Imogen
I stand before the mirror in my childhood bedroom, trying on a third outfit taken from my tightly crammed duffel.
Unpacking my bag felt counterintuitive while boxing up the house, so most of my clothes are creased.
I turned the bag inside out in search of my favorite black mesh bra, which vanished the way socks do in my apartment’s dryer.
I eventually settle on a relaxed, autumnal compromise: a silk slip dress under an oversized leather jacket.
Every so often, I glance down at the yard to see if Rory will manifest on the hillside again. If only I had such powers to summon him by thought alone.
When night settled over the house, the nerves crept back in.
Shadows suffocate the windows, and every shift of the old beams or the dated floorboards feels enhanced.
I remind myself, over and over, that the police are aware now, that they’ve got it under control.
For a couple more days, at least, this house should be safe.
We kept busy after they left, Amelia and I tackling the mess head-on: repacking boxes, sweeping up debris.
By the late afternoon, the house looked less violated.
Despite the setback, the day had been productive—enough to convince me we might actually get through the rest of this without falling apart.
I slip loafers over ruffled socks just as the doorbell clangs across the house. Spritzing on perfume to cover any lingering scent of cardboard and tape adhesive, I step into the hall just as Wes does.
“Whoa.” He pokes me, with his eyebrows lifting. “Someone’s ready for their date. Looking very fresh.”
“Fresh?” I snort. “Like I wasn’t sweating over boxes all day?”
“Not a single box,” he deadpans.
“Enjoy your date!” Amelia calls from her bedroom.
“We’re hanging here tonight,” Wes adds, leaning against the wall. “Waiting with bated breath to hear how it went.” He pretends to choke, clutching his throat.
I roll my eyes and shove his shoulder lightly. “Get out of here before you embarrass me.”
“You don’t want me to get the door for you?”
“Bye!”
He retreats, hands raised in mock innocence, sliding back into Amelia’s room.
I giggle as I head to the door but hesitate before firming my grip around the knob, aware I should be cautious with a trespasser still at large.
I pull the door and see Rory. He’s in a wool coat, his hair swept back with a few rebellious strands falling into his eyes. The same neat stubble traces his wide jawline.
I open the door and mock a curtsy, baiting a smile from him.
“Hi, Imogen,” he says softly, a dimple catching at his cheek. “Looking beautiful, as always.”
“Thanks,” I reply, raising my eyebrows. “You look beautiful, too.”
He huffs a laugh, shrugging. “You know what? I’ll take it.”
Rory steps closer, enough for me to smell peppermint on his breath, mixing surprisingly well with cedar smoke on his coat. His hand finds mine and he leads me toward a black Jeep.
“No motorcycle?” I ask, partly kidding.
“Oh, you saw that?” His brow lifts. “I pulled it out of the garage the other day to see if it still ran, but it needs some work. If you want, we can postpone our date until it’s fixed up.” His tone is so serious that I know he must be joking.
“Yeah, probably for the best,” I shoot back.
His newly formed smile turns into a laugh. “You’re trouble.”
We climb into his car, the leather seat cold against my thighs, and make the short drive to downtown Blair.
The Smiths hum low from the speakers—background noise to our conversation about favorite haunts in Seattle.
Rory coasts through the winding turns with ease, telling me of his late-night diner routine: French fries, a milkshake, and whatever graphic design project he’s tinkering with at 2:00 in the morning.
I listen, watching the sun set beyond the Douglas fir trees that line our town, admiring their glow behind bruised clouds, which fill the air with the vague, perpetual mist that is so typical of Blair.
By the time we pull into the Waterside Theater’s small parking lot, I remember it’s Saturday.
But we quickly find a spot by the entrance.
Couples wander in pairs, some loitering with ice cream cones, others drifting toward the doors of the theater.
The scene is perfectly subdued as the summer has officially melted into sleepy fall.
Across the way, I spy the modest stretch of town’s center: another grocery store, coffee shop, a boutique or two.
Everything you’d need for ordinary life.
Next to the movie theater, the old pizza shop beckons us with its steamy windows and hand-painted sign: THE BEST NEW YORK SLICE WEST OF THE BIG APPLE!
I spent countless nights here as a teenager, enjoying cheesy slices before dining on popcorn and candy during whatever movie I watched until I was plump with nausea and regret.
The courtyard outside the theater radiates beneath a canopy of string lights, golden hues reflecting off damp pavement.
Tables sleep under folded umbrellas until spring, and just beyond them is an iron fence to mark the lake’s edge.
It all showcases the quaint beauty of Blair and reminds me that—although it’s my hometown—it can feel cinematic, too.
Rory and I join the short line at the pizza window, breathing in waves of baked dough and boiled tomatoes. We whisper flavor options to each other like excited children: White Truffle Goat Cheese? Spinach Mushroom Pepperoncini? Something called Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon?
My stomach growls on cue, and at our turn, Rory points to our chosen slices, pays without hesitation, and slides a plate into my hand.
He guides me to the water’s edge so we can dine with a view of the very place we both grew up, as if we can’t admire it from the homes we’re currently occupying. But this outlook brings a different perspective, far away from the woes of packing and panicking, the formalities of residency.
“It really is beautiful, huh?” I say, leaning against the iron fencing. I take a bite of pizza, cheese stretching stubbornly against my chin. I slurp it up and blow hot vapor out of my mouth, waving my other hand in front of it in a poor attempt at cooling the nibble on my tongue.
“Do you not see the massive steam rising off it?” Rory teases, already leaning into his own slice.
“I’m starving,” I protest, the bite still sitting against my back teeth.
Rory takes a bite of equal size. “Fuck, that is hot.”
