Chapter 48
BERNIE
Bernie hadn’t given much thought to what she’d do if Imogen or Marta found out that she was the one who’d killed Celeste.
It was simply not something she worried about, because Bernie never really worried about anything, when it came down to it.
Things happened, or they didn’t. And when things happened, she dealt with them.
It’s not that hard when you’re the smartest person in any room.
Bernie was very pleased with how well she’d dealt with this unexpected turn of events, and thrilled to have her theory about Marta confirmed.
After they’d gotten back from the lake, Bernie had become increasingly convinced that Marta was hiding something.
She’d expected Marta to accuse Imogen of having something to do with Derrick’s disappearance after finding the photographs Bernie had planted in her toiletry bag; and, relatedly, she’d thought the photos would make Marta suspicious that Imogen had killed Celeste.
Marta’s reaction to the photographs had been too muted, which got Bernie’s wheels turning.
The clincher was when Marta agreed to make Celeste disappear—a decision that was completely out of character for her.
Bernie suspected she must have had her own secret reasons for not wanting to be part of a murder investigation.
“. . . and the dump seemed perfect until I realized that I physically couldn’t do it,” said Marta.
“It was actually such a stupid idea, but I wasn’t thinking clearly in the moment.
I was barely able to drag him from the kitchen into the garage—I think I must have been high on adrenalin—and I was so sore the next day I could barely get my shoes on.
I don’t know how I thought I’d be able to get him into the trunk of my car, let alone out of the trunk at the dump, without help. It was a crazy stupid plan.”
Marta kept talking and talking, each word relieving the pressure on her soul.
In Bernie’s company she was free to unburden herself of her darkest secret.
It wasn’t that she’d let Derrick die. It wasn’t that he was currently covered in ice crystals in her garage, or that next spring his body would fertilize the garden she intended to plant.
It was that she wished she’d had the guts to kill him herself.
His death was the defining moment of her entire life, but, as throughout the course of their relationship, she had been a passive participant.
Marta explained that she’d realized she’d let herself be controlled for most of her life—by her parents, by Imogen, by Derrick.
She’d been so worried about being liked that she’d rarely stopped to ask herself if she liked the person she was trying to impress. But no more.
Bernie almost applauded. This was the most she had ever liked Marta.
Marta picked up her empty water glass and got up from her bar stool. “I’m just going to get some more.”
Bernie leapt up to beat her to it. “Allow me.” She grabbed the glass from Marta’s hand, filled it from the tap, and then turned to hand it back.
But Marta was frozen in place, her eyes locked on the windowsill above the sink where the sleek profile of Bernie’s iPhone (a slick white case against slick white tile) was barely visible.
“Oh my god. You were recording me.”