“Parker Lane?” she says like a question, gauging if I’m familiar.
Something about the name strikes me, the same way Phoebe herself did the night we met, before I knew who she was.Parker Laneis just as misty.
When I don’t answer right away, squinting at the ceiling like his face might swim out of the fiber fissures, she elaborates.
“He didn’t grow up with us, so I doubt you’d know him. They broke up months before she went missing, and she always said it was amicable. But my mom swears he’s hiding out in Blair.” She shakes her head like it’s a conspiracy. “Police questioned him last year and I don’t think they found anything. But I don’t think they have any clue what happened to her. So… who the hell knows?”
I sigh, sympathetic. “I hope police get a break soon enough. So you can all have answers.”
“Thanks, Ms. Bly.” She winks, already pivoting to the door.
I chuckle awkwardly. “You can call me Amelia. And I hope Bodhi feels better soon. Thanks for stopping by.”
When Phoebe leaves, the classroom feels colder as questions float. I thought knowing names, attaching suspicions to strangers or real people, would erase the interest somehow. Instead, the second name repeats like an internal chant.
Parker Lane.
Why does it feel like I’ve heard it before?
27
IMOGEN
Rory and I sip our cappuccinos, the faint hiss of the espresso machine filling the lull in our conversation. I know we are mentally circling the same idea: What if Madison’s disappearance traces back to the inappropriate actions of an older male executive at her company? And is that executive Harrison?
Are police looking into this?I wonder.Does anyone even know this happened?
Assuming it’s true, of course. For all I know, this woman online could be a bored rumormonger. Or she really is an anonymous voice, trying to help a missing woman.
It’s a chilling thought, that Madison vanished after leaving work. Surely her coworkers were questioned, their timelines dissected, the rumors cross-examined. If there was an executive with a history of crossing lines, wouldn’t that have come up? Unless it was buried…
Though ifwe’recatching wind of it, a couple amateur sleuths, surely police did long ago.
Rory leans in, punchingMadison Tory sexual assault workinto Google—hoping for a fruitful hit, proof that even the media knows this angle.
But there’s nothing. Not a single article. Madison’s mom, Michelle, hadn’t even mentioned it to Susan Ritter. That’s because she either doesn’t know, or they ruled it out.
The thread we’d been scrolling through sits stagnant, comments months old, the conversation on ice. Either the people of Seattle—and beyond—don’t know Madison’s story, or they don’t care enough to scour forums and write articles, likely due to the considerable lack of information. Just as Phoebe Tory told thePuget Daily: “It’s like she fell off the face of the earth.” Maybe that’s the most horrifying part—when the details aren’t lurid enough, the world simply turns its back and looks for a fresher tragedy.
The door to the coffee shop jingles, a discordant little bell, and cold air sweeps in behind a bundled woman heading straight for the counter.
Meanwhile, Rory and I hit wall after wall. No matter how we arrange the key words:Madison,Harrison,executive,assault, nothing surfaces. We barely started looking and have already reached a dead end.
I think back to Mom, what Amelia said about her and Harrison on his dock all those years ago. I never saw them speak, but it’s clear they knew each other. And yet… all those afternoons when I pressed binoculars to my face, staring across the water and into his windows like some twisted hobby, she never warned me away, never called him a creep—or even her friend. She’d just laugh, telling me to stop being such a weirdo and put the binoculars down.
I go off a hunch anyway and typeAlice Bly Harrison Klein Lake Blairinto Google. The page loads slowly as wind batters against the window, making me wonder if the power will blow out.
I lean back in my chair, fingers laced over the crown of my head in anticipation. I peer at the new customer, idling by the register. I catch on her familiar profile. I know that nose, that caramel-highlighted hair. She collects a to-go bag and a cardboard cup holder from the counter—already prepared, waiting for her—as though she’d only stepped in to retrieve it.
Turning, she meets my gaze.
It’s Macy Easton.
Macy and Madison: the inseparable schoolground pair. Attached at the hip from K–12.
Madison and I shared one class throughout our entire school career, while Macy and I overlapped more—PE, the odd elective, when my grade would marry with the one above, which Macy and Madison were in. I’d gone to Madison’s South Lake house once, for a party where I tasted alcohol for the first time. But Macy lived behind us, down in the neighborhood close to school. Our mothers were casual friends.
“Imogen,” she says, stunned. Her voice holds recognition, even a little pity. “How are you?”
