Amelia
I snatch the tape gun off the floor and strike it against the top of the final box that was tampered with yesterday.
Peppered around me are stacked boxes holding various files and paperwork, trash bags brimming with junk, and furniture with Post-it notes screaming Sell or Toss.
If we wrap the house up tonight, like we hope, I’ll have to ask Leo if he can haul off in his contractor’s truck whatever we can’t take. I’m sure he’d be happy to help.
A little exhale escapes me as I swipe sweat from my forehead, the ache in my arms reminding me how much I’ve hauled and sorted today.
The wreckage has to have been caused by some desperate wanderer or a petty burglar looking for cash.
Someone who didn’t find what they wanted and left.
That’s what I’m choosing to believe, because the alternative is worse.
Nothing’s missing, but the thought of them rifling through our things, in our mother’s house, makes my stomach knot.
If I let myself spiral, I’ll drive both of us mad, so I cling to the simplest answer, even if I don’t fully believe it.
“All done in the spare room!” I call to Wes, shoving the last box into a corner of Mom’s makeshift office. He’s been wrangling the garage all morning, the larger of the two messes.
“Almost done in here!” he shouts back.
I sink to the floor, back against the box, chest rising with a deep breath.
Surprisingly, I feel content. Wes has made this whole process less troublesome, more…
satisfying I daresay? Simple Sunday pleasures—coffee, breakfast, a spot of hard work—feel gratifying in this beautiful house.
It’s not even the house. It’s Wes. He’s the kind of guy who turns the mundane into fun: sourcing fresh local food for balcony meals back in Seattle, gifting me flowers at work—making my students gawk in embarrassing glee.
“Ms. Bly’s in love! Ms. Bly has a boyfriend!
” They ooh and aah. He adds sparks to regular days.
Even terribly glum ones: packing up your dead mother’s house.
We met through a coworker last year. It was a whirlwind courtship that never ended—only exploded. This weekend has proven the obvious: Wes is the one. I giggle like a schoolgirl and fix my red ponytail as he enters the house.
He barely crosses the office doorframe, leaning against it with a smile. “That garage looked like a war zone. But I finished!” He releases a rewarding breath. “Wanna tackle the books and living room next?”
The guy doesn’t stop being perfect.
Ignoring his question, I say, “We should move in together.” I fold my legs into a pretzel and stare up at him with a soft grin.
“It’s been really nice having you around these past few days.
I don’t want it to end.” I purse my lips in thought.
“Well, I do. I want to get out of here. But you know what I mean.”
Wes sits on the floor in front of me, shoving the tape gun out of the way to make room for his crossed legs. Our knees touch.
“I would love that,” he says, grinning like it’s been on his mind. “Mine or yours?”
I’ve never lived with a boyfriend before, so I really think about it.
My past relationships were casual, short-lived, never too serious.
My apartment is nice enough: chic, walkable to shops and my favorite French bakery, close to the wine bar Imogen works at.
But the thought of starting fresh with Wes feels like home in itself.
Better than pain au chocolat at my fingertips.
Plus, my apartment is small, old. Good for one person.
“Obviously yours,” I tell him. “Your place is better.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? How so?”
I shrug, smiling. “Well, for one, your living room doesn’t feel like you’re balancing on top of the furniture to walk from the couch to the kitchen. And the light! Huge windows, big skylights. Romantic balcony dinners on your deck. You know I love those.”
“Yeah, but my place is farther from your work,” he points out. “How about we both move. Get a house somewhere.” He leans in, playful, nipping at my neck. It tickles a laugh out of me.
“I’m open to anything. As long as I get to be with you,” I say, planting a soft kiss across his lips. When we pull apart, I stare at the light freckles across his nose, the warmth in his olive skin.
A car door clicks in the distance, and I figure Imogen is finally back from whatever has been keeping her out of the house all morning. Wes and I stretch into a tight embrace, appreciating a final quiet moment together.
“We’ll lock down the plans when you’re done here,” Wes says. Pulling me off the floor, he kisses me again and walks into the hallway. “I’ll load the garage trash outside and meet you in the living room to do books? I just need a few!”
The security system notes the front door opening and I hear Imogen rush in, slamming the door behind her. I can tell from over here that she’s flustered. Just like that, the pocket of our quiet little bubble breaks. Releasing a deep breath, I move to find her.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I ask, adjusting the waistband of my leggings. “Where have you been?”
She blows air into her cheeks, slipping her boots off with a thunk by the shoe rack. “Sorry. I needed a break. I went down to the police station to ask about yesterday. I had some lunch…”
“No worries,” I say, and I mean it. I know she deserves a few hours off. “You’ve been running yourself ragged… Did the police find anything?”
Imogen shakes her head. “Nope. Shockingly uneventful,” she says, weaving toward the living room. She rifles through the armoire, opening drawers and cabinets like she’s hunting for buried treasure.
