4. Imogen
IMOGEN
When I get up for the day, Amelia is already gone. I enter the kitchen looking for black coffee and find a handwritten note next to the stove.
Imogen,
Can you try to make progress on the office? We’ll leave the kitchen and dining room for last.
P.S. Bringing back sushi for dinner. I know what you like.
Love you sis, Amelia
Sometimes I forget we’re the same age, that I’m not the kid sister. Although I was born two minutes earlier, I don’t carry the crown of competence. She does. And I hate that I can’t ever seem to meet her where she is.
I read the note again and consider the idea of cleaning Mom’s office… or crying on the couch all day with a blanket wrapped around me like I’m some sort of phantom.
I deserve a day like that, don’t I? I think. Or, two weeks like that, since it’s all I’ve been doing since I got the call. Surely one more day wouldn’t hurt. Because there’s Productivity and then there’s Amelia Productivity.
The thought of chipping away at tasks makes me wish she’d been the one to take time off work while I buried myself in customer conversation at Bar Henry, sneaking glugs of stinky, biodynamic wine any chance I got.
The sun is shining this morning, and I squint at its reflection off the lake through the gigantic, curtainless picture window in the center of the living room. By late morning, I’m sure it will retreat behind the clouds again and stay there.
Standing in the middle of the room, I can only see the edges of the lake and the shores near the houses on the opposite side.
It’s far enough away to spot movement, but not specific people or features.
Our deck wraps from the left side of the house to the back, boasting windows all around and two doors leading out to the patio: the side door, next to a gas fire pit and outdoor sofas, and then the lakefront door, also located on the patio but closest to the twenty-three-step staircase that connects to our dock.
The house feels more secluded than it is, a line of trees bordering both sides of our property.
You can’t see the Holloways’ house on the left or the Bensons’ house on the right unless you’re down on the docks or in the water.
When I was a child, the lack of visible neighbors turned me into more of an observer, grasping at any connection I could.
I’d sit on the couch, a pair of binoculars pressed to my eyes, and invent lives for the strangers who lived across the lake.
There was one house I watched more than the others—the black one on the cliff—with one person inhabiting it: a man with dark hair who I called Tim.
Probably because he reminded me of Tim Burton.
He had a telescope standing against his floor-to-ceiling windows and a tiki bar on the dock; his pontoon even flew a pirate flag.
To young me, he was equal parts cool and mysterious.
I’d often notice different women in his house and, because I loved a good story, I suspected the worst—that he might be dangerous.
Maybe even a serial killer. I almost wanted him to be one just so I could crack the case.
Next door to “Tim” lived a fortysomething couple in the Spanish-style stucco house, who had a Saint Bernard and spent many evenings on their dock under string lights.
When they weren’t outside, I could usually spot the man typing away at his computer under a single lamp, chain-smoking.
I always imagined he was a writer, clicking away at an adventurous tale.
All the houses had stories, and I enjoyed conjuring them up, night after night until Mom would laugh and tell me to stop being a weirdo and get to bed.
Wondering if the same people live across the lake now, I consider walking out to the deck, embracing the sunshine, and looking. But instead, I collapse into the cloudlike sectional, allowing myself a few minutes of relaxation before I officially begin the day.
Breaking the peace is a familiar name being discussed on the TV above the mantel.
It’s the name of a woman who went missing sometime last year.
The name of a woman who was never found.
Amelia must have left the news on when she headed out for work, as they’re beginning to discuss a developing story.
“In a perplexing tale that has haunted the Pacific Northwest, twenty-eight-year-old Madison Tory disappeared after leaving her job in Seattle one year ago this evening. Joining us today is her mother, Michelle, to give us the latest in the case.”
This story dominated the local news last year.
Living so close, I devoured every detail at first, certain a predator was prowling our streets, targeting young women.
Madison grew up here in Blair, a grade above me.
We weren’t close, but knowing someone from our tiny town might have been killed made it feel unbearably personal.
Her mom sits in a brown leather chair on a studio set, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. On a stand next to her is a large photo of Madison, showing off her beautiful smile and toffee hair—before her life took a mystifying turn. I wonder if her mom still lives on the lake.
“Michelle, you know your daughter best, and I’m well aware there are some things in this investigation that you cannot share.
But tell us, what do you think happened that night?
And do you think Madison’s ex-boyfriend, or someone from work, had anything to do with whatever happened to her? ” the interviewer, Susan Ritter, asks.
I turn up the volume, anticipating her response.
They haven’t found Madison’s body—assuming she was murdered because, well, everybody does—so I’m interested to hear her mom’s theories.
Madison left her job in the city one night and was spotted on a few surveillance cameras strolling past stores and bars before vanishing.
She lived in an apartment only blocks away, her usual walk taking a mysterious turn. That’s all I remember.
“I’m willing to say that I wasn’t a fan of her boyfriend when he was dating my daughter, and I, of course, have wondered if he did something to her. But the police tell me they don’t think he’s guilty, so…” Michelle trails off, staring at the floor.
