Could someone on the lake really be behind Madison’s potential murder? I should have insisted Phoebe tell me who she meant. But now she’s gone, and Imogen and I are stuck in Blair for at least a few more days. With a potential killer.
I pull out my phone and google Madison’s name with the wordsuspect. I don’t get any hits. Sparse articles note only that the case is open, that foul play is suspected.
I pinch the cookie tub closed, shove all the completed papers into my desk drawer, and rush to lock up my classroom, moving with the same anxiety I did yesterday afternoon. All at once, I can’t stop wondering: Out in Blair, in that house by herself, could Imogen be in danger?
10
IMOGEN
Imogen?” Rory says, interrupting me from my trance. Ever since the figure disappeared and their house sank into darkness, my eyes haven’t strayed from that window. It’s like I’m waiting—for a face to reappear in moonlight, for a sudden flare of glass to confirm the telescope is turned toward us. The person in the window appeared tall, broad-shouldered, with a short but shaggy haircut. Certainly a man, with no other people or signs of life in sight.
“Do you know who lives in that house?” I ask him, settling back into the bench across from Rory. Still, my gaze refuses to leave the cliffside.
“No,” he answers casually. “I don’t really know anyone from that side of the lake.”
Come to think of it, neither do I. Most of my friends from school lived on our side, or farther back in the neighborhoods behind the lakefronts. My mom had known a few of the south lakefront ownersonce. Her friend Rachel, another family I once babysat for. But now—after all the years I’ve been gone—I can’t name a single one.
I frown, having hoped Rory could crack Tim’s true identity—as though it would help anything. Pulling my eyes down to his dock at the bottom of a staircase snaking against the rocky cliff, I spy a black pontoon boat and pirate flag, the latter of which is lifting faintly in the breeze. They’re like relics. Confirmations that the same person must reside there.
A shiver dances across my skin, raising goosebumps along my bare arms. I fold inward, clutching my elbows, though I’m not sure if it’s the night air or the house that chills me. Probably both.
“Are you cold?” Rory asks, tugging one arm free of his pullover.
“A little.” I shrug. “But I don’t want your sweater,” I lie, desperate to be enveloped in his smell. “Then you’ll be cold.”
“I care more about your comfort than mine,” he admits, exposing a white T-shirt as he rips the pullover off entirely.
“Actually, Amelia should be home soon. And we agreed to pack up some more boxes tonight. So”—I tilt my head back toward our houses—“I should probably get back.”
Color the mood officially killed. But the creep in the window spoiled our budding romance anyway. Well, I thinkIdid first when I dropped the wine. I’d rather leave Rory wanting more than allow my wandering mind to ruin the night even further.
I can tell that Rory is disappointed, as a partial frown tightens his mouth.
“Yeah, no worries,” he says. With a reluctant smile, he hands me his sweater. “At least take this until we get back up there.”
I blush, slipping it over my head in private glee. The fabric is supple, tepid from his body, scented faintly of spice and something earthy and musky. I watch his biceps flex under the weight of water against therowboat’s oars, like pushing paddles through Jell-O—the opposite of aerodynamic. The house looms behind him, trying to grab my attention—as though someone inside is waiting for me to look back.
“When areyouback in Seattle?” he asks, inching us closer and closer to shore.
During dinner, I had mentioned that Amelia and I needed to finish packing up the house before moving forward with Mom’s Realtor, but I didn’t mention a day. It’s Friday, and with the weekend finally here, I’m still on track to finish by Monday morning, when the movers are scheduled to arrive.
“It’s hard to say. I’m hoping we can get the brunt of it done by the end of the weekend,” I say. “You know… so you can take me on that date. Once this is all behind me.”
“That’s right.” Rory nods, a grin crossing his face. “I wish you could stay a bit longer, though. Selfishly. Keep me company while I’m stuck here.”
“You’ll be back in Seattle before you know it. I hope.”
Instead of going back to the Holloways’ dock, upstairs, through his home, and then up the street back to mine, I ask Rory to drop me off at Mom’s dock. He ties the rowboat to a cleat beside her three boats, and the motion-sensor light clicks on above, cutting a slice of silver through the inky night. Without it, we’d be struggling to see a thing—as the clouds are charcoal now, swallowing the moon entirely.
“Thanks for this,” I murmur, returning his sweater. My fingers linger just a second longer than necessary, brushing his skin. “And tell your parents thanks again for dinner. I had a really nice time.”
“I know they’re crazy,” he says, waving a hand. His eyes lock on mine, that low grin curling at the edges of his mouth. “I’m glad I got to see you again.” He licks his lips, waiting, and I feel it in my chest.
The dock rocks beneath our feet, enough to throw me off balance.I step closer, letting the wine loosen my nerves, and he closes the distance between us. Our lips meet in a kiss that’s tender and electric all at once. I let myself melt into my buckling knees, half tempted to invite him upstairs—but aware that Amelia might already be there.
When we break apart, I swiftly retreat with a devilish smirk. “See you later, Holloway.”
“You bet,” he says, pulling his lower lip into his mouth.
