25. Imogen
IMOGEN
I wake to the steady warmth of Rory beside me, his arm slung heavy across my ribs, the early light casting a pale wash over my bedroom walls.
For a fleeting moment, before I remember the house we’re in and The Nightmare, which I had clawed my way out of in the middle of the night, everything feels good.
Waking up with Rory, in the safety of his grasp, is everything I need.
I let myself dissolve into it for a spell, to fully enjoy the rare sensation.
It’s been years since I’ve woken up like this—with someone I trust, with someone whose presence doesn’t bind me to regret.
The last couple years have been a carousel of halfhearted attempts at intimacy: faces blurred by wine, beds that weren’t mine, kisses that evaporated the second they landed.
After each encounter, I felt the same: like an empty shell, hollowed out and unwanted.
Rory’s weight against me, his quiet breath at my neck, makes me believe for a few minutes that I’m not broken beyond repair.
But eventually, I untangle myself from his arms, Mom’s voice still echoing from The Nightmare, sharp with disapproval as she rushed to my side.
Down the hall, the kitchen waits with a note from Amelia. Her handwriting is as bright as her tone:
Morning! Back around 4. Happy packing! Let’s finish this.
PS. Movers coming at 9 a.m. tomorrow now! Wes can help you. Rory too?
PPS. You’re the best.
Amelia
I press the paper flat against the counter, hovering over it, guilt prickling under my skin. I am not “the best.” I will not get much packing done this morning. Not when there’s too much to investigate. Too many questions to answer.
That’s when my phone rings, as I stand in the kitchen, wiping sleep from my eyes. A local number, one I don’t have saved. I swipe to answer.
“Hello?”
“Is this Imogen Bly?” a familiar male voice asks.
“Yes, who’s this?”
“This is Officer Wright with the Blair County Sheriff’s Department. I wanted to give you an update on your case. Is this a good time?”
My heart thumps as Rory rounds the corner, sleepy as I am. Though, suddenly, I am wide awake. I mouth the words sheriff’s department to him, and he nods, waiting for more and taking a seat at the kitchen counter.
“Uh, yeah. Thanks for calling. What do you have?”
“Officers didn’t find anything during patrol last night, and they had trouble reaching the man across the lake. But they’re still working on it.”
“Can you give me his name?” I try.
“Not until we know more. For now, he’s just someone we’d like to talk to. But if anything comes up, call us back. We’ll do some more rounds later, make sure everything’s secure on your street.”
I hang up, relaying to Rory the lack of any new information and my unsettled nerves that still surround Tim.
“I guess we’ll have to find this son of a bitch ourselves,” Rory says, shrugging.
And that’s when he insists we get out of the house—change the scenery while we dig into the guy.
So here we are, in downtown Blair, tucked into a coffee shop that smells like butter and roasted beans, where a couple students pore over laptops, friends sip from mugs amid hushed conversation.
The Salted Mug is all warm wood and sea-weathered charm. Mismatched mugs line the shelves behind the counter, and a woodstove in the corner crackles faintly. Nets, driftwood, and faded photographs of storm-battered boats decorate the walls. It’s lived-in, cozy, a place you can sit awhile.
Two cappuccinos steam between me and Rory, and an orange scone crumbles under my restless fingers.
He sits close, his knee brushing mine beneath the table.
He looks rumpled but unfairly handsome, chocolate hair in careless disarray, morning stubble lining his jaw.
Here with me when he doesn’t need to be.
But he wants to be. That much is clear to me.
After days mostly trapped in the mausoleum of Mom’s house, even the modest bubble of the coffee shop feels like a healthy dose of oxygen.
I stare at my laptop in the private corner we snagged, doubting I’ll find any digital trail connecting Tim to Mom, but Madison…
That seems an easier feat. If Tim is anywhere, it’s in the fine print of her story, potentially even lurking in articles about her disappearance, or whispered speculation about his involvement.
I ache to prove myself right—for the sake of my sanity, to know these suspicions aren’t just a nervous breakdown in slow motion. I also hope to find nothing, discovering only the absence of connection. That way, I’ll be forced to stop prying the lid off this can of worms.
Droplets batter against the windows as a storm rolls in with the promise of a three-day siege. Those poor movers will be drenched tomorrow. Though I’m sure they’re used to it.
The downpour blurs the world beyond the glass, as if we’ve slipped into a sealed, private chamber. Acoustic guitar drifts from the speakers, enough to grant us even more privacy as I type Pacific Records Seattle into Google.
The record label’s website greets me with a bouncing anniversary graphic—65 Years Strong—while album covers twirl across the screen.
I click away from it, selecting the Join Our Team tab, hoping to stumble on employee images and descriptions.
But I only find listings for Seattle-based jobs: Touring & Artist Development, Assistant Manager, Business & Legal Affairs.
No smiling headshots.
Unsatisfied, I go back to Google.
Rory leans closer. “Try adding employees.”
I do, and a new list unfurls. At the top: LinkedIn.
I tell myself Tim is probably too old, too private, to bother with LinkedIn—but I click anyway. Pacific Records’ company page claims 51–200 employees. Beneath it, a grid of faces begins to load: bright-eyed coordinators, fresh-faced audio engineers. A stream of young people building their careers.
Then suddenly. Madison.
Her name practically flashes at me and I click on it before I can second-guess what I’m seeing.
