Imogen
Ten minutes. That’s how long Amelia and I have been sitting at the dock, waiting for a prospective buyer to scope the pontoon boat.
Last night, after filling her in on my evening with Rory over a garage-packing session, I crawled into bed to find a Facebook Messenger ping on one of my Marketplace listings.
Relief washed over me that someone right here on the lake was interested. Though, admittedly, a creeping suspicion lingers around the buyer. The person’s private Facebook profile, Frank Martin, showcases a single image: a generic-looking family. Naturally, his name doesn’t ring a bell.
“This feels like a waste of time,” Amelia groans, rising from her cream Adirondack chair. “We’ve got a list a mile long.”
“You can’t leave me,” I plead. “What if he’s a psycho looking to abduct a girl? You’d never see me again.”
She shoots me a look. “You’re not a girl. You’re a woman. And don’t joke about that stuff.”
I unlock my phone to find our Messenger conversation still stuck on his last note. Nothing new.
“Let me just ask him if he’s coming,” I say. “Give it until 1:20.”
“And not a second later,” Amelia playfully demands, sitting back in her chair.
Are you still coming? Let me know if you need to reschedule. Looking to sell it this weekend.
I turn away from the water to face Amelia, glancing at the Holloway house for the billionth time—hopelessly wishing Rory would be stalking the living room window again.
With the midday glare, all I see cast against the glass are the gray clouds overhead.
I continue to pace across the dock’s platform, tapping my phone against my palm so I won’t miss a vibration—whether a message from Frank or a text from Rory, if he still has my number.
A light buzz suddenly tickles my fingers. It’s Frank.
I’m sorry. I got caught up in something.
I’ll touch base later if I’m still interested.
“Oh, come on,” I mutter, reading it aloud to Amelia.
We roll our eyes and stomp up to the house, half an hour wasted.
“If you want to start on the hall closets, I’ll go pick us up some sandwiches,” Amelia offers as we cross the patio.
“I’m going stir-crazy in this place,” I say. “I’ll go get the sandwiches—”
I stop mid-sentence when we step through the unlocked balcony door and freeze. Every box I packed in Mom’s office has been pulled out to the living room, opened, and emptied. The door to the garage—located off the kitchen—is wide open, overhead lights shining over similar chaos.
Amelia and I gasp in unison.
“Get outside. Now,” she commands, likely thinking the same thing I am. That someone is in the house. Right now.
We jog across the patio toward the driveway, ready to sprint up the road to safety. The afternoon daylight might feel like a security blanket in itself—but I run anyway.
And then I see him. Rory. Walking down Mom’s driveway, as though he left our house moments ago.
“Hey,” I shout, trotting up behind him. Relief and confusion mix in my head, though my tone is casual.
Rory turns, walking back up the hill until we’re face-to-face on the concrete driveway, consumed by the thick trees lining the road. Amelia is already dialing 911.
“Hey,” he copies, hands sliding out of his jean pockets. “I came by to see if you needed any help. Must have just missed you.”
His response is smooth, yet suspicion spikes.
I almost can’t reconcile him walking away from what looks like a crime scene.
But Rory would never do something like this.
He knows how hard it’s been for me to be back here, stuck in a house that harbors the memory of a woman I miss so dearly.
Every minute in that house, going through her things, smelling her, missing her, is agonizing.
Over dinner at the Holloways’ last night, I explained all of this—using it to justify my desire to sell.
As though he’d conceal some reason to stifle my progress anyway.
“Someone came into the house,” I blurt. “They unpacked a bunch of stuff.” My stomach knots, reacting to the uncertainty of the intruder’s location.
Rory looks startled. “What? Today?”
“Can we wait at your house until the police get here?” I ask, already guiding Amelia down the street.
“Of course,” he says. He takes a protective stance, peering at the house behind me. “Whatever you need.”
After last night, I’d hoped our next meeting would be quieter, maybe even more private—to feel the weight of what we haven’t done or said.
This, traipsing down the road, with the house half torn apart and looming in the growing distance, Amelia nearby and on the phone with a dispatcher, feels anything but intimate.
It’s another elephant in the circus of our history.
