Chapter 28
MARTA
A vision of Celeste’s ruined neck flashed before Marta’s eyes.
She didn’t want to accept that either one of her friends could have done something so vicious, but she was clearly deluding herself.
Perhaps before this morning she wouldn’t have thought that Imogen was capable of murder .
. . but after seeing those photographs, she didn’t know what to believe.
Imogen and Bernie each selected a side of the room she’d shared with Celeste, and it was Marta’s turn to stand in the doorway while they searched.
She twisted her wedding band around and around, and then realized—“Oh god, no, I’ve got to go wash my hands.
” There was a small dark spot under her thumbnail and now the only thing she could think was dried blood. “I touched that rope, I can’t . . .”
“Go ahead, we’ll start the search,” said Bernie.
“Shouldn’t we all be sticking together?” Imogen countered. “I thought that was part of this whole exercise—no one’s allowed to go off on her own.”
So Marta lathered up in the washroom with Imogen and Bernie lurking behind her in the doorway, her heart racing and fear tingling through her limbs. Marta closed her eyes as she scrubbed. After her hands were clean, they returned to the bedroom.
A few minutes later, Imogen shrieked, “What?” She had opened the inner pocket of Marta’s duffle bag and was pulling out the photographs, flipping through the shots with a horrified look on her face. “You’re the one blackmailing me? What the hell, Marta?” Imogen threw the stack on the floor.
Marta could barely breathe, and her usual instinct to roll over and apologize—even for things that weren’t her fault—was starting to kick in, but then her brain hit an override switch: NOT TODAY, BITCH.
The audacity of Imogen to yell at her when she had been meeting with Marta’s husband in secret.
When she had attacked him on the eve of his disappearance, and didn’t think this might be relevant information.
When she had entirely omitted the violence in her sanitized version of events.
“No,” said Marta forcefully. “I didn’t take those photos, I swear to God.
They were in my toiletry bag this morning when I went to brush my teeth—I don’t know who put them there.
I found them and then . . . and then I found Celeste.
” It felt as though that morning was weeks ago, her memory already degraded into flashes of images: the heron, the rocks, Celeste’s sodden jeans.
“Someone left them there for me to find. It could have been you for all I know.” Marta pointed a finger right back at Imogen.
“It’s funny how, when you told me about that night, you made it sound like you and Derrick just had a little disagreement.
You didn’t mention that it got physical.
” As she said it out loud, Marta realized how incriminating it sounded.
If the police saw these photographs, they would likely have some very serious questions for Imogen.
“Why don’t you tell me what really happened? ”
“It’s like I told you yesterday. He admitted that he was having an affair.”
Bernie made a little hmm noise.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” said Marta. “He was having an affair, but so what. Why meet with him in the park at night? Why did you hit him? Do you know what really happened to my husband?”
“No!” Imogen held her hands out in front of her as if to ward off the very notion.
“I have no idea. He was mad when I confronted him about the affair. I threatened to tell you if he didn’t tell you himself—and I would have!
—but then he disappeared and I didn’t want to tell you something unnecessarily painful because you were already dealing with enough.
That night, Derrick was drunk and he came at me .
. . but he was completely fine when I left him.
I get that this looks bad, but that’s also why I didn’t want to involve the police.
They would have wasted their time chasing down a false lead. ”
Marta decided she could no longer take Imogen at her word. Yes, she’d only lied by omission, but those could be the worst kind of lies, as Marta knew all too well.
“Pretty aggro of you,” said Bernie. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you. I guess you’re a dangerous woman when pushed.”
“Back off, Bern,” Imogen snapped. “Don’t try to make this into some kind of evidence that I killed Celeste.”
“Except that it kind of is evidence, isn’t it?” Bernie shot back. “Evidence that you’re capable of hurting someone who threatens you. I wonder if Celeste made you feel threatened this weekend.”
Marta’s head was spinning and she couldn’t tear her gaze from the photos scattered on the floor.
Whoever had left them for her to find had clearly done so with the express purpose of messing with her head.
“Can everyone please just be quiet for a minute?” Marta raised her voice and was surprised when the other women actually listened to her.
“One of you left those photos for me to find. Just admit it.” She looked plaintively from Imogen to Bernie.
“Grow up, Marta!” Imogen snapped. “If Bernie left you those photos, she isn’t going to admit it—not to mention that it could have been Celeste—and, Christ, you could be the photographer for all I know!
