I rise, meeting her by the counter. Her hands are too full for a hug, the bag swinging gently at her side. “Hi,” I manage.
She shakes her head before I can add more. “Don’t answer that. I know you’re going through a lot. My parents told me.” She exhales a delicate breath.
“I’m here for a few days,” I say. “Packing up the house.”
“If you’re selling it, I’d love to help,” she says, already twisting toward the door. I match her stride, because I want to ask her aboutMadison. “I’m actually late for a meeting. At the Realtor a few doors down.”
Last year, her social pages became a shrine to Madison after her vanishing, advocating for justice for the girl she still called her best friend. If anyone would know about the rumors at Madison’s job, it would be her. Assuming they truly stayed close over the years.
“Can I walk with you?” I ask, voice low. “I wanted to ask you something. About Madison.”
She freezes for a beat, then blinks, caught off guard. “What’d you want to ask?”
I signal to Rory with a raised finger—be right back—and push the door open for her. Pulling my jacket tight against the mist, I consider how to approach the subject.
“Do you know what was going on at Madison’s work before she disappeared?” I ask, holding my breath.
She stops in her tracks briefly before walking, like she’s physically caught by the question. “How do you know about that?” Her pace quickens. “That’s a big question with a complicated answer… What makes you ask?”
The Realtor’s sign looms ahead, and panic floods me. My time is running out. “Was it Harrison?” My words stumble over themselves. “Harrison Klein.”
Her sigh is sharp enough that I see the cloud it creates ahead of her. “You’re going into dangerous territory.” And suddenly we’re outside her office.
“I’m just trying to help,” I blurt. “I promise.”
“I’m sure you are. It’s… hard to talk about,” she says, glancing into her office. “There was a lot going on at her work before she went missing. Involving Harrison. Like I said, it’s complicated.” She fishesout a card from her pocket with her free hand, to-go bag slapping against her coat. “Why don’t you call me on my lunch? One o’clock?”
“Thank you,” I whisper, shoving the card into my jacket pocket, gripping it tight. “I’ll call you.”
Her smile is thin as she disappears inside the building.
When I get back to the coffee shop, Rory is eagerly waiting at my laptop.
“I got something,” he says, beckoning me back to my seat.
His fingers hover above the keys. “Your search pulled up Blair’s town website. First, your mom’s staff profile.”
He clicks, and there she is. Mom smiling on the community dock, her blond hair lit up like gold in the sun. My chest flutters because, for a moment, it’s like she’s looking right at me. Like this photo was taken just for me to see. A message she sent into the future.
“Then this,” Rory cuts in. “The Lake Blair Archives. One particular photo came up.”
The link reads:Lake Blair Archives—Holiday Party—1995. When he clicks the link, it returns us to Blair’s website:Page expired. This page is no longer available.
“Okay…” I say. “So how does that help us?”
“Watch,” he says. “I tried Images. And that’s when I saw this.”
On the screen now is a group photo: eight adults, huddled in unfashionable Christmas sweaters. I can tell by the fireplace behind them that it was taken in Lake Blair’s community center. In the middle is Mom, wearing a red sweater, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer stitched across it.
She’s mid-laugh, head tilted back, young, glowing.
“That’s your mom,” Rory says, stating the obvious.
“Yeah,” I breathe, voice quieting as I notice the others.
Emmett Holloway, looking strikingly similar to Rory, stands to her left, his hand splayed over her stomach—highlighting her pregnancy.
“That’s my dad.” Rory points. “I didn’t know he was friends with your mom that long,” he adds, echoing my thoughts.
