Celeste smiled her complicity at Imogen. “Of course not. Your secrets are safe with me.”
A light citrusy scent lingered in Imogen’s nose after Celeste hugged her goodbye.Goddamn, she smells delicious.If these had been normal circumstances, Imogen would have been fuming, mentally playing out the fight she’d have with Mark when he got home from Chicago, scheming ways to punish him for embarrassing her in front of her friend. But she couldn’t spare the energy, not with this Derrick thing. Plus, Celeste was clear that nothing had actually happened. She decided she’d cancel Mark’s access to the Black Amex for the rest of the month and see how he liked paying for his kicky Yorkville lunches on his own dime. Mostly Imogen was annoyed with Celeste, and annoyed with herself for being annoyed with Celeste.
As Imogen stacked their mugs in the dishwasher, her brain started pulling at the loose threads of the last twenty-four hours, picking at Celeste’s visit, looking for snags.What if the whole Mark thing was just a pretext to bring up Derrick?If Celeste was the one who’d seen her and sent those pictures . . . maybe she’d simply come over to play with Imogen and see how badly she’d rattled her. The thought made her insides twist. Maybe Celeste was smarter than Imogen thought.
On the other hand, if Celeste really had been interested in some simple gossip about Marta and Derrick (which would be totally on brand for her), then Imogen hoped she’d managed to respond normally, like someone with nothing to hide. It struck her in a bolt that she didn’t even know exactly what she was hiding. When she’d seen the photos, she’d panicked and assumed the worst. But Marta would have said something by now if he still hadn’t come home, wouldn’t she? Imogen exhaled heavily, expanding her belly against the tight waistband of her jeans. She decided she would call Marta. Everything would be okay.
Everything was not okay.
Marta answered on the first ring. “Imm! I literally had my phone in my hand, I was just about to call you. I don’t know what to do.”
“What’s going on?” Imogen noticed the tremor in Marta’s voice and tried not to let it echo in her own.
“Derrick . . . he still hasn’t come home and he’s not answering his phone.”
Imogen’s heart dropped out of her body. “Oh babe! You must be worried sick.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t know, exactly. It’s so awful, but I don’t know whether to be terrified or furious. I’m worried, but at the same time I’m so angry with him for doing this to me. But what if he’s not doing anything? What if something happened to him? This time is different, I can feel it. When he’s done this before, it’s only been for one night. Never a whole weekend.”
“Uh-huh. Okay, well, is there anywhere he could have gone? I forget if I asked you last night—do you know what his plans were for Friday night?” Imogen worried a new hangnail on her thumb with her teeth, tearing off a strip, tasting pennies.
“No, he just texted me that he’d be out late. So when he didn’t come home on Saturday morning, I was pissed. I thought he’d be home and waiting for me by the time I got home from book club last night. But . . .” Marta swallowed loudly. “He wasn’t here. He never came home. We were supposed to go for brunch today.”
“Derrick loves brunch,” said Imogen—what an inane thing to say, why would you say that?—as she sank into the cushions of her living room sofa. She felt as though she might never be able to get up again.
“Right? I don’t know what to do. Do you think I should call the police? I feel so stupid, like they’re going to think I’m a nag who doesn’t let her husband have any fun and he’s going to walk in the door any minute. But what if something happened to him?”
Imogen blinked once, then made a conscious effort to slip into her CEO mode. It was where she thrived, after all, and it was where she needed to be if she was going to get through this. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. You call all his friends and colleagues, see if anyone knows where he was. Maybe he’s still on someone’s couch—in which case he’s buying us both dinner—or maybe someone has been in contact with him. I’ll call the hospitals. If we can’t find anything, then you’ll contact the police.”
Marta let out a tiny moan, fear and relief at being told what to do. “Thanks, Imm, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“I’m sure he’s fine, babe,” said Imogen, closing her eyes as she lied to her friend.
Imogen knew she shouldn’t go back. It was probably the stupidest thing she could possibly do.
Her armpits were already sweating when she parked her car. Would it be strange if she headed straight to the spot? Yes, she decided, it would be better to do a loop first, burn off some of the nervous energy. Imogen went slowly—she rarely did cardio—clutching her cellphone in one hand. She’d be out of breath by the time she reached her destination, but she thought that was probably appropriate. As she ran, she rehearsed what she’d have to say if she made the call.Hello, I’m in High Park. I’ve just found something.No, that was too vague.I need an ambulance, there’s an emergency.That also rang false—there would be nothing urgent about the situation.I found a body.Too clinical—she should at least acknowledge that she thought she recognized him.
