He lifts me with strong certainty, and I wrap my legs around him, his bare skin hot and solid against mine. He pushes me against a wall, our mouths breaking only long enough for me to catch the sharp sound of my own breath. The sex is unhurried but urgent, like a muscle memory we didn’t know we had. It’s messy and magnetic like it’s already been perfected. For once, nothing is complicated. It’s everything I’ve been missing. I melt into him, trusting, needing, reveling in his warmth and rhythm. His lips crush mine, sweat beading against our skin.
I’m his, and he’s undeniably, intoxicatingly mine.
We sink onto the living room floor, limbs tangled, skin cooling against the hardwood. For a few minutes, there’s nothing but quiet—
just the faint patter of rain against windows and our breathing relaxing to normal speed. Darkness descends upon the lake as the sun sets behind the trees, bathing the room in shadows. Rory’s draping an arm around me, his thumb drawing invisible circles across my shoulder.
I kiss his fingers and crawl across the floor in search of clothes, snagging my undergarments.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Rory asks, lifting onto his elbows. The last bit of sunset highlights parts of his body, tight and carved like stone—other bits hidden.
“I’m just getting dressed,” I chuckle, slipping on my bra. Any minute, Amelia and Wes could walk in. It was risk enough letting Rory take me here, on the living room floor.
He tuts, but his grin is wolfish as he watches me dress.
I toss him his jeans and hear the clink of something falling from his pocket. But the spot is too dark to see. I finish dressing and flip on a corner lamp, easing us into light.
That’s when I see it. The thing that clattered out of Rory’s pocket. If it weren’t for its vibrant red color, I wouldn’t have noticed it. Wouldn’t have thought to even identify the sound.
On the floor next to Rory’s phone is a single key, cut into the shape of a unique rose design, painted red. It’s the exact key my mom made years ago for me and Amelia so it would match hers.
It’s the key to this house.
The comparison happens in an instant. It isn’t my key. Mine hangs on the ring by the front door, weighed down with my car, apartment, and mailbox keys. It isn’t Amelia’s. Hers are always with her, a cluster of pink keychains that are impossible to miss. And itisn’t Mom’s. Those were found on the path to the dock, dropped the night she died and attached to a small foam buoy, in case they were ever dropped in the water while boating.
This key is all on its own. Just like the spare key that we keep under the front porch lantern.
The spare key.
I’d forgotten it until now. I didn’t think of it when I heard footsteps my second night here. I didn’t think of it yesterday when someone came into the house. The doors had been unlocked both times, and I told myself that was explanation enough. I never considered that someone could’ve simply taken the spare. That having it outside was only making us vulnerable. Like it may have for Mom while she was still alive.
But here it is, lying on the floor of Mom’s house, slipped from Rory’s pocket.
Fear blooms in my chest, and I don’t know what it means or where it comes from. My mind fractures with questions about Rory.
I’m jerked back into the room when he speaks.
“You okay?” he asks, zipping his jeans. He grabs his sweater from the floor.
In horror movies, the girl who gives in never makes it out alive. She drops her guard, exposing skin under her armor, and that’s when the killer strikes. I used to roll my eyes at that clichéd logic because it felt so cheap, so sexist. But right now, staring at that key glinting scarlet against the wood, I can’t shake the sense that I’ve stepped straight into a trap.
I take a breath. “What’s that rose key? On the floor.” My voice is gentle, eyes suddenly stinging.
I know exactly what it is. But I want him to tell me. I want to hear his version.
“Oh,” he laughs lightly, scratching the back of his neck. “I found it outside when I was walking over. Thought it might be yours. It was on the driveway.” His explanation comes out too fast, nearly stumbling. “Is it yours?”
Leo’s words crawl back into my head. About Mom having a serious conversation with a young man with dark hair at the Village. And I think about yesterday. About Rory walking away from the house right after the trespassing incident, like he happened to be in the right place at the wrong time. Always with a neat excuse. Always perfectly reasonable. Until it isn’t. Could this really all be a coincidence?
I suddenly feel like I don’t know the man standing in front of me.
I step back, buttoning my pants, my speechlessness speaking for me. I don’t even know what to say.
“Imogen,” Rory says carefully, watching me. “Talk to me. What’s going on in your head?”
I swallow, thoughts flooding so hard against me they could topple me.
“I just… wanted to know about the key. I don’t know.” I shake my head. “I think I’m tired.” I lightly laugh, putting up a front like it’ll protect me. The truth is brimming, pushing against the inside of my lips. But I don’t want it to come out. What will happen then?