“What are you looking for? Wes and I are about to start boxing up those shelves,” I say, tilting my head.
She finally stumbles upon a black neoprene case, which she shakes with wide eyes and a cracked smile—her version of an aha! moment.
I watch her stroll to the lakefront window and remove an old pair of binoculars, pressing them to her eyes.
“Not this again,” I scoff, sinking into Mom’s fluffy cream sofa. She positions herself the same way she often did growing up—assuming her classic stance in the chair by the window, spying on the lake.
“Do you remember Tim?” she asks, a worried look in her eye. “The fake name I made for the guy in the black house across the lake?”
“The serial killer? Of course,” I joke, recalling Imogen’s childlike belief that he was one. She loved playing the role of Lake Blair’s Nancy Drew. If there was a mystery, she intended to solve it. Intended being the key word.
She snaps a straight face. “Don’t call him that. He freaks me out.”
I make a face, looping my ginger hair into a fresh high ponytail. “What are you talking about? Do you two hang out now?” I tease. “He’s a little old for you.”
“Ha-ha,” she mocks. “Do you know anything about him?”
I drift back to childhood, to the occasional lake events when I’d spot him. Imogen and I would whisper, spinning scary stories about him just to spook each other. But one memory pushes itself to the forefront. One involving Mom.
It was sunset. I watched her pedal across the water in her little boat, one of those quiet moments in my adolescence where the world seemed small and endless.
Imogen wasn’t with me that day; I was alone on our dock, inexplicably mesmerized as I often was.
Sometimes I’d go down there to look for frogs or to forage for flowers.
Other times I’d wait for Mom to get back, lounging on the Adirondack with homework.
I don’t know what I did that evening. I just remember Mom steering toward Tim’s dock.
He was outside, standing there, watching her approach.
Once she reached him, an argument ensued.
Nothing physical, but I could see tension: pointing fingers, flailing hands.
Whatever it was, it was serious, unsavory.
Mom eventually pedaled away, leaving him storming up the staircase to his house on the rock’s edge. I never saw them talk again after that.
Even then, I’d been curious about the conversation. Now, admittedly, even more so.
I tell Imogen the story, casually. I let it roll out as if I’m reminiscing, not speculating.
Then she bumbles into her own story: seeing him at the Village today and telling me where he works and how she’s convinced he’s hiding something.
I can see her brain doing somersaults trying to link my story to hers, connecting microscopic dots in real time.
Then she drops Madison Tory into the mix.
She says that she and Tim must have worked together before she vanished.
I can’t help but wander back to my conversation with Phoebe Tory at Back to School Night.
“At least one of the police’s suspects lives there,” she had said.
I wonder if she really meant that. How many suspects are there, really?
And how seriously are they being considered in Madison’s disappearance?
If Tim worked with Madison, it makes sense the police would start close to her office circle and work outward.
Even I know that’s typical investigation logic.
As terrible as I feel thinking it, Phoebe probably just got carried away.
I tell Imogen what Phoebe said and immediately regret it because the words are like fuel to a forest fire. The microscopic dot connecting continues—spirals even. I might as well have said, “Tim killed Madison Tory.” It sounds all the same to my sister.
Struck by a sudden revelation, she says, “I knew something was off with that guy. I should call Officer Wright. Maybe he can go question him. See what’s up.”
Unlike Imogen, I watch crime shows religiously. If he was a person of interest, Seattle PD would already be all over him. Our local cops wouldn’t be involved in Madison’s disappearance, but Imogen has no context for that. But she’s Imogen: impulsive, obsessive even.
“Imogen,” I start, trying to keep my voice calm. “Pacific Records probably has fifty employees. And you know nothing about him. That’s a strong accusation to hold against a total stranger.”
Imogen ignores me. “What are the chances he’s connected to both Madison and Mom and they’re both dead?” she squeals, panic rising in her voice.
I gape at her, stunned by the leap. “Madison is missing, yes. And Mom died in a horrible accident. But you’re disrespecting her memory by entertaining this ridiculous idea that an innocent neighbor is involved in something that didn’t even happen.”
Tennis shoes squeak on hardwood, startling us both. Wes appears at the end of the hall. “Garage is all done. Trash is on the curb,” he says, pointing his thumb behind him. He wears a wary smile, knowing he interrupted a tense conversation.
I force a soft breath, guilt prickling. “Look. I just… Just be careful. If what Phoebe said is true, we should finish up our work and get out of here. Let’s focus on all of this,” I say, gesturing to the house.
“This is the priority right now. And I really think we can finish by tomorrow. I’ll confirm with the movers.
This whole mess will be behind us soon.”
Imogen stows the binoculars in their case, dropping it back into the drawer. “Okay. You’re right. I’ll drop it.”
But something tells me she doesn’t mean it.