27. Imogen
IMOGEN
Rory and I sip our cappuccinos, the faint hiss of the espresso machine filling the lull in our conversation.
I know we are mentally circling the same idea: What if Madison’s disappearance traces back to the inappropriate actions of an older male executive at her company? And is that executive Harrison?
Are police looking into this? I wonder. Does anyone even know this happened?
Assuming it’s true, of course. For all I know, this woman online could be a bored rumormonger. Or she really is an anonymous voice, trying to help a missing woman.
It’s a chilling thought, that Madison vanished after leaving work. Surely her coworkers were questioned, their timelines dissected, the rumors cross-examined. If there was an executive with a history of crossing lines, wouldn’t that have come up? Unless it was buried…
Though if we’re catching wind of it, a couple amateur sleuths, surely police did long ago.
Rory leans in, punching Madison Tory sexual assault work into Google—hoping for a fruitful hit, proof that even the media knows this angle.
But there’s nothing. Not a single article. Madison’s mom, Michelle, hadn’t even mentioned it to Susan Ritter. That’s because she either doesn’t know, or they ruled it out.
The thread we’d been scrolling through sits stagnant, comments months old, the conversation on ice.
Either the people of Seattle—and beyond—don’t know Madison’s story, or they don’t care enough to scour forums and write articles, likely due to the considerable lack of information.
Just as Phoebe Tory told the Puget Daily: “It’s like she fell off the face of the earth.
” Maybe that’s the most horrifying part—when the details aren’t lurid enough, the world simply turns its back and looks for a fresher tragedy.
The door to the coffee shop jingles, a discordant little bell, and cold air sweeps in behind a bundled woman heading straight for the counter.
Meanwhile, Rory and I hit wall after wall. No matter how we arrange the key words: Madison, Harrison, executive, assault, nothing surfaces. We barely started looking and have already reached a dead end.
I think back to Mom, what Amelia said about her and Harrison on his dock all those years ago.
I never saw them speak, but it’s clear they knew each other.
And yet… all those afternoons when I pressed binoculars to my face, staring across the water and into his windows like some twisted hobby, she never warned me away, never called him a creep—or even her friend.
She’d just laugh, telling me to stop being such a weirdo and put the binoculars down.
I go off a hunch anyway and type Alice Bly Harrison Klein Lake Blair into Google. The page loads slowly as wind batters against the window, making me wonder if the power will blow out.
I lean back in my chair, fingers laced over the crown of my head in anticipation.
I peer at the new customer, idling by the register.
I catch on her familiar profile. I know that nose, that caramel-highlighted hair.
She collects a to-go bag and a cardboard cup holder from the counter—already prepared, waiting for her—as though she’d only stepped in to retrieve it.
Turning, she meets my gaze.
It’s Macy Easton.
Macy and Madison: the inseparable schoolground pair. Attached at the hip from K–12.
Madison and I shared one class throughout our entire school career, while Macy and I overlapped more—PE, the odd elective, when my grade would marry with the one above, which Macy and Madison were in.
I’d gone to Madison’s South Lake house once, for a party where I tasted alcohol for the first time.
But Macy lived behind us, down in the neighborhood close to school. Our mothers were casual friends.
“Imogen,” she says, stunned. Her voice holds recognition, even a little pity. “How are you?”
I rise, meeting her by the counter. Her hands are too full for a hug, the bag swinging gently at her side. “Hi,” I manage.
She shakes her head before I can add more. “Don’t answer that. I know you’re going through a lot. My parents told me.” She exhales a delicate breath.
“I’m here for a few days,” I say. “Packing up the house.”
“If you’re selling it, I’d love to help,” she says, already twisting toward the door. I match her stride, because I want to ask her about Madison. “I’m actually late for a meeting. At the Realtor a few doors down.”
Last year, her social pages became a shrine to Madison after her vanishing, advocating for justice for the girl she still called her best friend. If anyone would know about the rumors at Madison’s job, it would be her. Assuming they truly stayed close over the years.
“Can I walk with you?” I ask, voice low. “I wanted to ask you something. About Madison.”
She freezes for a beat, then blinks, caught off guard. “What’d you want to ask?”
I signal to Rory with a raised finger—be right back—and push the door open for her. Pulling my jacket tight against the mist, I consider how to approach the subject.
“Do you know what was going on at Madison’s work before she disappeared?” I ask, holding my breath.
She stops in her tracks briefly before walking, like she’s physically caught by the question. “How do you know about that?” Her pace quickens. “That’s a big question with a complicated answer… What makes you ask?”
The Realtor’s sign looms ahead, and panic floods me. My time is running out. “Was it Harrison?” My words stumble over themselves. “Harrison Klein.”
Her sigh is sharp enough that I see the cloud it creates ahead of her. “You’re going into dangerous territory.” And suddenly we’re outside her office.
“I’m just trying to help,” I blurt. “I promise.”
“I’m sure you are. It’s… hard to talk about,” she says, glancing into her office.
“There was a lot going on at her work before she went missing. Involving Harrison. Like I said, it’s complicated.
” She fishes out a card from her pocket with her free hand, to-go bag slapping against her coat.
“Why don’t you call me on my lunch? One o’clock? ”
“Thank you,” I whisper, shoving the card into my jacket pocket, gripping it tight. “I’ll call you.”