We dissolve into laughter, chewing through the heat, and watch a fresh order of fog roll across the black water’s surface.
The laugh dies in my throat when my gaze slips to the right: the community dock. Where Mom’s body was found. Even from over here, around the bend of downtown, the sight of it creates a pressure in my chest.
I should hate the lake, seeing it only as a vicious killer. But I can’t. It’s too alluring. Too cruelly beautiful.
“Yeah,” Rory says, answering belatedly. “We really lucked out with our childhoods.”
Almost jarringly so, I feel like a teenager again.
Like Rory has smacked a rewind button. Eating the same pizza.
Dating my handsome next-door neighbor. Staring at this landscape.
A layer of distaste forms, and I’m suddenly intent on adjusting the conversation—to focus on our current realities, and not inch backward toward adolescence.
“Is that why you really came back to Washington? So that you could live on this lake again eventually?” I ask, reluctantly bringing the pizza to my mouth, masking my desperate inquisition as a casual question.
Rory takes a brief pause, setting his slice back on the plate. He swallows, eyes freezing in a distant stare. “Actually, I lost someone, too. That shook up my plans a bit.”
I take a bite of pizza at the worst time. Because now all I can do is chew with a fist to my lips, hoping he’ll keep talking, or mercifully change the subject.
“This is great date conversation,” he chuckles, trying to recover.
“But… my girlfriend of two years passed away. And I couldn’t walk around without being reminded of her everywhere.
” He readjusts his lean against the gate.
“That’s about the time I headed to New York.
I stayed there a few years, but it felt like the only way to feel normal was to come back to Washington. Start over again. So I did.”
My eyes drop in sympathy. “Rory, I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“It was years ago. You were bound to find out sometime.” He looks out at the vast water, a breath of wind blowing against our cheeks.
“I’ve recently learned how little people’s apologies help when someone you love has passed,” I offer. “So instead, I’ll say… thanks for telling me.” I shift closer, my shoulder grazing his. “That sounds like a lot. Especially when you were so young.”
I don’t expect him to tell me the exact details, no matter how curious I am. I don’t press.
Rory looks at me, then back at the lake. “Can I ask you something?”
“Always.” I nod.
“What’s the story with your dad? I don’t remember ever hearing about him—or where he was,” Rory asks gently, his tone careful, patient.
I can guess that he’s asking because, since Mom died, I have no one. Only Amelia. No father to seek comfort from. Even as I inch toward thirty, being parentless feels lonely. Like I’m lost—without a partner or family of my own.
I chew on my answer. “I never found out,” I admit, realizing for the first time since Mom died that I may never find out. “My mom only ever said that he decided he didn’t want kids.” I smirk, more wry than bitter.
“Wow. She gave it to you straight.” He exhales, pauses. But the temporary silence is comfortable. “Did you ever wonder anyway?”
“Oh yeah,” I say, furrowing my brows. “But I figure, if he cared to be around, he would be. Until then… it’s none of my business.” I swallow. “My mom was better than any dad I could’ve had.”
“Agreed. Alice was the shit.” Rory nods with a grin, chewing his crust. “Well,” he breathes, tilting his head toward the theater, “you ready to blanket your sorrows with a movie about more death?”
“When you put it like that…” I laugh, shaking my head.
Still a bit peckish after the pizza, we contemplate concessions in the ticket line.
“Popcorn. Red Vines. And something chocolate… like Sno-Caps,” I suggest.
Rory raises an eyebrow playfully. “I will let your weird Sno-Caps request slide, as long as you’ll also try a real chocolate candy. Like Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Bites.”
“Oh, okay,” I laugh into him.
I’m suddenly pulled from the moment when I hear my name.
“Imogen?”
I’m surprised to see Mom’s old friend emerging from the theater doors. Dressed in a sleek black coat, her hair neatly pinned up, she envelops me in a hug.
“Hi, Rachel,” I breathe.
“Oh, sweetie,” she says in her mousy pitch, holding my face in both of her hands. I whip my eyes at Rory, and he doesn’t say anything. I assume he doesn’t know her.
And then she spews all the same bullshit platitudes I’ve been hearing all week, about being sorry and feeling terrible. I thank her, though my mind is elsewhere.
“And hey,” she continues, “I’m glad I ran into you. You know… I saw your mom that night. I called her when I saw her going down to the water.”
“Wait. You saw her?” I ask, my expression hardening. It’s not entirely surprising, given that her house sits diagonally across the lake—down on the shoreline. She can see our dock from her house.
“Yeah,” Rachel says, her eyes wide, moving with us as the line moves forward. “She was jogging down the steps like she was in a hurry. I was worried she was going out on the lake in that storm. But I figured her boyfriend would talk her out of it.”
My neck cranes back instinctively, face scrunching. “What boyfriend?”
“Didn’t she have one? There was a man with her that night.”
I glance at Rory again and his face stiffens. He scans the small crowd around us.
“Um,” I start, trying to gather my thoughts. “She never mentioned anyone… So, no. Did you get a good look at him? Who was he?”
I knew nothing of Mom’s evening the night she died. I spoke to her that afternoon, though she hadn’t mentioned anything peculiar. Certainly didn’t mention dating anyone. Even with Amelia and me having grown distant, I’m sure she would have told me if there had been a new man in Mom’s life.
Rachel hesitates, searching for the words. “It was so dark out there. My house isn’t close enough to see details. But I got the impression he was a man. He was right with her.” Noticing my tension, she softens. “I guess I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
And she doesn’t have to say anything else because I’m sure we’re thinking the same thing. If someone was out on the water with Mom that night… did they have something to do with her death? Do they know something we don’t?