“What a mess,” I say, leaning against his yard’s iron gate, more for balance than comfort. “But it was sweet of you to come by and help. God knows we could use it after today.”
“Well, I couldn’t stay away after last night,” he says. His voice is low, body leaning into mine. The faintest trace of cologne cuts through the grassy air.
I bite back a laugh but fail. I’m almost embarrassed, like my heartbeat is playing over loudspeakers.
Amelia walks over, still glued to her phone, but manages to tuck it against her shoulder long enough to wrap Rory in a one-armed hug.
“You look good! How have you been?” she whispers, her cell’s microphone on her neck.
Rory chuckles, offering her two thumbs-up. “Doing all right. It’s good to see you.”
Amelia pauses, listening. “Sorry, no. I was talking to someone,” she says into her phone. “How far away are they now?”
After a beat, she holds up her index finger and mouths, One minute.
“Anyway, yeah,” Rory says as Amelia circles the yard aimlessly. “I thought coming by would be a good excuse to see you. And help out. It’s not like we have to wait until we’re both back in the city.”
“Well, lucky for you, this little disaster may have stretched our stay. So”—I let the words hang—“you can see me as much as you want.”
His smile tilts. “Then I should take you out tonight. Could be a good distraction. Get you out of that house.”
A small pit forms in my stomach at the idea, happily replacing worry. “What’d you have in mind?”
“The Waterside is screening Psycho at 7:00. Could be fun.”
The Waterside—half restaurant, half four-screen cinema—rests on the lip of Lake Blair.
It’s stitched into every summer I’ve spent here: neon-lit marquee glimmering off the water, idyllic patio seating for post- or pre-movie discussions, themed cocktails for each film. It’s my favorite place in Blair.
“Sounds like my perfect night,” I say, softer than I mean to. “I’m in.”
And just like that, I’m snapped into reality as blue and red lights flash in my peripherals, rolling past the Holloways’ house and up Mom’s steep driveway. The three of us follow its steady ascent in gauche silence.
Two officers sweep the house before waving us inside. “All clear,” one tells us, but the words feel hollow when I step into the living room and see the wreckage again: boxes gaping open, office papers and mementos littered across the floor like flotsam after a typhoon.
Amelia and I plop on the couch to steady ourselves, Rory standing by the windows for moral support, his stunned expression matching ours.
Officer Wright is handsome, large, his presence like a lighthouse beam in human form—sweeping, scanning for trouble with tactful expertise.
He doesn’t waste words or gestures, making me wonder how many times he’s walked into a scene like this—if he’s as careful as he looks.
His partner, Officer Smith, couldn’t be more different.
He’s softer around the edges, paler, fidgety.
His pen bounces off his notepad as he scribbles thoughts or clues of the scene—though I wouldn’t be surprised if his notes consisted of simplicities like, “open boxes” and “break-in?” But there’s something earnest about him—like a pupil trying hard to measure up.
“So just to confirm,” Officer Wright says, voice flat but strong. “You left for about twenty to thirty minutes. Came back and”—he gestures at the room—“this was how you found it?”
“Correct,” Amelia says, her tone clipped. She’s standing on business for the both of us.
“And you were at the dock the whole time? No unusual sounds? No sightings of anyone on your property?” Smith asks.
“Nothing,” I tell them, unsure what other details to give. I adjust on the couch, sitting up straight. “We did keep the balcony door unlocked when we went down there, though. But we didn’t see or hear anyone. I actually remember the opposite. It was quiet down at the dock.”
“We didn’t see any signs of forced entry,” Officer Smith begins. “All the windows are locked. I’d guess they entered through that unlocked patio door.”
We’ve got Sherlock here!
“Who was it you were meeting for the boat sale?” Wright asks.
“Says his name is Frank Martin,” I say, fumbling for his social media profile, the pixelated image of him and his supposed family displayed on my phone screen.
Smith scribbles the name on his notepad, and I nearly chuckle at the thought of him searching such a basic identity.
“We’ll flag that in the report,” Smith says. “We can run it against local complaints and see if anything pops up.” He doesn’t make promises, as if that would give me more confidence in them finding the person responsible. They have practically nothing to go off of.
