Chapter 25
IMOGEN
Imogen felt the invisible vise of her past like a pair of hands closing around her neck. Everything was so fucked.
They covered Celeste with a tarp from the boathouse because Marta insisted they couldn’t leave her exposed to the elements.
Imogen lost the feeling in her fingers and toes as they struggled with the large sheet of blue nylon while being pelted with a cold rain.
After they finished, Bernie directed them to go inside to get warm and dry before deciding what to do next, warning Imogen and Marta that they needed to avoid putting their bodies in a state of shock.
Imogen was now crumpled on the couch in the sunroom, the damp from her clothing seeping into the cushions.
Marta was slumped beside her, while Bernie sat cross-legged on the floor, her posture ramrod straight.
The smoky scent of Glenlivet brought Imogen back into her body and briefly alleviated the dry clicks in her throat, the anxious feeling that she wouldn’t be able to swallow, that she’d choke on her own saliva.
Bernie had poured them all a finger of Scotch the moment they came inside from the rain.
Imogen had downed her first in one go, eyes closed. This glass was her second.
“We all need to go change,” Bernie said as she finished her Scotch. “Quickly. Sitting around like this in our wet things is a terrible idea . . . Everyone go put on some dry clothes and let’s meet back here in five minutes.”
Marta and Imogen silently obeyed. What was there to say?
As Imogen stripped out of her wet jeans, tugging hard to peel them from her clammy legs, her friendship bracelet caught on the zipper and a link snapped.
Imogen blinked as the image of the matching gold strand against Celeste’s dead wrist forced itself to the front of her mind.
She dropped the delicate chain into the depths of her purse where she wouldn’t have to look at it.
Racked with a bout of chills, she pulled on her softest pants, wool socks, and the heaviest sweater she had.
Suddenly, she couldn’t bear to be alone, and she practically sprinted back to the sunroom, where Marta was already waiting. Bernie joined them shortly after.
From her spot on the couch, the bright-blue lump on the rocks was visible out of the corner of her eye.
Imogen repositioned herself so that she couldn’t see it without turning.
The thought of Celeste’s cheek against the wet, mossy stone felt so real that she lifted her hand to touch her own cheek, which was clammy beneath her fingertips.
Imogen’s thoughts whirled as she sipped another finger of Scotch, a spin cycle of fear, grief, anger, and relief.
“What now?” Marta asked in a quiet voice. “The tarp isn’t going to protect her very well if the storm picks up again. Do we move her to the boathouse?”
“Seriously? If you want to go back out there, you can leave me out of it. I’m not going anywhere near her again.
That’s a crime scene,” said Imogen. “We need to talk about what happened out there. Celeste was murdered.” A shiver ran up her spine.
Although she was wearing dry clothing, she still felt like she was drenched, standing over Celeste’s body, staring into an abyss.
Bernie’s mouth was set in a grim line. “You’re right. Let’s cut to the chase. There are only two possibilities: Either a stranger came to the island last night and killed Celeste . . . or else the killer is in this room.”
Imogen laughed. Wild, unrestrained giggles spilled out of her like soapy bubbles, popping on impact with the tension in the room.
Imogen had always had this reaction to extreme situations.
During her driver’s test, she’d missed a light and driven into an intersection on a red, narrowly avoiding a collision.
When the examiner had screamed at her to pull over, she’d laughed so hard she peed a little.
Imogen could feel Bernie and Marta staring at her, so she leaned forward and dipped her head between her legs for some deep breathing. When she got a hold of herself, she sat back up.
“It’s a normal reaction,” said Bernie calmly, although Imogen noticed that she’d raised her eyebrows. “Some people use laughter as a socially maladaptive way of processing stress.”
“Sure,” Marta said, as she poured herself another Scotch. “But it’s freaking me out.”
The women sat in silence as Imogen focused on breathing normally again.
It hit her that Millicent was now an orphan.
Did she have family nearby who would take her in?
No one except her aunt, who lived on a farm in the boonies.
Ari would be devastated when Milly inevitably had to move away, and .
. . No, she couldn’t think about Ari right now or she might start falling apart again.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Bernie. “You were arguing with Celeste yesterday. About money.” Imogen realized that Bernie was staring at her. Accusing her. “What was that about?”