” Imogen whipped around to face Bernie. “Those photos have nothing to do with anything other than me defending myself against a man. How could Celeste threaten me, huh? I had no reason to hurt her.”
Bernie shrugged with one shoulder. “Didn’t you, though? Didn’t you know about her and Mark?”
Imogen got very still. “What are you saying?”
“We’d understand why you were angry with her,” said Bernie. “Sleeping with your husband? I’d be furious too. Especially with her hypocritical accusations against me.”
“Why would you say that?” Imogen’s face was beet red. “What do you know?”
“She was careless with her phone the other day. And I saw a message from Mark. It was pretty graphic.”
“That’s crazy, no, she said . . . no, he wasn’t . . . I need to see her phone.”
Marta knew her friend well enough to see that something was off—Imogen didn’t seem surprised. Did she know? Imogen was a jealous person in general; she definitely wouldn’t have taken the news well. But would she have been so angry that she’d do something crazy?
“It’s right here.” Bernie picked up Celeste’s phone from where it was charging beside her bed. She pressed the home screen button. “But it’s locked.”
Imogen took the cell from Bernie’s outstretched hand and tapped hard, as if she could make it unlock by pure force of will.
“We can open it.” Marta could hardly believe she was suggesting it, but she had a practical mind. “We just need her thumbprint.” The other women looked at her in surprise, as if she’d suggested sawing off Celeste’s hand.
Finally, Imogen blinked and nodded. “No, you’re right. Good idea. It’s not going to hurt her, and I really, really need to know.” She glared at Bernie. “Because I didn’t know. I don’t know.”
Huddled around Celeste’s body with the other women for the second time that day, Bernie peeled back the tarp.
For a moment, Marta hoped against hope there would be no body underneath.
But of course she was still there. Marta looked away when Imogen knelt down with the phone and reached for Celeste’s hand.
“Fuck. It’s not working.” Imogen kept mashing Celeste’s thumb against the sensor, to no avail.
“Try the other one,” Bernie suggested.
As Imogen reached across the body, a memory surfaced in Marta’s brain.
It was the whisper of a podcast she’d listened to before falling asleep a few weeks ago, a new one with a focus on tech and true crime.
“Wait. I was wrong—it won’t work. I forgot that the phone doesn’t just read the fingerprint, it also scans for electrical activity.
Basically, it only works if the person is alive. ”
Imogen stood up quickly and Bernie flipped the tarp back over the body.
“So what now?” asked Imogen. “Anyone want to guess her passcode?”
“Actually, yes,” said Bernie. “I’d bet she and Harry had the same one. She told us that his was their wedding anniversary. Do either of you remember the date?”
“Ohmygod, I should know this,” said Imogen.
“She came over to my house for drinks on her anniversary this year because she didn’t want to be alone.
That was a few months ago . . . It was definitely June, the girls were almost done their school year.
” Imogen tried 0610—no luck—but then 1006 got them in.
“What did you do, you—” Imogen was muttering to herself as she tapped into Celeste’s messages.
Marta watched her closely, trying to decide if this was all an act.
A flutter of movement drew her eye: the heron again, winging its way across the lake.
When she looked back over at Imogen, who was still concentrating on the phone, Bernie caught her gaze and raised an eyebrow as if to ask, What do you think? A shiver ran through her.
After a couple of minutes of silent scrolling, Imogen spoke. “You were right.” Anger clipped the edges of her words. “She was fucking him.”
Marta extended her hand, needing to see for herself. Imogen hesitated for a moment, then handed over the phone with a murmured, “What does it matter anymore.” Marta skimmed a few of the messages and felt her face get hot. It was all too familiar.
“Pass it here,” said Bernie. Marta gave her the phone and Bernie took a brief look, then slipped Celeste’s phone into her pocket.
“Can you believe she would do that to me? Fucking unbelievable.” Imogen started pacing, almost losing her balance on the slick pine needles coating the earth.
Marta thought that Imogen was either a really good actor or genuinely surprised at the extent of Celeste’s deceit.
From what Marta was able to see, the affair had been going on for months.
“You know what?” Imogen vented. “She even told me recently that Mark was flirting with her. Like she was warning me about him, like she was being such a good friend. But she just wanted to see me squirm. That cunt.” The hard C-word made Imogen catch herself and shake her head.
“Sorry. But this doesn’t change anything.
I didn’t know about the affair, and even if I had known about it, I wouldn’t have wanted her dead. ”
Marta wondered if any of it was true.