She practically had to shove Celeste and Marta out the door—each lingered as though she expected the other to leave first. Marta insisted on carrying the empty bottles to the garage, telling Celeste that she should go home and enjoy a rare night with the house to herself. Not to be outdone, Celeste stacked their plates in the dishwasher and insisted that Marta should feel free to leave, speculating that Derrick was probably home and eager to make up. Imogen had to shoo them both out of the kitchen, promising that her housekeeper would take care of everything the next day. Then Celeste had to use the washroom. Then it was Marta’s turn. Then they took a million years to put their shoes on. Finally, Imogen shut the door behind them.
She collapsed onto the couch, undid her belt, and unhooked her bra. On automatic, she annihilated the remains of the snacks, cramming stray figs, broken crackers, and leftover pickles into her mouth, then licking smears of soft cheese from her fingers as she stared at the bookshelf. When she’d eaten every last scrap, she got up to grab the picture frame. She sat back down, poured herself the dregs of the Chardonnay, and watched the photos cycle through. This time she was more prepared when the first image filled the screen, but the sight of Derrick still made her stomach flip, and she let out an involuntary bleat of laughter.
The photo was taken from a distance, but it was unmistakably Derrick and Imogen, standing close together. A second image replaced the first: Imogen’s face contorted in anger, Derrick’s equally intense. Then a third image popped up, one Imogen hadn’t seen yet. It was worse than she’d feared. Imogen could barely breathe. All the cheese she’d eaten was suddenly expanding, compressing her lungs, rising up her throat.Is this what a panic attack feels like?She put her head between her knees, but that didn’t seem to help. Sliding off the couch onto the floor, she lay flat on the carpet, staring up at the ceiling until her breathing returned to normal. Eventually, she sat up and forced herself to think about who could have sent the photographs.
The digital photo frame worked by connecting to Wi-Fi. Anyone could email a photo to the unique email address associated with the frame, and the image would appear in the frame a few seconds later. But the number of people who had the email address for Imogen’s frame was small. She ticked them off in her head. Her parents, who were permanent snowbirds living in Florida. Her brother, Caleb, who was currently in the Arctic on a research trip. Ariana—but that was impossible. Imogen hadn’t bothered to give Mark the email address because he never took photos, plus he’d been in Chicago for the past week, visiting his parents. That left her book club.
After their book club retreat last summer, Imogen had given Marta, Bernie, and Celeste the email address and encouraged them to share their cutest cottage shots via the frame.How could one of them do this to me?Imogen mentally scrabbled for an alternative explanation. Could she have been hacked? She didn’t know much about hacking, but neither did anyone else she knew. And whoever was doing this definitely knew her. Plus, the timing of the photos showing up in the frame was too perfect—the first had appeared shortly after Marta broke the news about Derrick. Which meant it had to be one of her friends.
Imogen rewound the evening in her head to the best of her ability, trying to pinpoint if and when any of the other women might have been using their cellphones. She remembered that they’d disagreed over what years the serial killer who terrorized the gay village had been active. Marta had said something about him not getting caught for almost a decade because of police prejudice, and how the murders had shaped nightlife on Church Street.
“I thought it was fewer than five years? Wasn’t it the early 2000s, like, turn of the millennium?” said Celeste. “I’m pretty sure.”
“It was longer,” said Bernie. “And it was later, I swear. I’m sure it was the 2010s.”
“Google will tell us,” said Marta.
All the women pulled their phones out, ultimately confirming that between 2010 and 2017, eight men from Toronto’s gay community were murdered by the city’s most prolific serial killer. They decided to putMissing from the Villageon their list of potential books for a future meeting.
Imogen took a deep drink of wine with her eyes closed. It could have been any one of them, they’d all had an opportunity at approximately the same time. And that wasn’t even factoring in trips to the washroom; there was no way she could remember who’d been on their phones and when.
Marta, Bernie, or Celeste. One of them had sent the photos to her frame, Imogen was sure of it.But who?And how did she, whoever she was, end up in the right place at the right time to snap those shots? No one else was supposed to know about her meet-up with Derrick. Imogen started teasing a thin strip of skin from the base of her thumbnail. The raw pink skin would throb all day tomorrow, but the satisfaction she got from the sharp rip of flesh gave her an instant flash of relief. When the stinging pain receded, the questions that her mind had briefly held at bay surged through her.What does she know?Imogen broke out into a cold sweat as the first wave of nausea hit.What does she want from me?
