Imogen
My mind is aching from the tornado of emotions and revelations of the day as Amelia and I call it quits for the night.
We’ve spent the past four hours sifting through Mom’s closet, brushing our hands over clothes old and new, reliving the days when the hanging plaid coat was her favorite, or when she’d wear the faded Mariners baseball cap on rare sunny afternoons on the water.
This has been the hardest collection to go through yet—not because of the memories alone, but because every piece is irreplaceable.
They’re the last things that got to touch her.
The last physical remnants of her: Mom’s annual Christmas dress.
The house sweatshirt she wore so often that it abraded into supple perfection.
The outdated sneakers she only slipped on during trail hikes.
As we sorted, we kept stumbling into beautiful nostalgia and heart-wrenching remembrance. We took all the time we needed.
On the nightstand sits the jewelry box, waiting. It’s large, heavy, and full of heirlooms and trinkets—or so I saw upon a curiosity peek. We’ve saved it, expecting to keep every piece between the two of us.
Beneath the melancholic activity, a dark thought continued to gnaw.
After Amelia told me about what Madison’s sister, Phoebe, said, I can’t shake the suspicion that there are secrets right under my nose.
That someone could have intentionally extinguished Mom’s life.
I don’t know how or why that could connect to Madison.
And it probably doesn’t. But something is missing in the larger picture of it all.
I know it—no matter how much Amelia tries to distract me from the truth.
Tim knew Madison. I feel certain of it. And if there is even a shred of possibility that he could have been the man Rachel saw on the dock with Mom the night she died, I have to know.
It’s not my job to investigate Madison’s case—or Mom’s—but being here on Lake Blair, forced into the mix, I can’t pretend I’m not already involved. I might as well keep digging.
I linger in the kitchen with a glass of water as Amelia drifts into the room, socks padding across the hardwood.
For a breath, I expect Mom to appear—puffer jacket zipped, leggings tucked into wool socks, gliding across the room to throw on shoes.
She’d tell me she was taking the boat out, ask if I wanted to join.
This time, I would say yes. I would hug her tight and jog down the hillside in stride with her, gabbing about nothing and everything in the damp Washington mist.
Amelia’s perfume cuts through the daydream. And the ache is so sharp I grip the counter until my palms hurt, knuckles glowing white against the edge.
“Thai for dinner?” she asks, casual, even happy.
“Sounds good,” I manage to mutter, forcing a smile. I retreat to my room like nothing’s wrong, desperate to steer my thoughts elsewhere.
Rory hasn’t reached out all day. I imagine he thinks I need space after last night, when he had to drive me home mid-movie because I practically had a nervous breakdown in my seat.
He didn’t question it, didn’t dismiss me.
He just drove me home, his hand resting close enough on the console to feel like an invitation I couldn’t bring myself to accept.
Tonight, I’ll fix everything.
I collapse backward onto my bed, phone in hand, willing it to buzz and display his name.
But I’m not a witch. He doesn’t call, and my lock screen taunts me with only my wallpaper’s gloomy Parisian scene.
I stare at the ceiling, contemplating, hoping a message will magically conjure against the white paint.
I open the phone, crafting a message. I want to make up for last night. Come over in an hour? I hit Send, gut bubbling in embarrassment. He has every right to ignore me, to turn me down. Maybe it’s what I deserve.
It’s a presumptuous attempt, I know. But the thought of Rory here to fill the devastating silence is the only way I want to end this dizzying day. This whole twisted week.
This is the first text we’ve exchanged since finding each other again, and suddenly I wonder if he even has my number saved still.
Should I send another, reminding him who it’s from?
No. Too eager? God. A cringy reminder of how exhausting the dating game is.
I plop the phone onto my stomach and let it sit there like a stone, accepting whatever is to come.
A buzz comes in, vibrating against my hip bone, and Rory’s name caresses the screen: I’ll be there.
The doorbell rings as the sun dips low, casting a copper glow across the lake-facing windows. I told my sister that Rory was coming,
so she slipped out with Wes for food a few minutes ago, leaving the house quiet. At least for a little while.
I fluff my hair before pulling the door open in a sad attempt to appear sexy and wind-swept—as if that will Band-Aid past impressions. Rory stands on the porch, effortlessly handsome, his smile easy, somewhat restrained.
