Rory lingers at the door for a beat, then winks at me as he walks them out, the three of them dipping down the driveway toward his house.
I watch from the doorway, heart heavy with conflicting emotions. The Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go” plays in my head like a private joke from the universe, taunting me and my lack of ability to make confident decisions.
Amelia drops her hands on her hips and exhales. “They’re doing what they can, I guess,” she says plainly, tucking the card into her pocket.
“I’m just freaked out,” I say, grabbing a new trash bag, ready to begin cleanup. Papers scatter across the floor like fallen leaves, garbage bags are ripped open. The wreckage looks careless—like someone destroyed simply to destroy, tipped over boxes thoughtlessly. There’s no rhythm or reason to it—that I can tell.
“Same. This is a disaster,” Amelia sighs, hands on her head in horror. “But we can’t leave it like this. We stay, we secure, take inventory. If anything else happens, we call them. Honestly, though…” She trails off. “I think it’ll be fine. Let’s just finish and get the hell out of here.”
It feels rational in the daylight: Police are canvassing, the immediate threat seems low. Still, my throat is tight, the image of someone rifling through Mom’s life flashing in my mind.
I force my hands to work, and we tidy for the rest of the afternoon in companionable silence. But the entire time, dread coils in my rib cage. I can’t shake a mystifying thought bubbling in my brain. A thought that feels as real as it does dramatically impossible, unsubstantiated—downright silly.
Someone doesn’t want us to leave.
13
IMOGEN
I stand before the mirror in my childhood bedroom, trying on a third outfit taken from my tightly crammed duffel. Unpacking my bag felt counterintuitive while boxing up the house, so most of my clothes are creased. I turned the bag inside out in search of my favorite black mesh bra, which vanished the way socks do in my apartment’s dryer. I eventually settle on a relaxed, autumnal compromise: a silk slip dress under an oversized leather jacket.
Every so often, I glance down at the yard to see if Rory will manifest on the hillside again. If only I had such powers to summon him by thought alone.
When night settled over the house, the nerves crept back in.
Shadows suffocate the windows, and every shift of the old beams or the dated floorboards feels enhanced. I remind myself, over and over, that the police are aware now, that they’ve got it under control. For a couple more days, at least, this house should be safe. We kept busyafter they left, Amelia and I tackling the mess head-on: repacking boxes, sweeping up debris. By the late afternoon, the house looked less violated. Despite the setback, the day had been productive—enough to convince me we might actually get through the rest of this without falling apart.
I slip loafers over ruffled socks just as the doorbell clangs across the house. Spritzing on perfume to cover any lingering scent of cardboard and tape adhesive, I step into the hall just as Wes does.
“Whoa.” He pokes me, with his eyebrows lifting. “Someone’s ready for their date. Looking very fresh.”
“Fresh?” I snort. “Like I wasn’t sweating over boxes all day?”
“Not a single box,” he deadpans.
“Enjoy your date!” Amelia calls from her bedroom.
“We’re hanging here tonight,” Wes adds, leaning against the wall. “Waiting with bated breath to hear how it went.” He pretends to choke, clutching his throat.
I roll my eyes and shove his shoulder lightly. “Get out of here before you embarrass me.”
“You don’t want me to get the door for you?”
“Bye!”
He retreats, hands raised in mock innocence, sliding back into Amelia’s room.
I giggle as I head to the door but hesitate before firming my grip around the knob, aware I should be cautious with a trespasser still at large.
I pull the door and see Rory. He’s in a wool coat, his hair swept back with a few rebellious strands falling into his eyes. The same neat stubble traces his wide jawline.
I open the door and mock a curtsy, baiting a smile from him.
“Hi, Imogen,” he says softly, a dimple catching at his cheek. “Looking beautiful, as always.”
“Thanks,” I reply, raising my eyebrows. “You look beautiful, too.”
He huffs a laugh, shrugging. “You know what? I’ll take it.”
