29. Imogen
IMOGEN
South Lakeside Road is whip sharp, cutting tightly around the mountain on the way to Harrison Klein’s house.
Rory drives with a calm, pacific steadiness, as though the wet road’s twists are nothing, and I latch on to his composure to keep my own fears in check.
When his hand rests on my thigh, I realize my leg is bouncing in apprehension.
Part nerves of the drive, part dread of whatever waits at Harrison’s.
Of what would happen if I got caught—depending on who found me: the police or Harrison.
Jail time or murder bait. Both undesirable outcomes of an idiotic, reckless idea.
I force a breath through my nose, halting the tremor in my leg, and give Rory what I hope passes as a reassuring glance.
The wipers thrash across the windshield, useless against the storm. Sheets of water hammer the glass so hard it looks like someone is standing over the car, upending buckets straight onto us.
The sky is cloud-ridden, making it look less like late morning and more like dusk.
“What if he comes home?” I blurt, staring at the warped tree line. “What if the office closes because of the storm?”
Rory purses his lips. “We live in Washington. This storm isn’t anything new.” He flicks me a quick look before another bend demands his attention. “Still. I think we should turn back. It’s not worth it.”
“No,” I protest too quickly. I soften. “It’ll be fine. I’m just going to peek around. No one will even know I was there. Or you.”
The clock on the dash reads 11:32. We left The Salted Mug less than fifteen minutes ago.
Even if Harrison bolted from his meeting the second Rory called Pacific Records, it would still take him forty minutes to make it here from Seattle.
That gives us at least half an hour. But worst-case scenario is only that: worst case.
I open my phone, thumb hovering over the map pin I dropped earlier.
No street view exists this far around the lake, so I had to rely on memory and the satellite layout, tracing the shoreline against Mom’s house across the water.
I’m almost certain I’ve marked the right one.
At the very least, close enough. Two more turns and we’ll reach the small stretch of road with three houses clinging to the cliffside.
I know these homes from a distance. When I was growing up, they were the backdrop across the lake, houses staring back at us like unblinking eyes, settled near Sawyer Dam.
This time of year, the dam is a danger, its hundred-foot drop down to Sawyer Creek pulling water toward the infinity pool lip like a mouth sucking on the lake.
Boaters are wise to stay away in storms; one wrong push of current could sweep them too close—not like any residents would use their boats of leisure in this weather anyway.
Which is part of why Mom’s death strikes me as oddly as it does.
As the rain lets up under the tree coverage, the windshield is hit with dotted mist—a sure sign we’re nearing the rumbling dam. The wind here is guttural, dragging the lake’s water upward and flinging it into the air.
The maps prove I’m right. And then, all at once, I see it.
The black house.
Beyond a short Romanesque cobblestone wall, topped with lanterns that gleam in the storm, is Harrison Klein’s house.
Even through the veil of rain, it’s impossible to mistake: a sprawling mid-century modern home.
It’s sandwiched between two other homes, with enough distance in between each to create a barrier of privacy, particularly thanks to the tall cedars sown on all properties.
Rory slows down, killing the ignition across from Harrison’s house. It’s an exclusive spot, with no neighbors across the street, just a towering mountain of dense forest. His is the second to last before the dam, the dead end of South Lakeside Road.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Rory says, fat drops of rain banging against the sunroof.
His words should comfort me, but they don’t. Maybe it’s the torrential rain, or the ominous aura emanating from the house. Either way, now that it’s real, I regret coming here.
I shove the thought aside, persevering.
“Stay here and keep watch. If someone shows up, text me. I’ll be quick,” I say, buttoning my raincoat and tugging the hood over my head.
Rory exhales sharply, unhappy. “Check for cameras first. And don’t go inside.” When I open the door, his hand shoots out, gripping my arm. His voice softens. “Please be careful. I kind of like having you around.”
I give him a tight smile, then slip into the rain, darting across the road toward the front gate. It’s simple, wooden, a divider between the street and his slightly sloping yard. From here, I can almost see my house between his scattered trees.