“Hey,” he says, coy.
“Come in.” I step aside, closing the door once he passes, his hands in the front pockets of his pants. “Thanks for coming over. And for taking me home last night. I wish I could have gotten through the movie, at least.”
Rory turns to face me again. “We’ve seen it.
” He shrugs. “And there’s plenty of time for more movies.
” He approaches me, interlocks his fingers with mine just to fiddle with them.
It’s a teasing intimacy that makes the back of my neck prickle.
“There’s no reason you should feel bad about last night. Okay?”
I nod, feeling better about it already—feeling seen. In a way, protected. Like he notices what I’m going through.
He walks into the living room, glancing around at the tidy space. “Looks good in here. You guys did a lot since yesterday.”
Boxes are stacked against the far wall, the room feeling quite barren. The TV rests in its mount, pillows remain on the couch. But the personality has been drained from the space. I try not to focus on it now—or steep in the sadness of its change.
“Amelia and Wes—her boyfriend—did most of it,” I admit.
“But I did tackle that bookshelf,” I say, pointing at it—grand, empty now, near the windows.
Its books are boxed up, little trinkets wrapped in tissue, framed photos tucked carefully into their own small crates.
I don’t bring up the clothes. “And the armoire,” I add, thinking of the binoculars I sealed away, ready to put childish voyeurism behind me.
I had glanced out the window a few times while I packed up that armoire; realized that no amount of staring would tell me what I needed to know.
Packing the binoculars felt like shedding a thin layer of paranoia, a quiet acknowledgment that I had to face Tim directly.
If I’ll even do that. I doubt I’ll give myself the chance before we finish the house this week.
“Very impressive,” he jokes.
I follow him, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture relaxed.
“Where are they now? Your sister and her boyfriend.”
“They went out to grab some food. So…” I trail off, my body angling closer. “For now, they’re gone.”
Rory gives me a slow once-over, a seductive glint in his eye. The fading light paints his tight jawline rose as a fuchsia sunset passes through the windows. “Alone with me, huh?”
I smirk. “How’d you get so lucky?”
He chuckles, and for a moment, the tension softens.
But when he steps closer, it builds faster than I can catch up with as his mouth finds mine.
My hands meet the back of his head, thumb brushing his cheek as he kisses me—slow at first, then hungry.
His grip slides over my back and pulls me against him in a frenzy.
Heat pours down me as I tug his pullover over his head, his hair mussing into something impossibly perfect.
He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t slow, hands already exploring the curve of my waist, the slope of my ribs.
I peel my sweater away, teasing a line across the top of his waistband before he fumbles his jeans open.
We’re clumsy with urgency, laughing breathlessly into each other’s mouths as clothes scatter to the floor, pockets emptying in noisy clangs.
Back in high school, we never made it this far. Our intimate encounters stayed innocent and restrained in the throes of nervous adolescence. Now, every touch feels like years of waiting have broken loose.
I pull my lips from his, circling his torso with my finger in deliberate slowness, feeling down every ridge of him, gripping him, forcing him to stillness.
He groans, wanting to close the space between us. But I don’t let up. I move down his body, kissing different spaces of his skin leisurely until he can’t stand it.
“Stop teasing me.” His voice is low, strained with need.
I smirk. “Do you want me?” And it’s not despairing, but confident.
I step back enough for him to stretch for me before letting his hands run down my body again, his mouth sucking at my neck, teeth running against my ear.
“You make me crazy,” he whispers.
He lifts me with strong certainty, and I wrap my legs around him, his bare skin hot and solid against mine.
He pushes me against a wall, our mouths breaking only long enough for me to catch the sharp sound of my own breath.
The sex is unhurried but urgent, like a muscle memory we didn’t know we had.
It’s messy and magnetic like it’s already been perfected.
For once, nothing is complicated. It’s everything I’ve been missing.
I melt into him, trusting, needing, reveling in his warmth and rhythm.
His lips crush mine, sweat beading against our skin.
I’m his, and he’s undeniably, intoxicatingly mine.
We sink onto the living room floor, limbs tangled, skin cooling against the hardwood. For a few minutes, there’s nothing but quiet—