Imogen’s thoughts were a tangled pile of clothing hangers. There were the photos, of course, and who knew what her blackmailer would do if Derrick’s body were found. But she could explain—he’d threatened her, he was fine when she left him, he was drunk, who knows what he did next—that all could align with the photos, and—But what if there’s video?The thought spiked through her limbs, giving her a burst of speed as if she were running from someone. She still hadn’t landed on what to do, but she was rapidly approaching the part of the path where she’d have to make a decision. Imogen slowed to a walk to give herself a little more time, stretching one arm and then the other over her head. She focused on the sharp chirps of the birds, the creak of wood chips underfoot, and the wheeze of her own laboured breathing. Heart racing, she steeled herself as she turned onto an almost hidden side path, and then time sped up as the spot came into view. She stopped abruptly, almost tripping over her own feet.
Derrick’s body was gone.
6
MARTA
On her way home from the Murder Mamas soiree, Marta gave up on her boots. Her ankles were shaky, her blisters were raw, and the balls of her feet were going numb. The pavement was blissfully cold beneath her feet, her threadbare socks providing only the thinnest layer of protection, and she winced when she stepped on a pebble. Despite the discomfort, the sensation of walking nearly barefoot was oddly liberating. Marta thought that the last time she did this, she must have been twenty-one, buzzed on hard lemonade or cheap tequila, on her way home from a party with Derrick. Back when he still cared about spending time with her.
The most recent time Derrick had stayed out all night was this past spring, after his coed softball league championship game. His team, the Teacher’s Pets, had won the title and went out to the pub to celebrate. Marta panicked when she woke up in the middle of the night, alone in bed. But the worry quickly turned to anger when she checked her messages. There was onlyPhone dying. Home tmrw.She picked up the hardcover book from beside the bed and threw it across the room, denting the drywall. The day after the softball game, Derrick shambled into the house in the early afternoon, reeking of stale beer and cigarettes (which he claimed he didn’t smoke, although Marta kept finding lighters in his pockets when she did the laundry). He told her he’d stayed on his friend Zeke’s couch, and she did not press him on it. She did spend at least an hour studying the photo that one of his teammates posted to Instagram and wondering whether Derrick and the cute brunette with braids were standing too close together.
Marta gasped as she stepped on something sharp; car-window confetti sprinkled the sidewalk underfoot. She’d been so wrapped up in her own drunken thoughts that she hadn’t noticed the pebbles of glass until it was too late. Gingerly, she picked her way through the mess. She knew she should put the boots back on, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. They had been a Christmas present from Derrick a few years ago. Even though he knew she hated wearing heels, he bought them for her because he thought they’d make her look more sophisticated. On impulse, as she passed a public trash can, she shoved the boots inside. She let out a laugh, an unstable one, the kind that quickly turns to tears. Marta knew she must look like a total disaster—barefoot with mascara trails down her cheeks—but so what? The only person who got embarrassed when she was drunk and emotional was Derrick.
As Marta approached the house that she and Derrick had shared for the past five years, she tried to take a deep breath, but there was a band of fear around her chest and she couldn’t seem to draw in enough air. Marta shakily unlocked the front door, wishing she’d left the lights on, then stepped inside and felt the dark pressing in on her from all sides. She was alone, just like she knew she would be.
On Sunday afternoon, after speaking with Imogen, Marta officially reported her husband missing. It was a surreal experience, like she was starring in a police procedural but no one had given her the script. The smell of industrial cleaner in the interview room where she gave her statement threatened to overwhelm her, and the entire time she was speaking to the officers, she felt like she was floating outside her body, watching the scene from above.
When she got home from the police station, Marta walked directly into the kitchen without taking her shoes off. That had always bothered Derrick; he’d complain about finding bits of dirt or grass on the floor, but wouldn’t actually pick up a broom to do something about it. She plopped herself down at the kitchen table and zoned out, staring at the clock on the wall. She watched the minute hand tick forty-seven times before her phone buzzed—a text from her boss with next week’s shift schedule for the bookstore—pulling her out of her daze. She stood and shook the feeling back into her left foot.
Pacing the kitchen, Marta tried to figure out what she was supposed to be doing right now. If she made pasta, would that create some kind of psychosomatic link with this feeling of dread that would rear its ugly head any time she tried to eat spaghetti? She decided to risk it, even though there was something almost too joyful about a bowl of noodles. While waiting for the water to boil, she called Imogen, something she frequently did while cooking (she even knew Imogen’s number by heart—an honour that did not extend to her own husband). But Marta had never felt this nervous fluttering in her throat while waiting for her friend to answer, and she ended up half hoping for voice mail. Imogen picked up at the last minute.