This poor woman. She looks exhausted.
“When you say you weren’t a fan of him, could you elaborate? And is there anything you can tell us about him?” Susan presses.
“He’s not a suspect, so I’m not going to be the one to dox him,” she huffs.
“But I think she was better than him. I didn’t think they were a good match when they were dating—which was only for a few months.
When Madison broke up with him before she went missing, he seemed to leave her alone.
So I don’t know. It could have been anyone, I guess.
Any guy she was casually dating. Or someone who saw an opportunity while she walked home from work.
She was perfect. Is perfect,” she corrects herself.
The camera pans to the audience, showcasing many sympathetic faces.
“Then, is it your impression that someone else could have been after her? Maybe someone she rejected? Possibly even someone from work, as has previously been posited?”
Michelle thinks for a moment. “Before she went missing, she told her best friend that she wanted to get a new job—that something was bothering her, and she wanted to get out of there and maybe even move. But she loved her job at Pacific Records. Music is her passion.”
“And we know she didn’t run away, based on police finding her purse on the corner of Fourteenth and Howell, isn’t that right?” Susan asks with a borderline imposing tone.
Michelle doesn’t even take a beat before replying.
“I know my girl didn’t run away. Yes, they found her purse.
Now, where would she be without her purse?
Without any money? Without letting me know she’s okay?
She hasn’t used her phone or her bank cards since that day.
How did she just vanish off the street like that? ”
I’m thankful when my stomach growls, yanking me away from the TV and into the kitchen. I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with more sadness, though I feel for Michelle.
When I pull on the stainless-steel fridge handle, I’m hit with a glum reminder: the scarce edible remnants of Mom’s kitchen. The perishables of a single woman. Sour half-and-half, a bag of wilted spinach, and a deli sandwich from Rainbow Acres Grocery that, curiously, isn’t expired.
I often forgot that she was alone in this house. Probably because she’d always been alone when Amelia and I weren’t around. My father left before we were born, making it just us girls.
Mom handled single parenthood with grace. But when Amelia and I started our own lives, she lost a big piece of hers and I don’t think she ever got it back.
Plucking spoiled food from the cold shelf, I stack it all against my chest and dump the lot straight into the trash.
Growing up in a town of nine thousand people, you’d think it would be a big enough population where you could have some discretion.
Wrong.
After pulling up to Rainbow Acres, the Holloways’ store, I rush inside to escape the downpour. As I wring the rain from my golden hair, I nearly collide with a clerk I haven’t seen in years. Before I can apologize, she pulls me into a bear hug.
“Oh, Imogen,” she says. “I am so sorry about Alice, honey. How are you and sissy holding up?”
It’s sweet of her to remember me after all this time, but I don’t feel like reminiscing. I force a small smile. “We’re okay. Just… dealing with it. I hope you’re well.”
She squeezes my hand with an empathetic frown before I slip away down the aisle.
Green basket in hand, I stock up on apples, sharp English cheddar, local eggs—little anchors of normalcy.
But with every turn I feel eyes on me, the casual smiles and passing hellos feel too pointed, like everyone knows.
I keep my head down and hurry, piling bottles of wine into the basket until my arms protest and the weight tells me it’s time to check out.
At the register, I unload my groceries on the belt and catch the male checker staring.
My gaze meets his, and he startles, snapping back into motion, scanning items in silence. Something about him nags at me—dark hair, sharp jawline, tall frame. Familiar, but I can’t place him. I glance at his name tag: Cale. I’d remember a name like that, even in this town.
“Having a party?” he asks flatly, plucking me out of my own head.
“No, I… No.” I almost explain why I need this much wine but shut myself up instead.
As I pull out my Washington driver’s license, he casually says, “I know who you are, Imogen. You’re good.”
I don’t have the mental capacity to go through Mom’s room yet, and surely not alone, so I do as Amelia asked and begin with the office.
Inside is an exercise bike, a file cabinet, and a small wooden desk by the window.
I spend the next couple hours making sure I don’t toss any important documents, like tax filings, or anything for her job they may need back.
As I sift through the last of the beige file cabinet, one folder strikes me as odd. It’s haphazardly shoved in the bottom drawer, toward the back, sitting out of its organizer.
In black Sharpie, the tab reads IMOGEN INCIDENT—2003.
What the hell?
Strangely, the folder is empty. I turned seven in the spring of 2003, and I certainly don’t remember any sort of “incident” that was important enough to create a folder for. I take a photo of it and text it to Amelia.
I write:
Do you know what this is about?
It takes about a minute for her to reply.
If you don’t know, how would I?
Another text comes in almost immediately.
I hope you’re actually getting things done over there!
I want to tell her she isn’t my mom, but that seems like a poorly timed joke. I fire off a cheeky middle finger emoji and shove my phone back into my jeans pocket, tossing the mysterious folder in the KEEP stack.