“And that was my whole point when I said this was a bad idea,” said Imogen. “We actually do find some crime-scene shit, and it’s like, now what? It doesn’t mean anything! Either of you could have put it there.”
“So I guess we’re finally letting go of the ‘stranger on the island’ fantasy,” said Bernie.
“Fine!” Marta sounded like she was near tears. “It was a stupid idea. I’m sorry. Doing a search just seemed better than doing nothing, but you’re right, we don’t know what we’re doing. Maybe we should stop.”
Imogen accepted the apology with a shrug, relieved that no one was taking the ropeas definitive evidence that she’d had anything to do with Celeste’s death. She exhaled noisily through her nose. “Okay, this may sound strange, but I actually don’t think we should stop the search.”
“What?” Bernie raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“One of you put that rope underneath my bed. I bet you—whoeveryouare—would love it if we stopped looking. So let’s go. I want to tear the place apart. What if there’s incriminating shit everywhere, huh? We’re not stopping at my room.”
Marta looked scared. “But what’s the point of it all now?”
“I think the point is to see what other nasty bits and pieces are stashed around the cottage.” Imogen didn’t give them a chance to disagree, she simply turned on her heel and stalked down the hallway toward Marta and Celeste’s room. “Don’t you want to know if someone has a knife hidden under her pillow?”
28
MARTA
A vision of Celeste’s ruined neck flashed before Marta’s eyes. She didn’t want to accept that either one of her friends could have done something so vicious, but she was clearly deluding herself. Perhaps before this morning she wouldn’t have thought that Imogen was capable of murder . . . but after seeing those photographs, she didn’t know what to believe.
Imogen and Bernie each selected a side of the room she’d shared with Celeste, and it was Marta’s turn to stand in the doorway while they searched. She twisted her wedding band around and around, and then realized—“Oh god, no, I’ve got to go wash my hands.” There was a small dark spot under her thumbnail and now the only thing she could think wasdried blood. “I touched that rope, I can’t . . .”
“Go ahead, we’ll start the search,” said Bernie.
“Shouldn’t we all be sticking together?” Imogen countered. “I thought that was part of this whole exercise—no one’s allowed to go off on her own.”
So Marta lathered up in the washroom with Imogen and Bernie lurking behind her in the doorway, her heart racing and fear tingling through her limbs. Marta closed her eyes as she scrubbed. After her hands were clean, they returned to the bedroom.
A few minutes later, Imogen shrieked, “What?”She had opened the inner pocket of Marta’s duffle bag and was pulling out the photographs, flipping through the shots with a horrified look on her face. “You’re the one blackmailing me? What the hell, Marta?” Imogen threw the stack on the floor.
Marta could barely breathe, and her usual instinct to roll over and apologize—even for things that weren’t her fault—was starting to kick in, but then her brain hit an override switch:NOT TODAY, BITCH. The audacity of Imogen to yell at her whenshehad been meeting with Marta’s husband in secret. Whenshehad attackedhim on the eve of his disappearance, and didn’t think this might be relevant information. Whenshehad entirely omitted the violence in her sanitized version of events.
“No,” said Marta forcefully. “I didn’t take those photos, I swear to God. They were in my toiletry bag this morning when I went to brush my teeth—I don’t know who put them there. I found them and then . . . and then I found Celeste.” It felt as though that morning was weeks ago, her memory already degraded into flashes of images: the heron, the rocks, Celeste’s sodden jeans. “Someone left them there for me to find. It could have been you for all I know.” Marta pointed a finger right back at Imogen. “It’s funny how, when you told me about that night, you made it sound like you and Derrick just had a little disagreement. You didn’t mention that it got physical.” As she said it out loud, Marta realized how incriminating it sounded. If the police saw these photographs, they would likely have some very serious questions for Imogen. “Why don’t you tell me what really happened?”
“It’s like I told you yesterday. He admitted that he was having an affair.”
Bernie made a littlehmmnoise.
“Yeah, yeah, Iknow,” said Marta. “He was having an affair, but sowhat. Why meet with him in the park at night? Why did you hit him? Do you know what really happened to my husband?”
“No!” Imogen held her hands out in front of her as if to ward off the very notion. “I have no idea. He was mad when I confronted him about the affair. I threatened to tell you if he didn’t tell you himself—and I would have!—but then he disappeared and I didn’t want to tell you something unnecessarily painful because you were already dealing with enough. That night, Derrick was drunk and he came at me . . . but he was completelyfinewhen I left him. I get that this looks bad, but that’s also why I didn’t want to involve the police. They would have wasted their time chasing down a false lead.”
Marta decided she could no longer take Imogen at her word. Yes, she’d only lied by omission, but those could be the worst kind of lies, as Marta knew all too well.
“Pretty aggro of you,” said Bernie. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you. I guess you’re a dangerous woman when pushed.”
“Back off, Bern,” Imogen snapped. “Don’t try to make this into some kind of evidence that I killed Celeste.”
“Except that it kind ofisevidence, isn’t it?” Bernie shot back. “Evidence that you’re capable of hurting someone who threatens you. I wonder if Celeste made you feel threatened this weekend.”
Marta’s head was spinning and she couldn’t tear her gaze from the photos scattered on the floor. Whoever had left them for her to find had clearly done so with the express purpose of messing with her head. “Can everyonepleasejust be quiet for a minute?” Marta raised her voice and was surprised when the other women actually listened to her. “One of you left those photos for me to find. Just admit it.” She looked plaintively from Imogen to Bernie.
“Grow up, Marta!” Imogen snapped. “If Bernie left you those photos, she isn’t going to admit it—not to mention that it could have been Celeste—and, Christ, you could be the photographer for all I know!” Imogen whipped around to face Bernie. “Those photos have nothing to do with anything other than me defending myself against a man. How could Celeste threaten me, huh? I had no reason to hurt her.”
Bernie shrugged with one shoulder. “Didn’t you, though? Didn’t you know about her and Mark?”
Imogen got very still. “What are you saying?”