Her smile is thin as she disappears inside the building.
When I get back to the coffee shop, Rory is eagerly waiting at my laptop.
“I got something,” he says, beckoning me back to my seat.
His fingers hover above the keys. “Your search pulled up Blair’s town website. First, your mom’s staff profile.”
He clicks, and there she is. Mom smiling on the community dock, her blond hair lit up like gold in the sun. My chest flutters because, for a moment, it’s like she’s looking right at me. Like this photo was taken just for me to see. A message she sent into the future.
“Then this,” Rory cuts in. “The Lake Blair Archives. One particular photo came up.”
The link reads: Lake Blair Archives—Holiday Party—1995. When he clicks the link, it returns us to Blair’s website: Page expired. This page is no longer available.
“Okay…” I say. “So how does that help us?”
“Watch,” he says. “I tried Images. And that’s when I saw this.”
On the screen now is a group photo: eight adults, huddled in unfashionable Christmas sweaters. I can tell by the fireplace behind them that it was taken in Lake Blair’s community center. In the middle is Mom, wearing a red sweater, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer stitched across it.
She’s mid-laugh, head tilted back, young, glowing.
“That’s your mom,” Rory says, stating the obvious.
“Yeah,” I breathe, voice quieting as I notice the others.
Emmett Holloway, looking strikingly similar to Rory, stands to her left, his hand splayed over her stomach—highlighting her pregnancy.
“That’s my dad.” Rory points. “I didn’t know he was friends with your mom that long,” he adds, echoing my thoughts.
“Neither did I,” I say, staring. “She must have been pregnant with me and Amelia here.”
Rory’s mother, Mara, isn’t in the picture.
On Emmett’s other side, Leo beams, flashing bunny ears behind Emmett’s head like a mischievous kid.
Finally, my gaze fixes on the man on Mom’s right, sticking out his tongue, playful like the others. He’s lankier, no lines across his eyes yet. Boyish. A man who looks far off from the hardened executive he is now.
Harrison Klein.
“Trippy photo,” Rory mutters, sipping his coffee. “They look so happy. So much like us.”
“This tells us they all knew each other.”
“But what does that have to do with Madison?” he asks.
Fair question.
“Maybe it doesn’t.” I shrug.
I don’t recognize the others, all huddled during some community holiday party. But what’s familiar in the image has told me enough. Mom, Harrison, Emmett, Leo, they were all friends. For a long time. Any one of them could be hiding something, or have reason to want her gone.
It feels insane, even to say in my own head.
But everything I know about her death leads me to the same ugly conclusion.
She was with a mysterious man that night, she took the kayak out in a storm, she drowned in her nightdress.
It’s just enough to keep me questioning anyone and everyone in her orbit.
While I’m still here, I’ll be damned if I don’t push harder.
A ridiculous idea hits me. A truly stupid thought.
It’s the only option left.
“What if we go to Harrison’s house… and just peek around?” I quietly suggest.
I could wait until 1:00, follow up with Macy. But what if she doesn’t tell me anything? What if she gives me another ambiguous clue? I need a jackpot, a smoking gun.
Rory scoffs, leaning closer. “You want to go inside? You’re seriously suggesting we break in? Just like you think he did to you?”
“I mean… when you put it like that, it sounds like he deserves it.”
“Imogen—”
“I’m kidding,” I cut him off quickly. “We don’t have to go in. Maybe just look around. Peep through the windows.”
“Oh my god,” Rory says, half laughing, half horrified. “You’ve officially lost it.”
“You know there’s nothing else online. We’ve hit a wall.”
“Then let the police do their jobs. You said this morning the cop hadn’t questioned him yet—but planned to. I think they need a little more time.”
“We don’t have time,” I say. “I’m supposed to finish the house today. I’m leaving tomorrow. This is my last shot.”
“Well, good,” he says. “Finish the house and get out of here. It isn’t your job to solve Madison’s case.”
“What about my mom?” I say, a little too loud. “We just connected this guy to two people—one who is missing, the other who’s dead.” I rub my eyes. “Let’s drive over there. And if we don’t see anything, we’ll leave. Then I will actually drop this.”
“What do you expect to find?” Rory asks. “Screams coming from his basement? A bloodied knife on his countertop?”
I groan, unsure.
“What if he’s home?” Rory continues. “If you’re right about this guy, it’s not only illegal, but also dangerous.”
I know he’s right. But I don’t let up. “It’s Monday. He’s got to be in the city.”
“Or working remote. Which is basically everyone these days.”
We both fall silent, turning the idea over. My mind runs through logistics. Amelia said he drives a Land Rover. If it’s not in the driveway, that’s one clue. A dark house, no lights, no sounds, that’s another.
Rory straightens. “I have an idea.”
He unlocks his phone, searches for something, and presses it to his ear. I hear the faint ring before a woman’s voice answers.
“Hello,” Rory says, adopting a calm, professional tone. “Is Harrison Klein in? I’m waiting on a callback.”
A proud smirk curls across my lips.
After a pause, “No problem. I’ll call back later. Thanks for your time.” Rory hangs up the phone.
He turns to me. “She said Harrison just stepped into a meeting. He’s at the Seattle office.”