Chapter 45 #2
“Imogen.” Bernie sighed. “She killed Celeste. I’d bet anything that Celeste knew something—maybe the location of Imogen’s offshore bank, a secret passport, inside information about the money trail or whatever—and Imogen eliminated her as a threat.
Ha!” Bernie laughed, a single punch of air.
“Or not, as it turns out. Guess she probably should have killed you instead.”
Marta nodded, but that wasn’t enough. “Imogen’s a bad person,” she said in a strong voice, verbally severing the last gossamer thread of loyalty to the woman who had been her best friend for decades.
“She had us all fooled.” The seed of a headache bloomed at the front of Marta’s skull, and she knew it would soon spread its tendrils all the way down to the base of her neck. “Um, may I use your washroom?”
“Of course. But the toilet in the powder room is clogged and the plumber isn’t coming until tomorrow.
” Bernie rolled her eyes. “One of the boys flushed a ball of playdough last night as a parting gift. I told him he’s only allowed to do that at his dad’s house.
You’ll have to use the guest washroom in the basement. ”
“And, I’m sorry, but do you have any tampons?” Marta hated having to ask. “I just realized I didn’t bring an extra.”
Bernie’s eyebrows twitched a quick frown then smoothed out into good hostess in the space of one blink.
I’ll bet she’s never had a menstrual emergency in her life.
She probably wears pristine white underwear on her period.
“In that case, go upstairs and use my ensuite—it’s accessible through the door at the end of the hall. Tampons are under the sink.”
Marta stood, praying silently that she hadn’t left it too late and ruined Bernie’s couch.
Relief rushed through her when she peeked over her shoulder and saw no dark stains on the creamy fabric.
She made her way upstairs quickly, not daring to touch the glass banister lest she smudge it with a greasy palm.
How on earth do small children exist in this space?
It was the first time Marta had been invited to access the upper level of Bernie’s house, and despite her hurry to get to the washroom, she paused when she reached the top of the stairs, arrested by the art on the walls.
She knew Bernie well enough not to expect to find her children’s paintings taped up haphazardly, but she’d imagined she’d find some tasteful black-and-white photographs, or maybe a collection of artsy line drawings.
Instead, Marta was confronted with a series of highly detailed anatomical illustrations in full colour, each one edged by a thin black frame.
She walked slowly past two hearts (one intact and one dissected), a set of lungs, a spine, and a skull.
The tour through the human body ended at the end of the hall.
Marta entered Bernie’s bathroom, which was white with gold-and-green accents.
A massive bathtub sat like an invitation in the centre of the room, perfectly positioned beneath the skylight.
The walk-in shower took up the far wall—sparkling glass enclosing a space large enough to contain a teak bench and a sizable tropical plant.
After changing her tampon (she’d made it just in time), Marta inspected her peeling lips in the mirror as she washed her hands with soap that smelled like the lobby of a hotel she could never afford.
Over her shoulder, she saw that the door connecting to Bernie’s bedroom was open a crack, displaying a tantalizing slice of her inner sanctum.
Without overthinking it, Marta dried her hands on her jeans as she crossed the tile floor and pushed the door fully open. Just a quick peek.
The late afternoon rays illuminated the king bed in the centre of the room, piled high with soft white pillows and a thick duvet.
Marta blushed when she clocked the erotic nude photographs that were arranged artistically on the walls, then took a few more steps into the space.
A walk-in closet! Restraint gone, Marta crossed the room in quick strides to peer inside the serene oasis where all Bernie’s beautiful things were neatly folded and stacked and organized by colour.
Marta thought that if she had such a cool space, she would have turned it into a cozy reading nook; she imagined filling the shelves with books instead of purses, and putting a lamp on the table beside the easy chair instead of a bowl with . . .
Her eyes were struggling to sort through the jumble of objects when her gaze snagged on a familiar item.
What the hell? Marta’s hairline prickled.
Magnetized by the pull of Derrick’s class ring, she fully entered the closet and approached the table.
No. Oh no. She saw it then, beside the bowl, its delicate golden links coiled like a sleeping serpent.
The metal was cold against her skin but warmed quickly as she closed her eyes and squeezed her hand into a fist. When she uncurled her fingers, the shape of Celeste’s locket had left a heart-shaped indent in her flesh.