Jule flagged a black taxi. Got in. Gave the address of the flat in St. John’s Wood.
Then she took a deep breath and settled her mind. She decided what to tell Forrest.
“I left my jacket on my seat,” he complained. “Are you sick?”
“No, not really.”
“Then what was it? Why are we going home?”
“That guy has been bothering me.”
“Paolo?”
“Yes. He calls me all the time. Like, many times a day. Texts. Emails. I think he’s following me.”
“You have weird relationships.”
“It’s not a relationship. He doesn’t take no for an answer. That’s why I had to get away.”
“Paolo something Bellstone, right?” said Forrest. “That was his name?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he related to Stuart Bellstone?”
“I don’t know.”
“But was that the last name? Bellstone?” Forrest had his phone out. “On Wikipedia it says—yeah, the son of Stuart Bellstone, the D and G trading scandal, blah, blah, his son is Paolo Vallarta-Bellstone.”
“I guess so,” said Jule. “I think about him as little as I possibly can.”
“Bellstone, that’s funny,” said Forrest. “Did Imogen meet him?”
“Yes. No.” She was flustered.
“Which is it?”
“Their families know each other. We ran into him when we first got to London.”
“And now he’s stalking you?”
“Yes.”
“And it never occurred to you that this stalker Bellstone might be worth mentioning to the police in terms of investigating Immie’s disappearance?”
“He has nothing to do with anything.”
“He might. There are a lot of things that don’t add up.”
“Immie killed herself and there’s nothing more to it,” snapped Jule. “She was depressed and she didn’t love you anymore and she didn’t love me enough to stay alive, either. Stop acting like there’s anything else that could have happened.”
Forrest bit his lip and they rode in silence. After a minute or two, Jule looked over and saw that he was crying.
In the morning, Forrest was gone. He was simply not on the fold-out couch. His bag was not in the hall closet. His fuzzy man-sweaters were not lying around the room. His laptop was gone and so were his French novels. He had left his dirty dishes in the sink.
Jule wouldn’t miss him. She never wanted to see him again. But she didn’t want him leaving without saying why.
What had Paolo said to Forrest the night before? Only “I’m a friend of Imogen’s” and “Heard what?”—and his name. That was all.
He hadn’t heard Paolo call Jule Imogen. Had he?
No.
Maybe.
No.
Why did Forrest want Paolo investigated? Did he think Imogen had been stalked and murdered? Did he think Imogen had been romantically involved with Paolo? Did he think Jule was lying?
Jule packed her bags and went to a youth hostel she’d read about, on the other end of town.
THIRD WEEK OF FEBRUARY, 2017
LONDON
Eight days before Jule left for the youth hostel, she called Forrest’s cell from the London flat. Her hands were shaking. She sat on the kitchen counter next to the bread box and let her feet dangle. It was very early in the morning. She wanted to get this call over with.
“Hey, Jule,” he said. “Is Imogen back?”
“No, she’s not.”
“Oh.” There was a pause. “Then why are you calling me?” The disdain in Forrest’s voice was palpable.
“I have some bad news,” Jule said. “I’m sorry.”
“What is it?”
“Where are you?”
“In the newsagent’s. Which is apparently what they call newsstands over here.”
“You should step outside.”
“All right.” Jule waited while he walked. “What is it?” Forrest asked.
“I found a note, in the flat. From Imogen.”
“What kind of note?”
“It was in the bread box. I’m going to read it.” Jule held the note in her fingers. There were the tall, loopy letters of Immie’s signature, her typical phrases, and her favorite words.
Hey, Jule. By the time you read this, I’ll have taken an overdose of sleeping pills. Then I’ll have hailed a taxi to the Westminster Bridge.
I’ll have stones in my pockets. Lots of stones. I’ve been collecting them all week. And I will be drowned. The river will have me and I will feel some relief.
I’m sure you’ll wonder why. It’s hard to give an answer. Nothing is right. I don’t feel at home anywhere. I haven’t ever felt at home. I don’t think I ever will.
Forrest couldn’t understand. Neither could Brooke. But you—I think you can. You know the me that nobody else can love. If there is a me, at all.
Immie
“Oh God. Oh God.” Forrest said it over and over.
Jule thought of the beautiful Westminster Bridge with its stone arches and its green railings, and of the heavy, cold river flowing underneath it. She thought of Immie’s body, a white shirt floating around her, facedown in the water, in a pool of blood. She really did feel the loss of Imogen Sokoloff acutely, more than Forrest ever could. “She wrote the note days ago,” Jule told Forrest when he finally went silent. “She’s been gone since Wednesday.”
“You said she went to Paris.”
“I was guessing.”
“Maybe she didn’t jump.”
“She left a suicide note.”
“But why? Why would she?”
“She never felt at home. You know that was true about her. She said it in the note.” Jule swallowed and then said what she knew Forrest would want to hear. “What do you think we should do? I don’t know what to do. You’re the first person I told.”
“I’m coming over,” said Forrest. “Call the police.”
Forrest arrived at the flat two hours later. He looked hollow and disheveled. He brought his bags from the hotel and declared he would sleep on the couch in the den until things were settled. Jule could take the bedroom. Neither of them should be alone, he said.
She didn’t want him there. She was feeling sad and vulnerable. With Forrest, she preferred to have her armor on. Still, he was good in a crisis, she gave him that. He set himself to texting and telephoning people, and he talked to everyone with an extreme gentleness Jule hadn’t known he possessed. The Sokoloffs, their friends from Martha’s Vineyard, Immie’s college friends: Forrest got in touch with everyone personally, checking them neatly off a list he’d made.
Jule called the London police. They came in, bustling, while Forrest was on the phone with Patti. The cops took the note in Imogen’s handwriting, then asked for statements from Jule and Forrest.
They agreed it didn’t look like Immie had gone traveling. Her suitcases were in the closet, as were her clothes. Her wallet and credit cards were in a bag they found. Her laptop wasn’t in the flat, however, and her driver’s license and passport were missing.
Forrest asked a police officer if the suicide note could be a forgery. “Maybe a kidnapper wanted to put suspicion elsewhere,” he said. “Or maybe it was a note she was forced to write? Is there a way you could tell if she was forced to write it?”
“Forrest, the note was in the bread box,” Jule reminded him gently. “Immie left it for me in the bread box.”
“Why would Miss Sokoloff be kidnapped?” asked the officer.
“Money. Someone could be holding her for ransom. It’s strange that her laptop is missing. Or she could have been murdered. Like, by someone who made her write the note.”
The officers listened to Forrest’s theories. They pointed out that he himself was the most suspicious person: an ex-boyfriend who had recently arrived in the city looking for Imogen. But they also made it clear they didn’t really suspect a crime of any kind. They looked for signs of a struggle but found none.