Chapter 36
IMOGEN
Imogen awoke to the sound of a dull pounding.
Imogen ripped the sleep mask from her face and leapt out of bed, stumbling as her legs tangled in the twist of sheets she’d wound around her body.
“Mark! Don’t answer the door, Mark!” she yelled, rifling frantically through her bedside table.
That useless man was probably going to let them in, but she couldn’t spare a second to go down and try to stop him.
As usual, her shit was a mess, but she knew that what she was looking for was buried deep under the feminine detritus of empty birth control packets, loose painkillers, tissues, and capless lip balms. Her fingers closed around the item and she snatched it from the drawer.
In four steps she was at the large dresser holding the overflow items that didn’t fit in her walk-in closet.
Jewellery, scarves, lipsticks, and chargers littered its surface, scattered amongst the glut of sterling silver picture frames showcasing the glitteriest moments of her life.
Imogen plucked the lone handmade frame from the bunch, a Popsicle-sticks-and-buttons monstrosity crafted for her by Ari several years ago that she hadn’t gotten around to replacing with an upgraded version.
She yanked the photo out, jammed the slim rectangle in, and then covered it up by reinserting the snap of her daughter pulling a goofy face.
The voices were inside now—stupid Mark!—and there were footsteps on the stairs.
Imogen put the frame down and grabbed her robe from the floor.
She’d just tied it around her waist when the door to her bedroom flew open and a female officer burst into the room.
Imogen pulled the robe around her body even more tightly. How had everything fallen apart so quickly? How had they messed up? She racked her brain but couldn’t figure out what could have gone wrong, unless . . . oh god, they found her body.
But then the officer identified herself as Detective Kelsey Ramirez with the Serious Fraud Office, and informed Imogen of the charges against her.
It took a few seconds for Imogen to understand that this had nothing to do with Celeste, and that should have been a relief, but there was no space for relief because this was badbadbad and it was all happening too fast. Imogen momentarily lost the ability to speak, which was probably a good thing, because Detective Ramirez was giving her a spiel about her rights and telling her that anything she did or said could be used as evidence.
Imogen took a long breath in and let a long breath out. “May I please put on some clothing?” She gestured down at herself—she was wearing a skimpy sleep set under the silk robe. “I’m not decent.”
Detective Ramirez looked as if she wanted to say no.
Frowning, she hesitated, but then agreed to let Imogen change under her supervision.
Once she was dressed, the detective led her out into the hallway, where they passed two officers who entered the bedroom behind them.
Imogen overheard one of them say to the other, “Yeah, Ramirez said we gotta bag the pricey shit—designer clothing, bags, shoes, jewellery, anything that could be proceeds of crime.” Down the hallway, Imogen could see that her home office was under siege; a swarm of uniforms had invaded the room and launched an assault on the filing cabinets and electronic devices.
“Excuse me,” Imogen said as Detective Ramirez led her down the stairs.
“Shall we go to the kitchen and speak there? I can make you a coffee if you’d like.
I definitely need one. But my daughter’s coming home from a sleepover soon, and I don’t want her to be upset by all of this.
Could you please tell me how long it’s going to take? ”
Detective Ramirez didn’t even look at Imogen. “My team’s going to take as long as they need. They may be here all day. But your husband isn’t under arrest—he’s free to make arrangements to meet your daughter. I’ll have to pass on the coffee, because you’re coming with me to the station.”
Imogen let out a sharp bark of laughter.
“No, I’m not. I think you’ve been misinformed .
. . I run a legitimate business. Ask any of my clients, they all make great returns.
All my tax filings are up to date, and I’ve never even been audited!
So there’s no need for me to go to the station, we can talk without all this formali .
. .” She petered out as Detective Ramirez unhooked a pair of handcuffs from her belt.
“Look. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Heads-up: The hard way involves these puppies. Whichever way you choose, you are coming with me.” Detective Ramirez escorted Imogen—who found herself emitting a staccato huh-huh-huh, laughing at the absurdity of her situation—outside and into the back seat of a waiting cruiser.
As they drove away from her home, Imogen’s jerky laughter turned into sobs.