Chapter 34
IMOGEN
Imogen felt the first licks of autumn against her face as she stood on the L-dock, scanning the horizon for Rick’s boat.
The trees were bursts of yellow, orange, and red, a painter’s splatter against a dark-green canvas.
The sky was clear, the clouds blown away by the frequent gusts that were chopping up the water.
She realized, looking out at the lake, that as wet as the conditions had been the previous night, they were lucky they hadn’t been forced to contend with this wind.
Out of the corner of her eye, Imogen saw Marta and Bernie exit the cottage.
They made their way down to the dock to join her, each standing at a deliberate distance from the others.
In the bright morning light, the events of the weekend felt unreal, and Imogen could almost believe they were waiting for Celeste to finish packing—she was simply running late, as always.
Imogen checked the time. “He should be here soon.”
“This is all about to get very real,” said Bernie. “So keep your shit together. If anyone cracks, we’re all finished.”
“There!” Marta pointed at a spot in the distance. “I think that’s him!”
All three women started waving their hands in the air, hollering for Rick.
Yelling was cathartic, and Imogen didn’t feel like she was pretending at all.
Tears sheened her vision as she scream-released the tension that had been boa-constricting her lungs.
As the boat drew closer, Imogen spotted a familiar furry face: Betsy at the bow, barking frantically, the exact opposite of her lazy demeanour on the ride over.
Dogs know things, Imogen thought, yet another reason not to like them.
A tendril of unease unfurled from the anxious pit in her stomach and bloomed into a full-body sick feeling as she wondered what Betsy would sense if she got too close to her.
Bernie ran down to the end of the dock, followed closely by Imogen and Marta. “Finally, you’re here!” Bernie shouted over the purring engine of the boat. “You need to call the police right now. Our friend is missing. The phone here doesn’t work and none of us have been able to get a signal.”
Rick tossed a rope over a wooden post on the side of the dock and hopped out of the boat in one graceful motion.
Betsy shadowed him, hugging close to his legs and whining.
Rick whipped his wraparound sunglasses off, and Imogen could see his extreme alarm in the way his eyes and forehead crinkled up.
“What happened? Who’s missing? How long has she been gone? ”
Marta piped up, a sob caught in her throat. “It’s Celeste. She took the kayak out yesterday in the evening and she didn’t come back. We tried to stop her, but she was drunk and she wouldn’t listen.”
Rick grimaced briefly, then smoothed his features out and spoke calmly. “I’ll have to go way out that way to get reception.” He gestured east. “You all hang tight. I’ll come right back.”
After calling it in to the local authorities and speeding back to the cottage—during which time Imogen, Bernie, and Marta waited in tense silence on the dock—Rick told the women to gather their things so he could take them off the island.
The search team would launch from the mainland, and the authorities wanted to speak to the women at the marina.
Rick walked with them up to the cottage, but Betsy refused to accompany him; instead, she was turning in circles on the rocky area beside the dock.
Seeing Betsy pacing where Celeste’s body had lain gave Imogen a chill. That dog was too creepy.
Inside, Bernie went upstairs to get her bags and Marta disappeared into the back bedroom to collect Celeste’s things.
Imogen had already packed her own tote, so she placed it by the front door and went to wait for the others in the sunroom.
She found Rick in there, holding the dead phone receiver to his ear.
He put it down and shook his head in apology to Imogen.
“This has never happened before and I . . . I can’t tell you how sorry I am.
It is horrendous that you weren’t able to call for help. ”
Rick checked the wall plug-in next, then traced the cord with his hands. “Aha. Here’s the problem.”
“Yeah, we saw that,” said Imogen. “You must have mice.” She stood close to Rick, watching as he thumbed the frayed bit with a distressed look on his face and muttered something under his breath about his exterminator buddy.
Imogen was relieved when he put the cord down.
Evidently, he hadn’t been able to make out what had been (barely) visible to her when she’d examined the cord in the sunlight earlier that morning: the faintest clean nick above the frayed bit, the spot where a knife had slipped.