos to her frame, Imogen was sure of it.
But who? And how did she, whoever she was, end up in the right place at the right time to snap those shots?
No one else was supposed to know about her meet-up with Derrick.
Imogen started teasing a thin strip of skin from the base of her thumbnail.
The raw pink skin would throb all day tomorrow, but the satisfaction she got from the sharp rip of flesh gave her an instant flash of relief.
When the stinging pain receded, the questions that her mind had briefly held at bay surged through her.
What does she know? Imogen broke out into a cold sweat as the first wave of nausea hit. What does she want from me?