Chapter 42
MARTA
When Imogen skipped town, Marta cold-plunged into her new reality.
Her money was gone and she was totally, irrevocably screwed.
If she couldn’t figure out a way to carry the mortgage on her own, she was going to lose the house, and if she lost the house, then it would only be a matter of time before she lost everything.
Weeks later, Marta thought she must be hallucinating when a text from an unknown number lit up her phone.
Martyparty. Please hear me out. I can explain everything.
What followed was a set of instructions to download an encrypted messaging app.
Marta ignored the message for an entire day (which was to say, she picked up her phone every ten minutes to reread it, and used every ounce of self-control not to respond).
The next morning, while still in bed, Marta downloaded the app and messaged the unknown number a question mark.
She was gratified to see a ( . . . ) pop up right away, and she liked the idea that Imogen had felt even a smidgen of anxiety while waiting for her to reply.
I’m so sorry to disappear like that but I needed to go to my offshore bank in person and there was no way the cops were going to let me leave the country. They have it out for me, I swear. I told them I could clear it all up, but they wouldn’t let me do what I needed to do.
Marta wanted to believe her, she felt that familiar tug at her heart. Her best friend was in trouble and needed her . . . but she knew better now. She knew what Imogen was capable of.
I left so fast I couldn’t return your money, but I swear it’s safe. Everyone’s money is safe. I just need to work through a tax nightmare and some crypto shit and everything will be fine. But I need your help. You’re the only one I can trust.
This was it, the test of loyalty she had suspected was coming.
There’s a safety deposit box. I left so fast I didn’t have time to clear it out, and now I can’t come back to the country until I fix this mess. Marta, if you help me with this, I will not only return your money, I’ll double it out of my own pocket. Will you help me? I am literally begging you.
Marta felt hope for the first time in weeks. She slowly tapped out her response. Tell me what you need me to do.
Over the encrypted messaging app, Imogen explained that she’d taken out a safety deposit box at a bank downtown.
There was a briefcase stored there containing documents that were going to be crucial in untangling the financial snarl and clearing her name.
If Marta could please go to the bank in her stead, get the briefcase, and bring it to her in Saint Kitts, Imogen would be able to get everyone’s money back.
Marta asked how on earth she was supposed to access the safety deposit box without the key, which was presumably in Imogen’s house.
There was no question of her getting in to retrieve it—the door was still belted with police tape and there was a patrol car parked permanently outside.
Imogen’s answer felt like a home invasion.
The matryoshka doll on Marta’s bookshelf, gifted to her by her grandmother when she was ten, had been a constant in her life, moving with her everywhere she went.
Imogen told her to open up the smallest doll.
The key was inside, just as Imogen said it would be.
Apparently, Imogen had hidden it there over a year ago, around the same time she’d added Marta’s name to the bank’s list of people with authorized access to the box.
Marta set it down beside the deconstructed wooden doll, examining the key with revulsion, as if it were a parasite that she’d extricated from her flesh.
Imogen’s presumptuous hijacking of her cherished childhood artifact was just the latest in a string of violations; nonetheless, it wounded Marta to her core.
Once she decided what she was going to do, Marta wasted no time.
At the bank, after presenting her ID and the key, she was ushered to a vault where safety deposit boxes were set into the walls from top to bottom.
The bank employee used the dual control key to turn one lock while Marta used Imogen’s key in the other.
She let out her breath in a little ahh when it clicked open smoothly.
Marta removed the only item the box held—a slender leather briefcase—and placed it directly into the backpack she’d brought with her.
She exited the bank as swiftly as she could and went directly home, where, contrary to Imogen’s instructions, she bashed open the lock.
After sorting through the contents, Marta’s heart soared.
She arranged the items in two piles, then picked up the phone to make the call she’d been putting off since she got home from the lake.
Marta spoke with a duty officer who perked up when she gave her name, and she was patched directly through.
Detective Ramirez was on the other end of the line in seconds, a buzzy energy audible in her greeting.
“I’d like to help you find her,” said Marta.
“I can get Imogen’s location and set up a meeting. She needs to pay for what she’s done.”
The sparkly azure water and arcs of peaceful palms should have had her in a blissed-out state, but Marta was clenched and rigid.
Despite the sun on her shoulders and the breeze dancing through her flowy linen pants, Marta had almost never felt this tense.
Sitting at a table facing the ocean at the Kitts Back and Relax beach bar, she nursed her strawberry daiquiri, unable to relish its bursting sweetness and boozy kick.
Marta had landed on Saint Kitts late the night before, so it was her first time seeing the island’s splendour in the daylight.