“I wouldn’t say we were arguing. We were having a private conversation about her investments and, I’m sorry, but why would you say we were arguing?” Imogen crossed and recrossed her arms. “You weren’t even in the room with us.”
Bernie shrugged. “I came downstairs to be helpful and set the table for dinner. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but you weren’t being all that quiet about it.”
“It wasn’t anything. She’s invested with me—you both know that, hell, Marta’s invested with me too—and she wanted to talk about it, but she was too drunk.
It wasn’t an appropriate conversation to have at that moment.
” Imogen frowned. “What about you? She accused you of having an affair yesterday. Maybe that pissed you off?”
“Guys, no, please don’t.”
Imogen waved a hand in Marta’s direction as if swatting a fly. No one listened to Marta. No one ever did.
“Oh, come on.” Bernie almost sounded bored. “You were there. Why would I be offended? She had every right to be curious when she found those messages on his phone. I didn’t take it personally. Even if I were offended, so what? I had no reason to hurt her.”
Imogen got up and started pacing the room, clutching her glass of Scotch. “I can’t believe this, I can’t trust anyone. One of you attacked her, oh my god, to strangle her like that . . .” She shook her head. “This is crazy.”
“You guys,” yelled Marta. This got them to shut up momentarily.
Imogen looked at Marta, really looked at her, taking in her red eyes and the way her jaw was clenching and pulsing.
She wondered how Marta felt about Celeste’s death.
Now that Marta had their attention, she pointed at Imogen.
“Sit down. You’re making me nervous with your pacing.
” Imogen was surprised that her body was following Marta’s direction—she sank into the rocking chair.
“We don’t have to amateur-detective this,” said Marta. “We need the police. Does anyone have service? I haven’t had, like, any bars since we got here.”
Imogen and Bernie both checked their phones, but neither of them had a signal—no surprise there. “There’s definitely no service,” said Bernie. “Our phones are useless. Why don’t we—”
“Oh my god, the land line,” Marta exclaimed.
“I totally forgot about the land line! Never mind, we don’t need cell service.
I’ll call 911 from here.” Marta dashed to the corner of the room, where a dusty phone from the 1980s kept company with a pirate-patterned notepad (with the header “Booty Calls”) and a pencil stamped with the name of the local marina.
She picked up the phone, hung it up, and picked it up again.
“It’s not working,” she whispered. Marta tried one more time, then placed the receiver back in its cradle.
Imogen let out a breath she didn’t even realize she was holding.
“What do you mean?” asked Bernie. “Is there a dial tone?”
“Nothing, there’s nothing,” said Marta.
“Did you do something to it?” Imogen turned and pointed at Bernie. “I saw you creeping around down here last night. I know I did. I got up to go to the washroom and then I got hungry and went into the kitchen for a snack. I saw you in here. Did you mess with the phone?”
Bernie gave her an incredulous look. “Creeping? Imogen, I said hello to you. I wasn’t creeping.
I woke up, checked my phone, and realized it was almost dead.
My charger was in the sunroom. If anyone was acting strangely, it was you—alone in the kitchen in the dark.
” She cocked her head to the side. “What are you really saying? Why would I do anything to the phone?” Imogen and Bernie stared at each other, and Imogen wondered what Bernie saw when she looked in her eyes.
Marta broke the tense silence with a question. “Wait, is it even plugged in?” She followed the cord to the wall. The three women saw the problem at the same time. While the plug was securely in the socket, the cord, which ran along the baseboard, looked as though it had been chewed through.
“Gross! And on top of everything, we have mice,” said Imogen. “I guess we’ll have to wait for Rick to come tomorrow?”
“This is a nightmare.” Marta’s voice broke.
“We can’t spend the next twenty-four hours in a standoff with each other.
We don’t even know what happened—and I don’t want to believe that one of you would do this to her.
What if a stranger did land his boat on the shore last night?
Maybe he found Celeste outside and it was a crime of opportunity?
Oh my god, what if he’s still on the island?
” Marta looked panicked. “Or inside the cottage? I think we have to be extra careful and stay in the same room together at all times.”
“Fuck that.” Bernie stood and put her hands on her hips.
“I am not camping out with a killer. I’ll be sleeping upstairs with my door locked tonight.
And I think it’s rather interesting that you’ve seized on this idea of a stranger, Marta.
Sure, it’s a possibility, but that’s pretty far-fetched if you ask me.
It seems far more likely that it was one of you. ”