14. Imogen
IMOGEN
If a man had been out there with Mom that night, why hasn’t he said anything? Why haven’t the police mentioned him?
I picture the thrashing kayak, her figure small against the lake, the rain beating against her. The police only told us she drowned, her body discovered the next morning at the community center dock. Nothing about anyone else, nothing about what led up to it. She simply died.
“Would you tell the police what you saw?” I ask Rachel quietly, inching closer in line.
“I didn’t mean to stir up a commotion,” she says carefully. “I’m sure it was nothing.”
“But what if it wasn’t?” I press.
Rory’s eyes watch my feet. He’s silent and still and I can’t help but wonder why.
He’s hardly playing “justice warrior,” like when he defended me to the police earlier.
Maybe he’s minding his own business on this one, letting me navigate a sensitive situation.
His energy reads uncomfortable. I instinctively scan the line of people around us, but they’re preoccupied. No scene has been stirred.
Rachel takes a beat. “Of course. I’ll call them in the morning.”
I hug her again, whispering a quiet thank-you against her coat.
The air is different than it was a minute ago—tense, fragile.
As she walks away, it’s our turn at the ticket booth.
I step out of line for a moment, looking up at the starless sky and thinking about what all of this could mean.
My thoughts spiral as every possibility plays out: Maybe someone really was with her.
Maybe it was harmless. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe no one was there at all.
“Just a second,” I hear Rory tell the employee behind the glass. Suddenly, he appears at my side. “Are you okay? Do you want to get out of here?”
I almost don’t recognize myself. I see the way I must look through his eyes: a woman cracked open by grief, nearly spiraling over a single detail, while he stands by my side. His patience makes my weakness sting sharper.
Rachel said it was dark that night. She couldn’t see clearly. Maybe one of Mom’s friends was there; maybe she was alone. Maybe it predated her death by hours, and this person was blameless in her untimely fate. A million “maybes” could take suspicion out of this altogether. Still, my head whirs.
Since arriving back at this place, that house, every minor oddity has grabbed hold of me.
Every shadow, every creak. They’ve burrowed under my skin.
As if I’m searching for someone to blame for the psychological torment.
Like an answer will keep me from losing control.
It’s easier to point, to focus outside myself, than to sit with the raw grief, the sudden, sharp hollowness left behind by her absence.
I let out a small, embarrassed huff. “I’m sorry about all thi—”
Rory cuts in. “Never be sorry about what you’re going through.” He watches my face for a long beat. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
I watch his flexing jaw, his worried eyes. I feel the steady grasp of his fingers on my arm. With him beside me, my mind quiets. Going home would mean losing that, retreating into panicked solitude again.
“No,” I say quickly, surprising even myself. “Let’s go in. I love this movie.”
Inside, every nerve screams for escape. For the comfort of my Seattle apartment, the sound of boats in Elliott Bay, the chatter at Bar Henry, where no one knows me as the daughter of the drowned woman. But fracturing whatever this magnetic thing with Rory might be feels worse than staying.
“You’re sure?” he asks, his gaze pinning me.
I nod with a smile that I hope looks braver than I feel. And it seems to be enough, because Rory turns back to the booth, buys our tickets, and we slink into the theater.
The hall is lined with old posters—Casablanca, Apocalypse Now, Rear Window—their faded gloss wrenching me backward in time again. The smell of butter clings to the air as Rory orders every snack we’d joked about outside, our arms loaded like we robbed the concession stand.
Inside, the theater feels almost holy: heavy red velvet curtains, gilded beams, the warm glow of sconces along the walls. Half the seats are empty, so Rory leads us toward the back, into a shadowy alcove, where we’re tucked away from everyone else.
As though on cue to our arrival, the lights dim. The iconic score erupts through the speakers as the first black-and-white images appear on-screen. I try to let it sweep me away, drown out Rachel’s voice in my head. But her words scrape at my mind, all pointed and taunting.
What if someone else saw it, too? I ask myself.
I shove a handful of salty popcorn into my mouth, praying the incessant munching will disturb the replay.
But what if? The possibility lodges in my throat and I almost choke on dry kernels. How would I ever find another witness? How can I chase a ghost I can’t see?
Leave it alone. Watch the movie. Enjoy the date.
The movie unspools in front of me, but I barely see it. My vision drifts in and out, like I’m glitching between what’s on the screen and what’s in my head.
As Norman Bates appears—meek, boyish, hiding a monstrous secret—my thoughts veer off again.
I picture the men Mom knew, the few she let into her life.
The only one who could even qualify as a boyfriend was Leo Towns.
I haven’t seen him in two years, not since Amelia and I went to his birthday party, near the end of his and Mom’s relationship.
Come to think of it, I don’t even remember why they broke up.
But she never mentioned any other man after their split.
Could it have been Leo that night? Did they get back together? Could there have been a Norman Bates in Mom’s world, charming her with small talk and parlor sandwiches, only to close in with violence?
Rachel said Mom jogged down to the dock. Why? Was she running with this alleged man? Or from him? Maybe that’s why she was out on the water in the first place—as a means of escape.
On-screen, the shower curtain tears open.
The shriek of violins rips through the theater as Norman’s “mother” raises the knife.
Marion Crane’s cavernous howl fills the room.
And as it does, my eyes sting with sudden tears.
I can’t stop imagining Mom in her place—not in a shower, but on the lake, the storm lashing around her, a hand pressing her face beneath the black water until her lungs couldn’t stand the lack of oxygen any longer.
I must be rocking, trembling, something—because Rory’s face gets close to mine.
“Hey, hey,” he whispers. “Let me take you home.”
The next minutes blur. Rory ushers me out into the night an hour too early, leaving behind only our untouched snacks spilled across the soda-sticky floor.
In the parking lot, I fold into his chest. He wraps his arms around me, solid and unyielding, smelling of that cedar cologne and the cold air. In his embrace, I am cocooned.
“She wasn’t supposed to die that night,” Rory murmurs against my hair.
My body stiffens. I peel myself from his grasp, tears halting in their path.
“What do you mean?” My voice is serrated.
Rory’s jaw flexes. “I just mean…” He exhales.
Like a TV finale cliff-hanger, I’m frozen, pining for more.
“Whether she drowned, or someone was with her, it was too soon. A horrible, freak thing.” His words falter, careful, as though he’s choosing them wisely.
Whether that’s for his benefit or mine, I can’t tell.
“But if you think something happened—that someone could be involved—you should tell the police.”
I wipe my cheeks, my throat raw.
“But listen,” he presses, softer. “Either way, she’s gone. And I don’t want you to kill yourself trying to make sense of it.”
His words land with good intention, but they don’t soothe me—or stop my mind from wandering to the dark places it’s already found.
Without a word, I slide into the passenger seat, wanting nothing but to be swaddled in bed until morning comes. Because when I wake, I know exactly what I need to do.