“That’s it?” Rory cuts in, disappointed. His eyes narrow at the officers, dissatisfied with their offerings.
“We’ll canvas the area—see if anyone saw a person or a vehicle,” Wright offers.
“We’ll do what we can, but if nothing’s been stolen and there’s no sign of forced entry…
our options are limited.” Wright looks between Amelia and me, his police-officer accessories shifting against a nylon belt.
“Keep your doors locked—even in the daytime. And give us a call if you remember anything else.”
Rory’s jaw tightens. “You’re just going to leave two women here, knowing someone walked through their house? You don’t think that’s dangerous?” His tone is stern, bothered by the lack of action. At this, I crack a small, private smile.
Officer Wright regards him, unflinching, his stance like a steel wall. “Their safety does matter, very much,” he says evenly. “But nothing here suggests violence. No theft, no harm.”
“But someone was here,” I snap. “They didn’t even try to hide the fact.”
“Which is precisely why I believe this was someone looking to score quick valuables,” Wright replies. “A drifter, or someone struggling with addiction. They poke around, and they move on. This is a nice neighborhood. They likely saw an opportunity and took it.”
“What are we supposed to do? Stay here?” I ask, feeling dirty and violated from this sudden invasion of privacy.
Amelia puts her hand on mine, to calm me or shut me up.
“Last night I heard the balcony door open. The same one you think an intruder came in from. So, what if someone’s been out there watching us? ”
“If they were, it looks like they did what they set out to do,” Smith offers.
Wright exchanges a look with him, likely wanting to head the discussion himself.
“We will canvas the block, talk to your neighbors. See if anyone has security cameras facing the street,” Wright states, shifting his focus back to Rory. “Including your house… Mr. Holloway, is it?”
“Yes, Rory Holloway,” he says. “But we don’t have cameras. And my folks aren’t home at the moment.” His posture shifts.
“You didn’t see anything on your way over here?” Wright asks him. “Didn’t pass the perp on your way up the driveway?” He looks skeptical, almost accusatory. Whether it’s because he’s genuinely curious about Rory’s whereabouts or didn’t like the small strike to his ego, I’m not sure.
“No one,” Rory says matter-of-factly. “The street was empty, too. That was only a minute before the girls got back anyway. I was in my room on my computer before that.”
“We’d love some proof,” Wright says, a grin on his lips.
“Rory didn’t do this,” Amelia says in a light, respectful defense. “Just… please help us find who did.”
Officer Wright gives her a soft look before gazing back at Rory, expecting a response.
Rory scoffs. “I’ll show you proof. Come on over and look at what I’ve been working on.”
Both officers nod, and Wright fishes a business card from his pocket and hands one to Amelia and me. “If you see or remember anything.”
“We’ll follow up,” Smith adds with a cordial nod.
Rory lingers at the door for a beat, then winks at me as he walks them out, the three of them dipping down the driveway toward his house.
I watch from the doorway, heart heavy with conflicting emotions. The Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go” plays in my head like a private joke from the universe, taunting me and my lack of ability to make confident decisions.
Amelia drops her hands on her hips and exhales. “They’re doing what they can, I guess,” she says plainly, tucking the card into her pocket.
“I’m just freaked out,” I say, grabbing a new trash bag, ready to begin cleanup.
Papers scatter across the floor like fallen leaves, garbage bags are ripped open.
The wreckage looks careless—like someone destroyed simply to destroy, tipped over boxes thoughtlessly.
There’s no rhythm or reason to it—that I can tell.
“Same. This is a disaster,” Amelia sighs, hands on her head in horror. “But we can’t leave it like this. We stay, we secure, take inventory. If anything else happens, we call them. Honestly, though…” She trails off. “I think it’ll be fine. Let’s just finish and get the hell out of here.”
It feels rational in the daylight: Police are canvassing, the immediate threat seems low. Still, my throat is tight, the image of someone rifling through Mom’s life flashing in my mind.
I force my hands to work, and we tidy for the rest of the afternoon in companionable silence. But the entire time, dread coils in my rib cage. I can’t shake a mystifying thought bubbling in my brain. A thought that feels as real as it does dramatically impossible, unsubstantiated—downright silly.
Someone doesn’t want us to leave.