The Other Mrs.(71)

Shame on Alice, I think.

But also: shame on Imogen.

“You did the only thing you knew to do,” I lie, saying it only to console her because I think she needs to be consoled. I reach hesitantly for her, and for a split second, she lets me. Only a second.

But as I wrap my arms gingerly around her, scared and just barely touching, it strikes me that I’m holding a murderer, even if the reasons for it were justified in her mind. But she is repentant and grieving now. For the first time Imogen displays an emotion other than anger. I’ve never seen her like this before.

But then, true to form, as if she can hear the thoughts in my mind, she stands suddenly upright. She swats at her tears with a sleeve. Her eyes are vacant, her face deadpan.

She gives me a sudden shove in the shoulder. There’s nothing gentle about it. It’s rough, hostile. The spot where her fingertips press violently into the thoracic outlet, that tender place between the collarbone and ribs, stings. I fall a step back, tripping over a rock behind me, as she says, “Get your fucking hands off me or I’ll do to you what I did to her.”

The rock is large enough that I lose my balance completely and fall to my seat on the wet, snowy earth.

I stifle a gasp. I stare up at her, standing over me, unspeaking. There’s nothing to say.

She finds a fallen stick on the ground. She grabs for it, coming at me quickly like she might hit me again. I flinch, throw my hands inadvertently to my head to protect it.

This time, she steps down.

Instead of hitting me, Imogen screams so loudly that I feel the earth beneath me shake, “Leave!” the single word drawn out.

I find my feet. As I walk quickly away, terrified to turn my back to her though I do, I hear her call me a freak for good measure, as if the death threat wasn’t enough.



SADIE


I drive home that night, pulling onto our street, heading up the hill. It was hours ago that I left Imogen at the cemetery. It was early afternoon then and now it’s night. It’s dark outside. Time has gotten away from me. There are two calls on my phone that I’ve missed, both from Will, wondering where I am. When I see him, I’ll tell him how I spent the day. About my conversation with Imogen at the cemetery. But I won’t tell him everything because what would he think of me if he knew I stole a woman’s keys and broke into her home?

As I drive past the vacant house next door to ours, my eyes go to it. It’s dark as it should be; the lights won’t turn on for a while still. Snow accumulates on the drive while others have been shoveled clean. It’s so obvious no one lives there now.

I’m overcome with a sudden urge to see for myself what’s inside that home.

It’s not that I think anyone is there now. But my mind can’t get past one thing. If someone had come to the island to murder Morgan late at night, there would have been no ferry back to the mainland. He or she would have had to spend the night here with us.

And what better place to stay than a vacant home, where no one would know.

It’s not a murderer I’m looking for as I leave my car in my own driveway and sneak across the snow-covered lawn. It’s evidence that someone has been here.

I look over my shoulder as I go, wondering if anyone is watching me, if anyone knows I’m here. There are footprints in the snow. I follow them.

The house next door is a cottage. It’s small. I go to the door first and knock. I don’t expect anyone to answer. But I do it anyway because it would be foolish not to. No one answers the door. And so I press my face to the glass and look in. I see nothing out of the ordinary. Just a living room with furniture draped in plastic.

I make my way around the periphery of the home. I don’t know what I’m looking for. But I’m looking for something. A way in, conceivably, and sure enough—after a little searching, a few failed attempts, dwindling hope—it’s there.

The window well cover on the back of the home is not secure.

I lift it up and it easily gives. I dust off the snow. I remove the whole thing and set it aside, hands trembling as I do.

I carefully lower myself down into the window well. It’s a tight fit. I have to contort my body in an odd way to get to the window. The screen, when I get to it, is torn. Not just a little, but enough for a whole body to get through. I tug on the window behind it, thinking it won’t give—surely this can’t be so easy—but to my surprise it does.

The window into the basement is unlocked.

What kind of homeowner doesn’t secure their home before leaving for the winter?

I press my body through the window, feet first. I climb awkwardly into the dark basement. My head passes through a cobweb as my feet land on concrete. The cobweb sticks to my hair, though it’s the least of my concerns. There are so many more things to fear than this. My heart pounds inside of my chest as I glance around the basement to be certain I’m alone.

I don’t see anyone. But it’s too dark to really know.

I inch across the basement, find the unfinished steps to the first floor. I go slowly, dragging my feet, careful not to make any noise as I climb. At the top of the steps, I set my hand on a door handle. My hand is sweaty, shaking, and suddenly I’m wondering why I thought it was such a good idea to come here. But I’ve come this far. I can’t go back. I have to know.

I turn the knob, press the door open and step onto the first floor.