23
AMELIA
We saw a car pulling onto the street when we were leaving,” I tell the officer, just after Imogen explained what happened. My stomach continues to tumble thinking about what she told me—the idea that someone was inside the house with her. “Tim was in the car,” I tell Imogen. I look at the officer, the name on his badge—HARDING—catching the light. “We don’t know his real name. But he lives in the black house across the lake. I can show you.”
“He drove right past us,” Wes chimes in, stepping into the conversation. “About forty-five minutes ago. Amelia saw his face.” He nods at Rory as if to introduce himself.
I’m surprised at what Wes said, since we didn’t speak about Tim in the car or about any of my suspicions after the near accident at the end of the street. Yet he’s backing up my sighting anyway.
“He worked with Madison Tory,” Imogen blurts.
I pinch the bridge of my nose at the mention. The last thing weneed is to derail the conversation or give the police any reason to dismiss us. “Is he a suspect in her case? Isanyonein Blair?”
Officer Harding shakes his head carefully. “Any information pertaining to Ms. Tory’s disappearance is confidential. It’s also not our case, so I can’t comment.” He sweeps his flashlight across the house again. “But if you say you saw someone on the street, that is certainly of interest. We’ll look into that.”
I swallow. “Do you know if Officer Wright found anything else today, about the trespasser?”
“I was just reviewing his notes,” Harding admits. “Looks like he swept the neighborhood—talked to the Holloways, Wickers, Poulters, and Cartwrights. Unfortunately, no one saw anything. I’m inclined to think these incidents are connected, though.” He pauses and meets my gaze again. “If you prefer, you can find other accommodations for the night. Or I can leave a patrol car outside for a while… It’s a slow night at the station. We can also do additional sweeps along your street just to be sure.”
A faint wave of relief washes over me. It’s not perfect, but it’s something.
“Maybe… staying here is okay,” I say, glancing at the house. “We could go to Wes’s in the city, but—”
“We’ll stay,” Rory says, his tone kind but firm. He nods to Wes, seemingly offering them both up as personal bodyguards. Wes nods in agreement.
“Well, all right,” Harding says. He faces me. “Mind pointing out that house to me?”
I lead him to the balcony, the wind picking up slightly, sweeping my hair, spraying my skin. Across the lake, Tim’s cliffside abode blends into the night—but a single light inside glows, making it easier to spot. I point.
Harding frowns at the distance but nods, pulling out his phone to plot it on a map. “I’ll head out there. My partner will stay here while you settle in.”
I give a grateful smile as Wes accompanies me to the front of the house again, Rory and Imogen now sitting on the porch.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were worried about that car?” he whispers. “And who was the man driving? Why are you suspicious of him?”
What a loaded round of questions.
I shrug, weirdly a little embarrassed that it looks like I kept something from him. “Uh… I don’t know. It didn’t seem important, honestly. Until now.” I squeeze his hand.
He leans closer. “By the way… the guy I saw walking down the driveway a couple days ago? It wasn’t Rory.”
“What do you mean?”
“It must have been someone else. The guy with Imogen isn’t the person I saw.”
I watch Harding climb into his cruiser, and my heart rate picks up again. “I think you should tell him before he leaves… just in case. The more the police know, the better.”
24
The man paces his living room, nibbling at the stub of his thumbnail. It’s more out of nervousness than habit. He’s cloaked in it—the fear of being seen by her. He hadn’t planned for Imogen to spot him as he bolted, but he believes doubtlessly that she must have. Now everything is urgent.
He prefers to enter the Bly house in the night: the perfect cover to slip in invisibly and observe without leaving a trace. Since he’d misplaced the spare key this morning, and the doors have remained locked, he had to improvise. Lucky for him, he’d slipped out a window in Alice’s bedroom early this morning, not wanting the door to alert his exit like it had his entrance… to be safe. It worked out perfectly.
Until she saw him.
He chastises himself for the risk. He hadn’t meant to be seen, yet the thrill of watching her—of hearing her movements, catching glimpses of her—was something he could not resist. Obedience to caution had always been a challenge for him. The thought that she might have noticed him mixes panic and desire in confounding fashion. Yet he’s sick that he may have ruined everything.
He crouches, palms pressed to his forehead as though to contain the surge of fury at his mistake. What he saw inside the house mayhave been worse. His eyes trace familiar woodwork beneath him as he thinks back to it: His back melted into the dining room wall as Imogen crossed the house at the sound of the ringing doorbell.
