There was a sound from an airplane overhead.
Jule dropped Immie’s hand and swallowed her tears. Her instinct for self-preservation kicked in.
She was quite far out to sea. A twenty-minute boat ride from Culebra, and ten minutes from Culebrita. Jule touched her hand to the water. There was a current running toward the open ocean from the well-traveled channel between the two islands. She pulled Immie’s hand toward her until she was close enough that she could loop a rope underneath thearms, making sure to keep it loose so it wouldn’t leave a mark. The rope was rough, and tying it was awkward. Jule’s palms were sore with it, the skin rubbing off. It took several tries before she got it into a knot that would hold.
She started the engine and motored slowly out in the direction of the open water, following the current. When the sea grew dark and deep, when they were well outside the traveled way between Culebra and Culebrita, Jule untied therope and let Imogen go.
The body sank very, very slowly.
Jule rinsed the rope and scrubbed it with a brush she found in a small box of supplies. Her hands were raw and bleeding slightly, but otherwise she was unmarked. She coiled the rope neatly and put it back where it belonged in the boat. She scrubbed and rinsed the oar.
Then she motored back.
—
“Miss Sokoloff?” The clerk in the lobby waved at Jule.
Jule stopped and looked at him.
He thought she was Imogen. No one had mistaken her for Imogen until now.
They didn’t look that much alike, but of course they were two young white women, short, with cropped hair and freckles. They had the same East Coast inflection to their speech. They might pass for each other.
“There’s a package that came for you, Miss Sokoloff,” said the clerk, smiling. “I have it right here.”
Jule smiled back. “You’re made of sugar,” she told him. “Thank you.”
SECOND WEEK OF SEPTEMBER, 2016
MENEMSHA, MARTHA’S VINEYARD, MASSACHUSETTS
Six days before Jule took that package, the cleaner didn’t show up for work at Immie’s house on Martha’s Vineyard. His name was Scott. He was maybe twenty-four, older than Immie, Jule, Brooke, and even Forrest, but Imogen still called him the cleaner.
Scott had been recommended by the owners of the rental house to do yard work and housekeeping. The pool and hot tub needed maintenance. The house was airy and windowed, with double-height ceilings in the living and dining rooms. Six skylights, five bedrooms. Decks in front and back. Rosebushes and other plantings. It was a lot to keep clean.
Scott had a wide, open face and a flat nose. He was white, with pink cheeks, a square face, and unruly dark hair. He had narrow hips and serious muscles in his arms. He usually wore a baseball cap and no shirt.
When Jule first met Scott, she couldn’t quite tell what he was doing there. He was simply in the kitchen, cleaning the floor with a mop and a bucket. He seemed no different from Forrest and Immie’s various temporary island friends, but here he was, naked to the waist, doing housework. “Hi, I’m Jule,” she said, standing in the doorway.
“Scott,” he said, still mopping.
“You coming to the beach?” she had asked.
“Ha, no. I’m good here. I’m Imogen’s cleaner.” His accent was general American.
“Oh, I see.” Jule wondered if Imogen talked to the cleaner like a regular person, or if Scott was supposed to be invisible. She didn’t know what the codes of behavior were yet. “I’m Immie’s friend from high school.”
He didn’t say anything else.
Jule watched him for a bit. “You want a drink?” she asked. “There’s Coke and Diet Coke.”
“I should keep working. Imogen doesn’t like me to sit around.”
“She’s that tight?”
“She knows what she wants. I gotta respect that,” he said. “And she pays me.”
“But do you want a Coke?”