As her profile loads, I spot her grinning face next to the title: A&R Assistant at Pacific Records.
The page claims she’s worked there full-time for two years and eight months with no interruption.
No acknowledgment that she’s been missing for over a year.
Her history scrolls out neatly below: Marketing Assistant, Seattle.
University of Washington, Class of 2017. Lake Blair High School, Class of 2013.
Scrolling on her page sends a chill up my neck. It offers the appearance of Madison, alive and well, working her dream job in Seattle. When, in reality, she’s presumably dead somewhere, her skeleton rotting below the earth in a location that remains secret.
I click back to the list of employees, scrolling slowly for another minute, scanning each photo and name with intent. Until I see a familiar hairstyle, black hair. In a circular image above the job title President—A&R is Tim. Only his name isn’t Tim.
It’s Harrison Klein.
A small gasp escapes my throat. The sound is so slight, but Rory’s head jerks toward the screen just as he’s licking foam from his upper lip.
“Is that him?” he asks.
I hold my breath and click on Harrison’s profile.
It’s pretty bare-bones—it doesn’t feature a glossy timeline of his rise through Pacific Records, nor any other job history.
The only offerings are education-based, showing that he graduated from NYU in an undisclosed year. Beneath it… Lake Blair High School.
Just like me, Amelia, Rory. Madison. He grew up in Blair, vanished to New York, and then reappeared here sometime later, sliding into power. A hum crosses my lips, unsure what any of it means.
I open a new tab and search Harrison Klein Madison Tory.
The first few links are irrelevant—Pacific Records press releases, business blogs, more LinkedIn links.
Nothing connecting them beyond working in the same department.
Not a single article discussing him in regard to Madison Tory’s disappearance.
“I’m not seeing anything,” I mutter, reaching for my cappuccino.
“I’ll look, too,” Rory says, settling into his chair and unlocking his smartphone.
I open another tab and search Madison Tory missing to see how much her case is being discussed online.
The search results are shockingly thin. There’s no obituary—because there’s no body. No national news attention, just whispers in local papers. I select the top link: SEATTLE WOMAN STILL MISSING ONE YEAR LATER.
The article is short and plainly states the facts that have been made public thus far.
A 28-year-old Seattle woman remains missing as loved ones continue their fight to find answers one year later.
Madison Tory disappeared around 6:00 p.m. on the evening of Tuesday, September 26, 2023, following a routine day at work. Tory was employed by Pacific Records in Capitol Hill, located three blocks from where she was last seen.
“It’s the nightmare that doesn’t end,” said Phoebe Tory, Madison’s sister. “It’s like she fell off the face of the earth.”
Surveillance cameras in Capitol Hill show 28-year-old Tory walking down the 1300 block of Hill Avenue.
She appears casual, and according to family, was walking toward her apartment, where she lived alone, on Maple Drive.
After Tory leaves the frame, she’s not spotted again.
No eyewitness statements have been reported, and Seattle police claim the investigation remains open.
“We’re not ruling out the possibility that she’s a runaway,” Detective Liam Healy with the Seattle police said.
“She hasn’t used her bank account or cell phone since before her disappearance, so we’re not ruling out foul play, either.
” Healy considers Tory’s disappearance a missing person’s case. No suspects have been named to date.
Tory’s family are adamant that it’s uncharacteristic of her to go this length of time without contact.
“We spoke nearly every day on the phone,” Phoebe Tory continued. “She’d never leave us like that. She had no reason to. She loves us, and her nephew. We’re all very close.”
Seattle police said anyone with information about Tory’s disappearance should call the investigations unit at…
I click the video at the top of the page to view the surveillance footage for the first time and am smacked with the loud swoop of a news station’s opening. I slam the Mute button on my keyboard, Rory lowering his smartphone to watch beside me.
The grainy clip rolls: a low-res recording taken from a camera fixed on the opposite building.
Madison walks down a crowded street in a long coat and chic slacks, her black purse tucked neatly under one arm.
Her hair wisps in the wind as she drifts past storefronts, eyes down, sometimes glancing casually ahead.
No one appears to be with her or following her, and she doesn’t look concerned or alert.
By all accounts, it’s her usual walk home.
I exchange a disappointed glance with Rory at the lack of a lead. Finally, we have a name—but it’s not getting us anywhere.
Clicking through the other links, I find nothing new—only recycled copies of the same sparse details, threaded with quotes of determination or dismay from Phoebe, their mother, Michelle, and their father, Phil.
“Check this out,” Rory says. “It’s the only conversation I’m finding surrounding her job.”
On his phone screen is a forum thread dissecting theories on her disappearance. The post he shows me is dated two months ago, written by someone called PaulaHikes88.
My husband worked with Madison at the label for a time and told me about the office gossip.
One of the execs was apparently inappropriate with Madison.
I don’t want to mention his name, since he still works there, but police need to dig deeper into the higher-ups in the company.
I’m thinking he knew he could get in big trouble if she reported him, so he did something about it.
By the third read, my mouth is dry. I lick my lips and glance at Rory. Whoever Paula is, her words echo Michelle’s warning on Susan Ritter’s show—that Madison had been thinking of quitting.
“Do you think it could be Harrison?” I ask, my voice hushed.
It could be any executive. But Harrison isn’t just anyone. He’s tied to Blair, to the lake, just like Madison Tory.