Scrap by Calla Henkel

Author:Calla Henkel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Overlook Press
Published: 2024-08-20T00:00:00+00:00

11

It was late afternoon and the Hamptons were already dark and deathly silent. We had spent the morning after our arrival working on Tabitha’s portrait but she had been called into another meeting with her agent. After a few hours alone, zoning out to TV, I was drawn into the yard by the shifting glow of the lights in the main kitchen. I watched as Tabitha sat on one of the tall blond chairs, crying while filming herself. She kept starting, then stopping to replay the video on her phone. Repositioning. Changing the lighting, then briefly turning the waterworks back on. When she finally settled into a frame, she began to talk, punctuated by controlled sobs. What was she doing? Eventually she paused recording and I pushed open the door.

“Everything ok?” I asked.

“Oh yeah, sorry, just my apology video.”

“For what?”

“My followers, just like explaining my dark spiral and battle with depression after my mom died, hence the coke in the club video. Honestly, it’s not my first, but this one is easy thanks to the dead-mom-card,” she said with a low dry laugh.

I felt a heavy sadness curl its way down my spine. Tabitha checked her face in the screen, then applied a smear of lip gloss.

“I’m going to go for a walk,” I muttered.

On the beach I took a gulp of salt air. The truth of the situation had surfaced, and it was a classic; Bryce was having an affair with Chrissy, so Naomi had wanted a divorce. I tried to imagine Naomi in her scarves and beaded necklaces, on the beach having a Nicole Kidman moment, eyes glistening, looking out at the dark frothing waves. I felt a profound ache for her. I knew Red Rock Capital’s fund was built off Naomi’s father’s fortune so it was easy enough to see that Bryce fore-saw losing everything in the divorce. Naomi’s death was too convenient to be an accident, and on top of all of that, it was obvious that Bryce was suspicious of me, but I was resolute, Naomi deserved justice.

It is always the husband. I had listened to almost every episode of Dateline. I could hear the host, Lester Holt, spitting some cheap line about how it was a perfect Christmas day on the slopes of Aspen for the Duncan family, until it went sideways—right down the mountain. But where was my proof? As I was turning back, I was struck with the sinking feeling that the proof, whatever it was, was in my barn—hidden somewhere in the scrapbooks. On the way back home, I called George at the post office.

“Hi George, it’s me, Esther Ray, I wanted to ask if you could do me a favor. I’m out of town, and I’ve left my spare key with Patrick Nelson, but I can’t seem to find his number, guess I’ve misplaced it . . . do you happen to have it?”

George loved his role as mountain switchboard, and rattled off Patrick’s cell.

“Hello?” Patrick answered skeptically.

“Hi Patrick, it’s me, Esther, your neighbor.

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