Chapter 24
MARTA
The sun did not show its face on Saturday morning.
A headache woke Marta at dawn, and she knew there was no hope of getting back to sleep.
She rolled over and was surprised to see that Celeste’s bed was empty; she must have gotten up extra early.
In the bathroom, Marta felt attacked by the harsh fluorescents, which illuminated every line on her face and made her feel haggard.
She turned them off, deciding to make do with the natural light filtering in from the window above the shower.
Marta stuck her face under the faucet and drank and drank.
Her mouth tasted sour, probably because she hadn’t brushed her teeth in the past twenty-four hours.
She unzipped her toiletry bag to retrieve her toothbrush, and found a thin shuffle of matte photographs on top of her things.
Marta’s skin broke out in gooseflesh and there was a sharp pain in her lungs.
It was a shock to see Derrick captured on film.
She’d gotten so used to seeing him in person every day that, at some point, she’d stopped registering how attractive he was.
Or maybe she’d just started seeing his ugly parts more clearly.
More shocking was the expression on Derrick’s face.
Even pixelated—the images were low quality—the emotion on his face was clear: He was furious with Imogen.
Marta flipped the overhead lights back on so she could examine the pictures more closely.
The series illustrated a much more physical confrontation than the one Imogen had described to her earlier.
Her husband and her best friend glared each other down in the top photo.
In the next one, Imogen had her arm raised to Derrick, a blurred item clutched in one hand.
The final image revved Marta’s heart like a chainsaw: Derrick on the ground, bleeding from the head.
She’d never imagined that Imogen was capable of such violence.
Almost as much as this alarming discovery, the fact that someone had left the photos for her was deeply disturbing.
Marta tried to remember the last time she’d opened her toiletry bag and realized it must have been yesterday morning at some point (forget self-care, she hadn’t even been keeping up with basic hygiene on this trip).
Any one of the others would have had an opportunity to access it.
Her mind swirling, Marta grabbed the stack of photos, returned to the bedroom, and stashed them away in her duffle.
On her way to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, Marta noticed that the back door was open a crack.
The cool draft blowing in felt good on her hot face, and so, forgoing caffeine, she put on her shoes, popped up the hood of her sweatshirt, and ventured outside into the day.
Grey clouds smeared the sky, the air smelled like moss and campfire, and the rain was so light it was more like a damp mist that dewed her skin.
The weather matched Marta’s mood perfectly.
Briefly, she considered going back inside to look for an umbrella, then decided that she didn’t mind getting wet.
Anything to get out of the house and away from the person who’d left those nasty photos for her, away from her so-called friends, none of whom could be trusted.
Urgent questions were flitting around in Marta’s head—who took those photos?
—Derrick’s affair—what else does she know?
—Imogen’s lies—why leave me the photos?—the police investigation—what kind of sick game is this?
—but her brain felt like a butterfly net full of holes and she couldn’t pin a thought down long enough to examine it in any kind of coherent way.
A moody sit on the dock was suddenly very appealing, and alone time to think about everything, even more so.
Marta walked down the path to the water, moving slowly so as not to slip and fall on the slippery blanket of pine needles, her sneakers squelching in the mud.
She caught movement out of the corner of her eye and pulled up short.
A blue heron had landed on the dock, tall, thin, and regal.
Marta remained stock-still, entranced. She watched the bird patiently stalk the shallows, then bob its head quickly to catch its breakfast. When the heron took wing—letting out a broken caw at odds with its graceful lines—Marta tracked the bird’s short flight to the rocky outcropping on the far left of the dock.
The heron landed briefly beside what looked like a heap of clothing, then took flight again, soaring out over the lake.
Did someone leave a towel outside? She struggled to make sense of what she was looking at, and she walked closer, squinting to bring the shape into focus.
When she realized what was in front of her, her insides liquefied into a molten slurry and her limbs stopped working.
Marta screamed.
Marta, Imogen, and Bernie huddled in a semicircle, looking down at Celeste as though they had just performed a sacrificial rite.
Celeste’s jeans were plastered to her legs, and the neckline of her blue sweatshirt was stained with dots of rust. Her pale white skin, almost translucent in the weak morning light, stood out in upsetting contrast. Celeste was sprawled out flat on her back with one arm up over her head, as if she’d raised it to ask a question.
Rainwater had pooled in the rocky crevasses around her body.
Imogen and Bernie had come quickly when they heard Marta’s cries.
Imogen was the first outside, walking quickly with a concerned look on her face, then breaking into a jerky run.
She pulled up short beside Marta, and grabbed her forearm hard enough to leave a bruise.
“No, no, she can’t be—have you checked? Is she?
What do we—” Imogen’s stuttered questions were interrupted by Bernie’s arrival on the scene.
Bernie snapped into doctor mode, crouching down by Celeste and prodding her neck to check for a pulse.
She shook her head. Imogen squeezed Marta’s arm even harder.
The morning drizzle was getting heavier and they were all drenched—hair stuck to their foreheads, water streaming into their eyes, feet squishing in hastily chosen shoes.
Marta wrapped her arms around her body, trying to keep warm, but it felt like her heart was pumping cold slush through her veins.
This can’t be happening. The reality of the situation hadn’t fully permeated her hangover haze.
Marta felt they should do something, at least go through the motions of—what—covering the body?
What was the right thing to do in this kind of situation?
She couldn’t take the taut silence anymore and she snapped, sounding angry instead of sad.
“We can’t just keeping looking at her! This is grotesque. ”
Imogen’s shoulders started shaking silently as she continued staring down at Celeste.
Bernie looked out across the lake as if searching for help.
Marta tried again, unable to bear the nauseating silence.
“Did either of you see her last night after we played cards? I don’t even know if she came to bed last night .
. . it was dark when I went into the room. ”
Imogen shook her head. “I didn’t see her.”
“I think she’s been out here all night,” said Bernie.
She crouched down again and lifted Celeste’s arm.
“Rigor mortis has begun to set in and I noticed some lividity when I checked for a pulse.” Bernie stood and walked over to the edge of the rocks where the lake was gently lapping, distancing herself from Marta and Imogen.
“You can both see what I’m seeing, but no one’s saying anything about it.
” She pointed to the thin band of reddish-brown skin that encircled Celeste’s neck.
“That wasn’t an accident.” Marta felt her stomach drop when Bernie made eye contact with her. “Someone killed her.”