On a normal vacation, she would have been nose-deep in a book on the beach, or strolling around to check out the local cafés.
As it was, she was sitting at the overpriced tourist trap Imogen had selected for their meeting and wondering if it was possible that her spinal discs were fusing together out of stress.
Her fingers moved restlessly, folding and unfolding her straw’s packaging in an endless paper accordion.
Imogen would be late to her own clandestine meeting.
It was so typical it almost made Marta smile.
But then she remembered why she was here and what she had to do and it felt like someone was making a paper accordion out of her insides.
She took another sip of her drink, then almost spat it out when she felt a warm hand brush her back.
Suddenly, Imogen was sitting at her table, her face obscured by gigantic shades and an offensively floppy hat.
“You actually came,” said Imogen. “I can’t believe you’re here.
” She took her sunglasses off and tucked a dark lock of hair behind her ear.
Imogen’s makeup-free face looked extra pale framed by her new dye job, and Marta had forgotten that her friend’s eyelashes were almost translucent when not slicked with mascara.
“You’re an absolute treasure, babe.” Imogen clasped her hands overtop of Marta’s for an uncomfortably long moment.
Marta’s palms started to sweat and she broke eye contact quickly, slid her gaze out over the ocean, and tried to casually extract herself from Imogen’s grip.
Imogen gestured to the waiter to bring her a daiquiri as well, then prattled on about the island’s beauty—turquoise waters this, stunning sunsets that—until she had her drink in front of her.
Marta stayed silent and let her talk. Imogen’s capacity to pretend that everything was fine shouldn’t have come as a surprise anymore, but it was still disturbing to see her enact “happy friends meeting up on vacation” when, in reality, she was a fugitive from justice.
And the last time she’d seen Imogen in person, they were fresh off a body disposal.
Scooching her chair closer to Marta’s, Imogen lifted her glass in a toast. “To true friends.” Marta took too big a sip and felt the icy stab of brain freeze.
Leaning in and lowering her voice, even though no one was sitting nearby, Imogen asked, “So you got into the safety deposit box all right? You got the briefcase?” Imogen eyeballed the large wicker beach bag perched on the stool beside Marta. “Did you bring it with you?”
“No, it’s at my hotel. I didn’t want to bring it out in public,” said Marta. Not entirely the truth, but close enough.
Imogen’s jaw tightened and she blinked twice, then smiled. “Oh, okay. No worries, I totally get that. Thanks for being so careful with it.” She took a sip of her daiquiri. “Let’s finish these up and get over there. I’m assuming everything went well at the bank?”
Marta nodded. “It was fine.” She took another sip of her drink. The strawberry slush cooled her throat as a trickle of sweat melted down her back. She did not want to talk about the briefcase or its contents. She wanted to hear what Imogen had to say for herself.
“Great, that’s great. Okay, I’m all done here—do they do a good cocktail or what? We’ll have to come back later for another—shall we head to your hotel now? The Royal White Sands, right?” Imogen was already standing, sliding her sunglasses back on, and looking at Marta expectantly.
But Marta didn’t get up. “Can we just talk for a second? I flew all this way for you. Please, just sit with me.” Imogen looked slightly chastised as she resettled herself.
“What I did . . . I could get in a lot of trouble if anyone found out . . . but I did it for you, because you asked. I want to know what you’re going to do about my money—you know I need my investment back.
You promised. So how are we going to do this? Do you have the cash?”
“Oh babe, no, not cash. You thought I had that kind of cash? I wish! Of course I’m going to get you your money back—doubled!
Like I promised—but I need a little bit of time, that’s all.
The briefcase has all the paperwork for my accounts on the island—it will make things so much easier now, you have no idea—and my crypto wallet—honestly, it’s a total game changer.
With those documents in hand I’ll be able to clear this whole thing up tout de suite! ”
“So you don’t have the cash for me?” Marta knew she was beating a dead horse, but she wanted Imogen to admit it.
Imogen leaned back, looking affronted. “I want to make you whole as soon as possible, but believe me when I say that cash is simply not possible.”
“How much time?” asked Marta. “You said you need a little bit of time. Like, are we talking tomorrow? Should I wait here with you? Go home? You know, I’m out of pocket for the flights and hotel—are you going to reimburse me for that as well?”
“Babe! Of course I am. What’s with the sudden intensity? You know I’m good for it.” Imogen folded her arms across her chest.
Marta wished Imogen hadn’t put her sunglasses back on—she would have liked to be able to look into her eyes instead of staring at her own reflection in Imogen’s bug-eyed lenses. It didn’t really matter, though; she knew Imogen was lying. Not just about the money, but about everything.