2
MARTA
On the day of the Murder Mamas soiree, Marta had already maxed out the daily limit for Tylenol and it was only noon. Her headache was a dull throb behind her left eye, her jaw ached from clenching, and the space between her shoulder blades was tight and fiery.
Briefly, Marta considered going in for the latter part of her shift at Famous Last Words, but the owner had already agreed to cover the day for her, so she decided to stay home. Normally, she loved her job at the indie bookstore, chatting with co-workers about their shared love of reading, recommending new releases and old favourites to customers, even doing store inventory. But today she simply couldn’t muster the energy it would require to be out in the world, talking to strangers. She switched to Advil, popping two extra-strength gels into her mouth and chasing them with a swig of cold coffee.How many pots of coffee is too many pots of coffee?she wondered, grinding the beans to make her third of the day. As she stirred a generous splash of cream and two scoops of sugar into her favourite mug, she looked up at the wall calendar and mentally counted down the days until the weekend circled in red: MURDER MAMAS RETREAT!
Eyes gritty with lack of sleep but heart jittering so much that she couldn’t nap, Marta spent her afternoon re-cleaning the kitchen, over-plucking her eyebrows, and doing loads of laundry—anything to keep busy. Marta remade the bed with clean sheets, pausing as she smoothed out the pillowcase on Derrick’s side of the bed. She couldn’t think about him now without wanting to crumple to the floor, and she couldn’t afford to collapse. Her matryoshka doll watched sternly from the bookshelf as she teetered on the brink. Marta tried to envision her weak inner self—the one on the verge of a breakdown—as one of the wooden stacking dolls that she could stuff inside a hard outer shell and hide away from the world.
When it was finally evening and time to get ready for the book club soiree, Marta turned to her latest podcast obsession in an attempt to get out of her head. She was relieved that her phone screen—freshly cracked like the top of a crème brûlée—still functioned well enough that she could access her podcast library. Having already devoured the entire back catalogues ofSerial,My Favorite Murder,andCriminal, she was always on the hunt for new shows, and she was currently catching up on old seasons ofFilthy Funds. Listening to the banter between Claudia and Leo, the hosts of the popular podcast, Marta could almost pretend she was hanging out with them instead of alone in her house.
Marta blasted an episode ofFilthy Fundsas she pulled on a pair of pilled leggings and threw on a V-neck top. Her lower back twinged as she bent over to pull on her ankle socks, a reminder that she was solidly in her thirties and could throw her spine out of alignment by something as minor as a sudden cough or a crooked sleep. She topped off the whole outfit with the expensive orange shacket that Imogen had convinced her to buy the last time they went shopping. Derrick had given her a hard time over the credit card bill (which he could be counted on to do whenever she spent money on herself), and thinking about his reaction sent a fresh wave of rage through her. She wasn’t a hundred percent sold on the shacket, but it was important that Imogen see her wear it at least once, so she decided to leave the tag on and drink only white wine tonight.
Marta debated adding a pair of dangly earrings to her look (tiny ceramic models of Jane Austen’sEmma), but was suddenly stricken with indecision over this inconsequential decision. She put them on and took them off several times, then decided to leave them at home even though they were the only part of the outfit that truly felt like her. She was convinced that Celeste would call themcute(meaning they were ugly), or that Imogen would say something about them to Celeste behind her back.
Pulling back her auburn curls with a claw clip, she studied her reflection and wished she’d gone a little lighter with the tweezers. Her brows curved in thin lines and flicked up at a sharp angle, giving her a permanently worried expression. As Marta imagined the night ahead, her stomach churned.They’re your friends.Just tell them right away.She grimaced and looked away, unable to meet her eyes in the mirror. More than anything, she wanted to feel like there were people in her life she could trust. She needed a display of love and support from her friends tonight, especially from Imogen.
Marta had already been let down by Imogen once this week, and yes, she kept score. The running tally was too depressing to think about. Yesterday, she’d been on her way out the door when Imogen had texted to cancel their brunch. Marta was almost certain that Imogen didn’t remember that this brunch date was meant to be a make-up meal (an apology for Imogen forgetting Marta’s birthday last month), but she couldn’t decide whether that made it better or worse. Apparently, there was a designer warehouse sale somewhere out in Vaughan that Imogen had decided was a way better idea. I’m already on my way (don’t hate me, those lines get crazy!)—get here when you can! It killed Marta that Imogen didn’t even think to offer her a ride. Derrick had already taken their car for the day, public transit would take forever, and there was no way she could justify the pricey Uber.
