Forrest went to his laptop. “What’s Scott’s last name?” he asked. “I think we should search his name and see if anyone’s complained about him, what his deal is. He must be listed on Yelp or something.”
“Cartwright,” said Immie, apparently willing to stop the argument. “But you’re not going to find him. He’s a Vineyard guy who does handyman stuff for cash. There won’t be a website.”
“Well, I can find out— Oh God.”
“What?”
“Scott Cartwright of Oak Bluffs?”
“Yes.”
“He’s dead.”
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 theMartha’s Vineyard Timeswebsite, 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 nobodykilledhim. 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 inmyhome. You eatmyfood and drivemycar and have your messes cleaned up by that poor boyIused 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.
