“Ha-ha,” she mocks. “Do you know anything about him?”
I drift back to childhood, to the occasional lake events when I’d spot him. Imogen and I would whisper, spinning scary stories about him just to spook each other. But one memory pushes itself to the forefront. One involving Mom.
It was sunset. I watched her pedal across the water in her little boat, one of those quiet moments in my adolescence where the world seemed small and endless. Imogen wasn’t with me that day; I was alone on our dock, inexplicably mesmerized as I often was. Sometimes I’d go down there to look for frogs or to forage for flowers. Other times I’d wait for Mom to get back, lounging on the Adirondack with homework. I don’t know what I did that evening. I just remember Mom steering toward Tim’s dock. He was outside, standing there, watching her approach. Once she reached him, an argument ensued. Nothing physical, but I could seetension: pointing fingers, flailing hands. Whatever it was, it was serious, unsavory. Mom eventually pedaled away, leaving him storming up the staircase to his house on the rock’s edge. I never saw them talk again after that.
Even then, I’d been curious about the conversation. Now, admittedly, even more so.
I tell Imogen the story, casually. I let it roll out as if I’m reminiscing, not speculating. Then she bumbles into her own story: seeing him at the Village today and telling me where he works and how she’s convinced he’s hiding something. I can see her brain doing somersaults trying to link my story to hers, connecting microscopic dots in real time. Then she drops Madison Tory into the mix. She says that she and Tim must have worked together before she vanished. I can’t help but wander back to my conversation with Phoebe Tory at Back to School Night.
“At least one of the police’s suspects lives there,”she had said.
I wonder if she really meant that. How many suspects are there, really? And how seriously are they being considered in Madison’s disappearance? If Tim worked with Madison, it makes sense the police would start close to her office circle and work outward. Even I know that’s typical investigation logic. As terrible as I feel thinking it, Phoebe probably just got carried away.
I tell Imogen what Phoebe said and immediately regret it because the words are like fuel to a forest fire. The microscopic dot connecting continues—spirals even. I might as well have said,“Tim killed Madison Tory.”It sounds all the same to my sister.
Struck by a sudden revelation, she says, “I knew something was off with that guy. I should call Officer Wright. Maybe he can go question him. See what’s up.”
Unlike Imogen, I watch crime shows religiously. If he was a person of interest, Seattle PD would already be all over him. Our local cops wouldn’t be involved in Madison’s disappearance, but Imogen has no context for that. But she’s Imogen: impulsive, obsessive even.
“Imogen,” I start, trying to keep my voice calm. “Pacific Records probably has fifty employees. And you know nothing about him. That’s a strong accusation to hold against a total stranger.”
Imogen ignores me. “What are the chances he’s connected to both Madison and Mom and they’re both dead?” she squeals, panic rising in her voice.
I gape at her, stunned by the leap. “Madison is missing, yes. And Mom died in a horrible accident. But you’re disrespecting her memory by entertaining thisridiculousidea that an innocent neighbor is involved in something that didn’t even happen.”
Tennis shoes squeak on hardwood, startling us both. Wes appears at the end of the hall. “Garage is all done. Trash is on the curb,” he says, pointing his thumb behind him. He wears a wary smile, knowing he interrupted a tense conversation.
I force a soft breath, guilt prickling. “Look. I just… Just be careful. If what Phoebe saidistrue, we should finish up our work and get out of here. Let’s focus on all ofthis,” I say, gesturing to the house. “Thisis the priority right now. And I really think we can finish by tomorrow. I’ll confirm with the movers. This whole mess will be behind us soon.”
Imogen stows the binoculars in their case, dropping it back into the drawer. “Okay. You’re right. I’ll drop it.”
But something tells me she doesn’t mean it.
20
IMOGEN
My mind is aching from the tornado of emotions and revelations of the day as Amelia and I call it quits for the night. We’ve spent the past four hours sifting through Mom’s closet, brushing our hands over clothes old and new, reliving the days when the hanging plaid coat was her favorite, or when she’d wear the faded Mariners baseball cap on rare sunny afternoons on the water. This has been the hardest collection to go through yet—not because of the memories alone, but because every piece is irreplaceable. They’re the last things that got to touch her. The last physical remnants of her: Mom’s annual Christmas dress. The house sweatshirt she wore so often that it abraded into supple perfection. The outdated sneakers she only slipped on during trail hikes. As we sorted, we kept stumbling into beautiful nostalgia and heart-wrenching remembrance. We took all the time we needed.
On the nightstand sits the jewelry box, waiting. It’s large, heavy, and full of heirlooms and trinkets—or so I saw upon a curiosity peek. We’ve saved it, expecting to keep every piece between the two of us.
Beneath the melancholic activity, a dark thought continued to gnaw. After Amelia told me about what Madison’s sister, Phoebe, said, I can’t shake the suspicion that there are secrets right under my nose. That someone could have intentionally extinguished Mom’s life. I don’t know how or why that could connect to Madison. And it probably doesn’t. But something is missing in the larger picture of it all. I know it—no matter how much Amelia tries to distract me from the truth.
Tim knew Madison. I feel certain of it. And if there is even a shred of possibility that he could have been the man Rachel saw on the dock with Mom the night she died, I have to know. It’s not my job to investigate Madison’s case—or Mom’s—but being here on Lake Blair, forced into the mix, I can’t pretend I’m not already involved. I might as well keep digging.
I linger in the kitchen with a glass of water as Amelia drifts into the room, socks padding across the hardwood. For a breath, I expect Mom to appear—puffer jacket zipped, leggings tucked into wool socks, gliding across the room to throw on shoes. She’d tell me she was taking the boat out, ask if I wanted to join. This time, I would say yes. I would hug her tight and jog down the hillside in stride with her, gabbing about nothing and everything in the damp Washington mist.
Amelia’s perfume cuts through the daydream. And the ache is so sharp I grip the counter until my palms hurt, knuckles glowing white against the edge.
“Thai for dinner?” she asks, casual, even happy.
“Sounds good,” I manage to mutter, forcing a smile. I retreat to my room like nothing’s wrong, desperate to steer my thoughts elsewhere.
Rory hasn’t reached out all day. I imagine he thinks I need space after last night, when he had to drive me home mid-movie because I practically had a nervous breakdown in my seat. He didn’t question it, didn’t dismiss me. He just drove me home, his hand resting close enough on the console to feel like an invitation I couldn’t bring myself to accept.
Tonight, I’ll fix everything.
I collapse backward onto my bed, phone in hand, willing it to buzz and display his name. But I’m not a witch. He doesn’t call, and my lock screen taunts me with only my wallpaper’s gloomy Parisian scene. I stare at the ceiling, contemplating, hoping a message will magically conjure against the white paint.