Stomach growling, Marta forced herself to reply with a breezy No worries, babe! She threw in some colourful heart emojis for good measure. I won’t be able to join you, but have fun! It had taken her weeks to get a reservation for the new Egyptian place, and now there was no way she could go because all the dishes were meant for sharing. Marta decided to get a quick bite on Roncy instead—a Gold Standard breakfast sandwich might cheer her up a little.
As Marta locked the door, her phone dinged. Although she knew she should ignore it, she fished it out right away. Booo on you for cancelling! It won’t be as fun without the Martyparty. Marta gritted her teeth and considered not replying, then tapped out, Sorry, babe! I’ll make it up to you. It was just like Imogen to change the plans last minute and then make it seem as though it was Marta’s fault if she couldn’t adjust. She threw her phone back into her purse, wishing she had a different best friend, one who hadn’t known her since she was a mousy preteen with an overbite, one who didn’t take her for granted.
After she ate, Marta walked home sipping an extra-large latte and checking her phone every few minutes to see if Imogen had messaged with an update from the sale or if Derrick had answered her texts from earlier that morning. She sighed and decided to turn her phone off to stop her anxious spiral. What was the point of a best friend or a husband if neither even wanted to see her? But of course she didn’t turn off her phone, because what if one of them messaged? She settled for switching her notifications from sound to vibrate. As it turned out, Marta did get an important call that afternoon, just not from Imogen or Derrick. Her day got exponentially worse from there, culminating in the epic bout of insomnia.
Now, with the nastiness of the last day and a half clinging to her like cobwebs, Marta hopped on the streetcar for a thirty-minute ride, then walked the five blocks to Imogen’s house. The whole time, she fixated on Derrick, worrying the thought like the jagged edge of a broken fingernail.Should I say something tonight?He’d done this before, after all—stayed out all night, lost his phone drinking, come home far later than planned. Marta kicked a rock with the pointy toe of her heeled boot, already regretting her choice of footwear. When are you supposed to tell your friends your husband hasn’t come home from a night out? Marta suddenly realized that she was muttering to herself—a lingering habit from years of pandemic masking—and admonished herself to get better control over her face. She swallowed hard and hiked the waistband of her leggings into place before she walked up to Imogen’s house.
It was still hard to accept that her childhood bestie owned this impressive property in Forest Hill. When Marta and Derrick had moved back to the city from the west coast, Marta thought she must have the wrong house when she went to Imogen’s for the first time. She tentatively rang the doorbell, expecting to be sent away by the owner and already pulling out her phone to message Imogen for her correct address. But then Imogen answered the door with her hair bleached, cheeks filled, and lips plumped, a wealthy caricature of her former self. Despite the fact that Imogen now dressed in head-to-toe labels and noosed herself in pearls, Marta’s mental image of her friend remained firmly fixed in young adulthood, when she would show up for movie nights at Marta’s in scrub pants. This newer, shinier version did not compute.
Tonight, Marta was planning to get to Imogen’s first (and had, in fact, timed her arrival for half an hour before book club officially began). She’d tell Imogen, she decided, then the others. It would be easier that way. When Imogen opened the door—“Babe, hi! Come in, come in”—she was in her usual full face of makeup and her hair looked longer and thicker than it had been last week. Imogen was a good hugger, always had been, and tonight Marta held on a little longer than normal. She was about to blurt it all out when Celeste suddenly materialized from the living room, elegant in a simple blue shirtdress.
“Oh, hi, Celeste! It’s so good to see you.” Marta’s heart cramped with disappointment. It bugged the shit out of Marta that Celeste seemed to thinkshewas Imogen’s best friend. When Celeste and Imogen had arrived at Marta’s house for the July meeting of the Murder Mamas wearing welded-on friendship bracelets, she’d had to excuse herself to have a quiet cry in the washroom.
“Marta! Oh my god, look at you. Autumn, here we come!” said Celeste, sweeping her into an extravagant hug that smelled of citrus and spice. Marta was relieved when Celeste released her from her bony clutches.
