Genuine Fraud(27)

He let her arm drop and walked into the living room, where he draped himself on the couch without being invited. “I think you know where she is. That’s all.”

“She probably went to Paris for the weekend. You can go really quickly from here through the Chunnel.”

“Paris?”

“I’m guessing.”

“Did she tell you not to tell me where she went?”

“No. We didn’t even know you were coming.”

Forrest sank back in his seat. “I need to see her. I texted her, but she might have blocked me.”

“She got a UK phone, with a different number.”

“She doesn’t answer my emails, either. That’s why I came all the way here. I was hoping to talk to her.”

Jule made them some tea while Forrest phoned hotels. He had to make twelve calls before he found one with a room he could book for a few nights.

He’d been arrogant enough to think Imogen would let him stay.





MID-DECEMBER, 2016

SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA Two days before she would arrive in London, Jule was on foot, trudging up a San Francisco hill with a heavy statue of a lion in her backpack.

She adored San Francisco. It looked like Immie had said it would, hilly and quaint, yet expansive and elegant. Today Jule had been to see the Asian Art Museum’s ceramics exhibit. Her apartment’s owner had recommended it.

Maddie Chung, the owner, was spare, fiftyish, and gay. She wore jeans and smoked on the porch and owned a small bookstore. Jule paid in cash by the week for the apartment, which was the top floor of a Victorian house. Maddie and her wife lived in the bottom two stories. She was always talking to Jule about art history and gallery exhibits. She was very kind and seemed to view Jule as in need of goodwill.

Today, when Jule got home, Brooke Lannon was sitting on the steps. Immie’s friend from Vassar. “I got here early,” said Brooke. “Whatever.”

Brooke’s convertible had been parked in front of the building overnight. She needed to come pick it up, but Jule had texted her to please stay and talk.

Brooke had thick thighs, a square jaw, and sleek blond hair that always looked the same. White skin and nude lipstick. A jock style. She’d grown up in La Jolla. She drank too much, played field hockey in high school, and had had a series of boyfriends and one girlfriend, but never love. These were all things Jule knew about her from Martha’s Vineyard.

Now Brooke stood up and nearly lost her balance.

“You okay?” Jule asked.

“Not really.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Yes,” said Brooke. “What of it?”

Night was falling.

“Let’s go for a drive,” said Jule. “We can talk.”

“A drive?”

“It’ll be nice. You have such a cute car. Let me have the keys.” The car was the type of thing older men buy to convince themselves they’re still sexy. The two seats were camel-colored, the body curved and bright green. Jule wondered if it belonged to Brooke’s dad. “I can’t have you drive if you’ve been drinking.”

“What are you, the police?”

“Hardly.”

“A spy?”

“Brooke.”

“Seriously, are you?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“Ha. That’s what a spy would say.”

It didn’t matter what Jule said or did not say to Brooke anymore. “Let’s go on a hike,” said Jule. “I know a place in the state park. We can drive across the Golden Gate Bridge and it’ll be mad scenic.”

Brooke jangled her car keys in her pocket. “It’s kinda late.”

“Look,” Jule said, “we’ve had a misunderstanding about Immie, and I’m glad you came over. Let’s just go somewhere neutral and talk it out. My apartment is not the best place.”

“I don’t know if I want to talk to you.”

“You showed up early,” said Jule. “You want to talk to me.”

“Okay, we’ll talk it out, hug it out, all that,” said Brooke. “It’ll make Immie happy.” She handed over the keys.

People were stupid when they drank.





Two days before Christmas it was too cold for the convertible, but the top of Brooke’s car was down anyway. Brooke insisted. Jule wore jeans, boots, and a warm wool sweater. Her backpack was in the trunk, and in it were her wallet, a second sweater and a clean T-shirt, a wide-mouth water bottle, a packet of baby wipes, a black garbage bag, and the lion statue.

Brooke took a half-empty bottle of vodka out of her shoulder bag but didn’t actually drink from it. She went to sleep almost immediately.

Jule drove up through the city. By the time they got to the Golden Gate Bridge, she was antsy. The quiet drive was unnerving. She nudged Brooke awake. “The bridge,” she said. “Look.” It loomed above them, orange and majestic.

“People love to kill themselves on this bridge,” said Brooke thickly.

“What?”

“It’s the second most popular suicide bridge in the world,” said Brooke. “I read it somewhere.”

“What’s the first?”

“A bridge on the Yangtze River. I forget the name. I read up on stuff like that,” said Brooke. “People think it’s poetic, to jump off a bridge. That’s why they do it. Whereas, let’s say, killing yourself by bleeding out in a bathtub, that’s just messy. What are you supposed to wear to bleed out in a bathtub?”