Chapter 5 #2
“Okaaaaay, I didn’t realize he had to whip his dick out for there to be a story.
I’m just telling you, as a friend, that your husband is a little too flirty for his own good.
” Celeste arched an eyebrow, looking pleased with herself.
“He hasn’t touched me. And it’s not so much what he says as how he says it, you know?
Like he’s picturing me naked. So anyways .
. .” Celeste stretched, arching her back gracefully. “I thought you should know.”
Imogen stared at Celeste like she was a cat who had just vomited mouse remains into her lap.
“Wow. I guess thanks for telling me. And, um, I’m sorry he’s been making you uncomfortable.
I’ll speak with him about it.” Imogen forced the apology out through a clenched jaw.
If Celeste were paying attention, she’d notice the little muscles in her cheeks flaring, but she was too self-absorbed to see how upset Imogen was.
“Nothing too serious, babe. I know how some men can be. I don’t think you actually have anything to worry about, but I don’t want there to be any secrets between us.
Okay?” Celeste made a sweeping gesture with one hand.
“Now that I’ve cleared the air, let’s get into the real goss. What’s the deal with Derrick?”
Imogen’s head snapped up and she stared at Celeste intensely.
“What do you mean?” She wondered if Celeste would admit to being the photographer right away, and how much money it was going to take to make this go away.
She should have known it was Celeste—she was so desperate to get back to the place she’d been before Harry messed everything up by losing most of their money and then having the bad manners to die.
“Girl, you know what I mean.” Celeste’s eyes were dancing.
“After what Marta told us last night, I’ve been wondering: Does Derrick keep it in his pants?
Because I can tell that he has big fuck-boy energy in, like, a buttoned-up way.
He can get it in those khakis. I bet the PTA moms at the Academy are obsessed.
” Celeste’s oversized shirt slid off one shoulder, exposing a lacy bra strap. Imogen couldn’t help staring at it.
“Is this your way of saying Derrick’s been flirting with you too?” Maybe it’s not Celeste, after all.
“No, well, not really, nothing out of the ordinary. Come on, between us, isn’t he a little too good-looking? Of course, Marta is a total sweetheart and any guy should be so lucky, but . . . I mean, we both have eyes.”
Imogen wasn’t fazed by Celeste’s comments—she never missed an opportunity to get in little digs and often said things with an undertone of I don’t know how the two of you became friends.
Celeste continued, “Marta and Derrick don’t make sense to me. It’s not like with you and Mark—hotties, both of you—you guys look good together. He’s got that personal trainer bod and you’re, like, a designer goddess.”
Pleased with the compliment, Imogen adjusted the neckline of her sweater as she nodded.
“I keep telling Marta that she should take care of herself more—like go to the hairdresser or start shopping somewhere other than the outlet mall. I’ve framed it as a ‘do it for you, girl’ kinda thing, but I don’t think it ever sinks in.
” Imogen didn’t feel bad about talking behind her friend’s back.
It didn’t really mean anything. Plus, what Marta didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.
In Imogen’s view, most social interactions were an opportunity to connect with whoever was currently in front of her, and the best results often came from mirroring that person’s opinions.
She was sure that everyone else did it literally all the time, even if they didn’t admit it to themselves.
“And I do think Derrick’s got a bit of a reputation at the school .
. . he’s a little loose with the student teachers, not that Marta knows.
” Imogen covered her mouth quickly with one hand.
Celeste tended to bring out this loose-lipped side of her.
“Pretend you didn’t hear that. You definitely did not hear that from me. ”
Celeste smiled her complicity at Imogen. “Of course not. Your secrets are safe with me.”
A light citrusy scent lingered in Imogen’s nose after Celeste hugged her goodbye.
Goddamn, she smells delicious. If these had been normal circumstances, Imogen would have been fuming, mentally playing out the fight she’d have with Mark when he got home from Chicago, scheming ways to punish him for embarrassing her in front of her friend.
But she couldn’t spare the energy, not with this Derrick thing.
Plus, Celeste was clear that nothing had actually happened.
She decided she’d cancel Mark’s access to the Black Amex for the rest of the month and see how he liked paying for his kicky Yorkville lunches on his own dime.
Mostly Imogen was annoyed with Celeste, and annoyed with herself for being annoyed with Celeste.
As Imogen stacked their mugs in the dishwasher, her brain started pulling at the loose threads of the last twenty-four hours, picking at Celeste’s visit, looking for snags.
What if the whole Mark thing was just a pretext to bring up Derrick?
