Genuine Fraud(44)

Immie rushed over. Brooke was off the counter, and Jule came back from the hall, where she’d been stretching. They clustered around the computer.

It was an article on the Martha’s Vineyard Times website, reporting the suicide of one Scott Cartwright. He had hanged himself with rope from a beam high up in a neighbor’s barn. He had kicked out a twenty-foot ladder.

“It’s my fault,” said Imogen.

“No, it’s not,” said Forrest, still looking at the screen. “He wanted a raise and he was consistently late. You wouldn’t give him more money. That has nothing to do with him killing himself.”

“He must have been depressed,” said Brooke.

“It says here he didn’t leave a note,” said Forrest. “But they’re sure it was a suicide.”

“I don’t think it was,” Immie said.

“Come on,” said Forrest. “Nobody forced him to climb up a twenty-foot ladder in a barn and hang himself.”

“Yeah,” said Immie. “I think maybe they did.”

“You’re overreacting,” said Forrest. “Scott was a nice guy, and it’s sad that he died, but nobody killed him. Act rational.”

“Don’t tell me to act rational,” Immie said, her voice steely.

“Nobody’s going to kill the cleaner and make it look like suicide.” Forrest stood up from the computer. He twisted his long hair into a ponytail with an elastic he’d had on his wrist.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child.”

“Imogen, you’re upset about Scott, which is understandable, but—”

“This is not about Scott!” cried Immie. “It’s about you telling me to act rational. You think you’re superior because you have a college degree. And because you’re a man. And because you’re a Martin of the Martins of Greenwich and—”

“Immie—”

“Let me finish,” barked Imogen. “You live in my home. You eat my food and drive my car and have your messes cleaned up by that poor boy I used to pay. Some part of you hates me for that, Forrest. You hate me because I can afford this life and I make my own decisions—so you patronize me and dismiss my ideas.”

“Please, can we have this conversation in private?” asked Forrest.

“Just go. Leave me alone for a while,” said Immie. She sounded tired.

Forrest grunted and went upstairs. Brooke followed.

Immie’s face crumpled into tears as soon as they were gone. She walked over to Jule and hugged her, smelling like coffee and jasmine. They stood like that for a long time.





Immie and Forrest drove off in the car twenty minutes later, saying they needed to talk. Brooke stayed in her room.

Jule worked out and then killed the morning on her own. For lunch she ate two pieces of toast with chocolate-hazelnut spread and drank protein powder mixed with orange juice. She was washing up when Brooke clomped downstairs and dragged her duffel bag into the living room.

“I’m off,” said Brooke.

“Right now?”

“I don’t need the drama. I’m going home to La Jolla. My parents will be like, Brooke, you should get an internship! Volunteer! Go back to school! So it’ll be extremely annoying, but you know, I’m kind of homesick, actually.” Brooke turned abruptly and walked into the kitchen. She yanked open the pantry door and took two boxes of cookies and a bag of tortilla chips, shoving them into her shoulder bag. “The food on the ferry is trash,” she said. “Bye.”

—

In the evening, Imogen returned. She came out to see Jule on the deck.

“Where’s Forrest?” Jule asked.

“He went up to his study.” Immie sat down and took off her sandals. “There’s a memorial service for Scott next weekend.”

“Brooke left.”

“I know. She texted me.”

“She took all the cookies with her.”

“Brooke.”

“She said you wouldn’t care.”

“I wasn’t saving them.” Imogen stood and walked over to the switch that flipped the pool lights on. The water lit up. “I think we should go away. Without Forrest.”

Yes.

Would it really be this easy? To have Immie for herself?

“I think we should leave in the morning,” Imogen continued.

“Okay.” Jule made herself sound nonchalant.

“I’ll get us a flight. You understand. I need to get out of here, have some girl time.”

“I don’t need to be here,” said Jule, glowing. “I don’t need to be anywhere.”

“I have an idea,” said Imogen conspiratorially. She stretched back out on the lounge. “This island called Culebra. It’s off Puerto Rico.” Immie reached out and touched Jule’s arm. “And don’t worry about the money. Tickets, hotel, spa treatments—on me.”

“I’m all yours,” said Jule.





FIRST WEEK OF SEPTEMBER, 2016

MENEMSHA, MARTHA’S VINEYARD, MASSACHUSETTS

Two days before he died, Scott was cleaning the pool when Jule came back from her morning run. He had his shirt off. His jeans were low on his hips. He was trailing a leaf skimmer along the edges of the water.