Page 12 of The Wives of Murder Club
“That doesn’t sound like malware to me,” said Bernie, putting her drink down and looking at Imogen with concern. “What do the emails say?”
“Honestly, it’s nothing. I don’t want to talk about it right now, it’s stupid.” Imogen spoke around her mouthful of chewy candy. “Let’s keep the game going, come on, I was having fun. Seriously, Marta, go. Do your turn.” She waved a hand in Marta’s direction.
Marta had never seen Imogen acting like this and she didn’t want to play drinking games anymore. The vibe had gone off—the soft candle glow and sweet wine buzz had been replaced with something dark and sour.
“Don’t you want to talk about it, Immy?” asked Celeste. “It sounds like something’s really getting to you.” If Marta had any doubt that Celeste wasn’t that good at reading Imogen’s moods, this settled it. Anyone could see that Imogen didnotwant to talk about it anymore, but Celeste just couldn’t take a hint. Imogen glared at her.
“No, Idon’twant to talk about it. Cee, I literally just said that. Were you listening? God, sometimes you’re . . . Look, I’m saying . . . Let’s play the game, okay? That’s why we’re here, after all, to let loose. It’s Marta’s turn, right? Hit us with a question. Make it a good one.”
Marta scratched her leg as she tried to think of her own never-have-I-ever, but her mind went blank.
“Oh my god, Marta, please. Could younot?” Celeste’s face was twisted up in disgust. “I know it must be, like, a medical condition or something, but my god, it’s just too gross!”
Face hot, Marta yanked her hand away from her shin and looked down at the dusting of dead skin on dark wood. She closed her eyes in humiliation.
“You keep thinking about it, Marta, no worries,” smirked Bernie, sipping her drink slowly. “I’ve got one now if you don’t mind going out of order.”
“Yeah, that’s great. You go.” Marta was happy to cede the floor, but uneasy at the same time, because Bernie was a total shit disturber. She did it with such style that the others never seemed to notice, but Marta was increasingly conscious of Bernie’s sly questions and jabby remarks.
“All right.” Bernie cleared her throat and lowered her voice so that everyone else would have to lean in to hear her. “Never have I ever killed someone.” And then she drank.
12
BERNIE
In the moment after she spoke, Bernie slid her gaze around the circle of women, their faces illuminated by the glimmer of candlelight. She looked closely to catch the little twitches and blinks that can give a person away. She’d gotten good, over the years, at reading these cues, largely thanks to Hollywood. Sitcoms, soaps, reality television—her colleagues would have been shocked to learn that intellectual Bernie watched anything and everything, and that her greatest pleasures were medical dramas.She’d learned a lot from them.
Celeste’s expression was as dull as usual—even with such an exciting prompt. She made a pretty littleohshape with her mouth and raised her brows. Bernie had never had much respect for Celeste, and if it weren’t for her role on Sunnyvale’s board of directors, she wouldn’t have bothered trying to hide her contempt. Imogen and Marta, on the other hand—Bernie was intrigued. Imogen’s grin was stretched tight across her face, an elastic band about to snap, and she was worrying a loose extension at the base of her skull. And Marta . . . her masseters and temporalis muscles bulged rhythmically as she clenched her jaw.
Bernie savoured the shocked silence after taking a sip from her own glass. After a beat, she chuckled. “Relax! I’m a surgeon, or did you all forget? Of course I’ve killed someone before. More than one, in fact. It’s inevitable in my field. Sometimes, even when I do my best—and Iamthe best—it’s not enough and they die.C’est la vie.Or in this case,la mort.”
“Jesus, fuck!” Celeste let out a wild laugh. “You had me going for a second. Okay, don’t do the next one till I get back. I gotta pee.”
Marta let out a shuddery sigh and Imogen narrowed her eyes at Bernie. “Okay, ha-ha, very funny. Maybe not the most sensitive thing to say right now? With Derrick . . . it’s not the best timing.”
“I’m sorry, Marta.” Bernie was very good at being sincere when she needed to be. Lock the eyes, tilt the chin down, inject a shot of warm honey into her voice. “I wasn’t thinking there was any connection at all with Derrick being missing . . . I’m sure he’s going to turn up. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”
Marta nodded without looking at Bernie as she twisted her wedding ring round and round.How much longer is she going to wear that thing?
“No, it’s okay,” said Marta. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry to bring the mood down, but . . . yeah, I don’t think he’s coming home. Not that I think he’s dead or anything—or maybe he is, I mean, what do I know—but I’m starting to think that he left me to start a new life, like, some kind of mid-life-crisis thing? We’ve been having a hard time lately, and I’m not stupid . . . I know how he is around other women. Maybe he met someone new and took off with her. Does that sound crazy?”
Bernie thought it sounded delusional. “Not at all, it’s totally possible,” she said. With what funds would Derrick start this new life? It’s not like he was some high-flying financier with hidden bank accounts and multiple passports. He was a high school gym teacher, for god’s sake. Why not get a simple divorce? The sunroom was quiet except for the sound of Marta frantically scratching her leg with both hands.
Then Celeste came bounding back in, holding the bottle of tequila and blasting Miley Cyrus from her phone. She bounced around the room, pouring more shots and singing along with an epic breakup anthem. “Let’s keep these good vibes going! It’s not even that late, so no one’s allowed to go to bed yet. Did I miss Marta’s never-have-I-ever? No? Good, let’s go! Hit us with your best shot.”
The look of panic on Marta’s face made Bernie smile. Marta had clearly hoped the game was over and that they’d forgotten about her turn.
“Um, okay. Just let me think for a second,” said Marta.Scritch-scritch-scritch.Bernie decided she was going to write a prescription for a steroid cream when they got back to the city—not as a kindness to Marta but so that the rest of them wouldn’t have to listen to that godawful sound anymore.
“Never have I ever stolen anything,” said Marta.
13
IMOGEN
Imogen took a drink, grimacing slightly as the insides of her cheeks puckered at the wash of white wine, which was mixing poorly with the tequila shots and the half bag of candy she’d eaten. “Booo, Marty,” she said. “I mean, we all shoplifted lip gloss as teens, didn’t we? Bo-ring. I think that’s enough of this game—let’s talk about something else.”
Celeste turned to look at Imogen, her eyes glassy with a sheen of Don Julio. “You made us play the game, but now you want to talk about something else? Okay, how about we talk about that blackmail thing, huh? In my opinion, if you bring up something like that, you owe everyone an explanation, other-wise we’re sitting here wondering what’s going on and . . . What?” Celeste stopped for air and another sip of wine. “Why are you looking at me like that? Don’t you want to know too?”
