The Holloway boy…
The realization twisted his intestines. It ignited a steady fire, crawling up his chest, coiling in his veins. He attempted to fathom a rational reasoning for their lone adventure. But he couldn’t produce a scheme that didn’t involve something… romantic.
The trees obscured his view as they pushed off the dock. He followed, jogging back up the hillside, back to the window. His facepressed against the cold glass, heart hammering as they rowed, stopped, and then… embraced.
In an instant, a rush of indignation washed over him—jaw tensing at the sight of her with another man. Her head rested against Rory’s chest, her back pressed against his groin. The man’s eyes stung; his earlobes grew hot to the touch. But this anger paled in comparison to the utter fury that crossed him when he watched Rory kiss her. He even rubbed his eyes, desperate to ensure he hadn’t imagined it. Even from behind the glass, he saw every caress of the face. Every brush of the lips.
He couldn’t watch. Not for another second. The betrayal was too great. Not just at Rory Holloway for taking what’s his, at her for wanting someone else. But at the same time, at his own failure to intervene, to possess, to reclaim what was his first. Two days she’d been back in Lake Blair. Two days of waiting, watching, planning.
Her departure could be imminent. Yet his fixed observations of her haven’t brought them closer to reuniting. And now a barrier had risen where none should exist.
He must correct it at once.
12
IMOGEN
Ten minutes. That’s how long Amelia and I have been sitting at the dock, waiting for a prospective buyer to scope the pontoon boat. Last night, after filling her in on my evening with Rory over a garage-packing session, I crawled into bed to find a Facebook Messenger ping on one of my Marketplace listings.
I’m interested in seeing this boat tomorrow. Can I swing by your dock around 1:00? I will boat over from mine.
Relief washed over me that someone right here on the lake was interested. Though, admittedly, a creeping suspicion lingers around the buyer. The person’s private Facebook profile, Frank Martin, showcases a single image: a generic-looking family. Naturally, his name doesn’t ring a bell.
So here we sit, awaiting this alleged buyer as the minutes stretch on without so much as a ripple in the water to suggest an approaching vessel. The lake is vacant, draped in the gloom of another autumn afternoon. Down on the north side, I can make out a lone figure fishing off a dock—a speck against the minor bustle of downtown Blair, which looks deceptively calm from this distance. The buyer did say “around” one, but when I glance at my phone, the screen reads 1:16.
“This feels like a waste of time,” Amelia groans, rising from her cream Adirondack chair. “We’ve got a list a mile long.”
“You can’t leave me,” I plead. “What if he’s a psycho looking to abduct a girl? You’d never see me again.”
She shoots me a look. “You’re not a girl. You’re a woman. And don’t joke about that stuff.”
I unlock my phone to find our Messenger conversation still stuck on his last note. Nothing new.
“Let me just ask him if he’s coming,” I say. “Give it until 1:20.”
“And not a second later,” Amelia playfully demands, sitting back in her chair.
Are you still coming? Let me know if you need to reschedule. Looking to sell it this weekend.
I turn away from the water to face Amelia, glancing at the Holloway house for the billionth time—hopelessly wishing Rory would be stalking the living room window again. With the midday glare, all I see cast against the glass are the gray clouds overhead. I continue to pace across the dock’s platform, tapping my phone against my palm so I won’t miss a vibration—whether a message from Frank or a text from Rory, if he still has my number.
A light buzz suddenly tickles my fingers. It’s Frank.
I’m sorry. I got caught up in something.
I’ll touch base later if I’m still interested.
“Oh, come on,” I mutter, reading it aloud to Amelia.
We roll our eyes and stomp up to the house, half an hour wasted.
“If you want to start on the hall closets, I’ll go pick us up some sandwiches,” Amelia offers as we cross the patio.
“I’m going stir-crazy in this place,” I say. “I’ll go get the sandwiches—”
I stop mid-sentence when we step through the unlocked balcony door and freeze. Every box I packed in Mom’s office has been pulled out to the living room, opened, and emptied. The door to the garage—located off the kitchen—is wide open, overhead lights shining over similar chaos.
Amelia and I gasp in unison.