If Celeste was the one who’d seen her and sent those pictures .
. . maybe she’d simply come over to play with Imogen and see how badly she’d rattled her.
The thought made her insides twist. Maybe Celeste was smarter than Imogen thought.
On the other hand, if Celeste really had been interested in some simple gossip about Marta and Derrick (which would be totally on brand for her), then Imogen hoped she’d managed to respond normally, like someone with nothing to hide.
It struck her in a bolt that she didn’t even know exactly what she was hiding.
When she’d seen the photos, she’d panicked and assumed the worst. But Marta would have said something by now if he still hadn’t come home, wouldn’t she?
Imogen exhaled heavily, expanding her belly against the tight waistband of her jeans.
She decided she would call Marta. Everything would be okay.
Everything was not okay.
Marta answered on the first ring. “Imm! I literally had my phone in my hand, I was just about to call you. I don’t know what to do.”
“What’s going on?” Imogen noticed the tremor in Marta’s voice and tried not to let it echo in her own.
“Derrick . . . he still hasn’t come home and he’s not answering his phone.”
Imogen’s heart dropped out of her body. “Oh babe! You must be worried sick.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t know, exactly. It’s so awful, but I don’t know whether to be terrified or furious.
I’m worried, but at the same time I’m so angry with him for doing this to me.
But what if he’s not doing anything? What if something happened to him?
This time is different, I can feel it. When he’s done this before, it’s only been for one night. Never a whole weekend.”
“Uh-huh. Okay, well, is there anywhere he could have gone? I forget if I asked you last night—do you know what his plans were for Friday night?” Imogen worried a new hangnail on her thumb with her teeth, tearing off a strip, tasting pennies.
“No, he just texted me that he’d be out late.
So when he didn’t come home on Saturday morning, I was pissed.
I thought he’d be home and waiting for me by the time I got home from book club last night.
But . . .” Marta swallowed loudly. “He wasn’t here.
He never came home. We were supposed to go for brunch today. ”
“Derrick loves brunch,” said Imogen—what an inane thing to say, why would you say that?—as she sank into the cushions of her living room sofa. She felt as though she might never be able to get up again.
“Right? I don’t know what to do. Do you think I should call the police? I feel so stupid, like they’re going to think I’m a nag who doesn’t let her husband have any fun and he’s going to walk in the door any minute. But what if something happened to him?”
Imogen blinked once, then made a conscious effort to slip into her CEO mode.
It was where she thrived, after all, and it was where she needed to be if she was going to get through this.
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. You call all his friends and colleagues, see if anyone knows where he was.
Maybe he’s still on someone’s couch—in which case he’s buying us both dinner—or maybe someone has been in contact with him.
I’ll call the hospitals. If we can’t find anything, then you’ll contact the police. ”
Marta let out a tiny moan, fear and relief at being told what to do. “Thanks, Imm, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“I’m sure he’s fine, babe,” said Imogen, closing her eyes as she lied to her friend.
Imogen knew she shouldn’t go back. It was probably the stupidest thing she could possibly do.
Her armpits were already sweating when she parked her car.
Would it be strange if she headed straight to the spot?
Yes, she decided, it would be better to do a loop first, burn off some of the nervous energy.
Imogen went slowly—she rarely did cardio—clutching her cellphone in one hand.
She’d be out of breath by the time she reached her destination, but she thought that was probably appropriate.
As she ran, she rehearsed what she’d have to say if she made the call.
Hello, I’m in High Park. I’ve just found something.
No, that was too vague. I need an ambulance, there’s an emergency.
That also rang false—there would be nothing urgent about the situation.
I found a body. Too clinical—she should at least acknowledge that she thought she recognized him.
Imogen’s thoughts were a tangled pile of clothing hangers.
There were the photos, of course, and who knew what her blackmailer would do if Derrick’s body were found.
But she could explain—he’d threatened her, he was fine when she left him, he was drunk, who knows what he did next—that all could align with the photos, and— But what if there’s video?
The thought spiked through her limbs, giving her a burst of speed as if she were running from someone.
She still hadn’t landed on what to do, but she was rapidly approaching the part of the path where she’d have to make a decision.
Imogen slowed to a walk to give herself a little more time, stretching one arm and then the other over her head.
She focused on the sharp chirps of the birds, the creak of wood chips underfoot, and the wheeze of her own laboured breathing.
Heart racing, she steeled herself as she turned onto an almost hidden side path, and then time sped up as the spot came into view.
She stopped abruptly, almost tripping over her own feet.
Derrick’s body was gone.