I don’t spy any cameras, no keypad. The gate has a simple hitch mechanism, and I yank the chain pulled over from the other side.
I push the gate open, exposing a scattered stone trail with pathway lights placed along it, and a grandiose Gothic door at the end that belongs on Dracula’s castle—towering, black, arched, fitted with two heavy ring knockers that would undoubtedly offer a hearty boom if I dared.
Below it, in contrast, is a mat exclaiming Welcome!
I lean toward the window beside the door, pressing my hood against the glass. Inside, the house is still and unlit.
Rounding the left side, I find a clear view of the lake, and the staircase that drops down the slope to Harrison’s private dock.
More windows line this wall, and after a quick glance around to confirm I’m alone, I cup my hands to the glass and see a sleek living room: black leather sectional, contemporary standing lamps.
I press experimentally against the frame.
To my shock, the window slides open without resistance.
No alarm beeps, no barking dog explodes from another room.
The quiet throb of rain outside accompanies my thumping heartbeat as I calculate how to proceed.
Rory’s voice is in my ear: Don’t go inside.
But staring into a stranger’s living room won’t tell me anything.
And if I leave now, this whole trip is wasted.
Before my conscience can talk me out of it, I hoist myself onto the sill, swing a leg through, and land silently on the hardwood floor. I strip off my boots and raincoat, stacking them neatly by the open window so I don’t create a trackable mess.
The air hits me: a faint smell of incense, the penetrating silence of a seemingly empty house.
I can’t believe I’m in here. Mechanically, my breath slows as I walk as deliberately and boisterously as Frankenstein’s monster, one swinging step at a time, arms out in front of me. The floor doesn’t creak, but each step still somehow feels amplified.
Though the lights are out, the wall of windows aggressively offers enough light to fill the room, even in the sterling storm.
Harrison’s windows are more commanding than anything I’ve seen in Mom’s house, or the Holloways’.
They carry an intensity. Directly on the other side of the glass is a straight plunge into the lake below.
Its panoramic views are almost nauseating.
As I make my way to the window, I spy Harrison’s telescope, which is far more pirate-y up close.
It’s beautiful, made of heavyweight gold, mounted on three wooden legs, its lens pointed down at the center of Lake Blair.
I bring my eye to the circular glass, dragging it upward, intrigued at the view of Mom’s house from here.
A lump forms in my throat as I realize just how far the magnification reaches—showing a view directly into her empty living room.
I press harder against the lens, curiosity mingling with fear, and the end of the telescope bumps the glass wall, sending me staggering backward.
My hand flies to my mouth, stifling a gasp, and I spin around, eyes wide, expecting someone—Harrison—to appear.
But nothing happens. I must be alone here.
I breathe shallowly, trying to calm the surge of adrenaline.
My eyes linger to the right side of the living room, and I’m intrigued by a stone fireplace, scorched from years of use.
Next to it, a massive wooden table sits angled under a black lamp, strewn with watercolor paintings on thick cotton paper.
I slide closer on socks like a figure skater and a corner of my mouth lifts at the alluring images: European buildings I’ve never seen, Pacific Northwest mountains and seascapes, colors blended in fluid, dazzling strokes. The table is full of art.
Maybe he’s not strange. Just misunderstood, I think.
My conscience finally screams at me: Why am I in here?
My eyes catch a giant binder clip holding a stack of sketches. The top drawing is a pencil sketch of Lake Blair. I recognize its layout instantly—the central island, the houses perched on the hills, the famous fir trees lining the community.
When I scan the scene harder, any enchantment I felt toward it diminishes.
Down on the water is a rowboat with two figures: a man and a woman. Their faces are blank, unfinished, but I know, somehow, that one of those people is me. And the other is Rory.
Goosebumps prick my arms as I imagine Harrison, looking down at us from the wall of windows that night, silhouetted against the interior light.
Rory had yelled up to him, and Harrison walked away, switching off the big light above.
I raise my face to see the same paper lantern hanging proudly from the ceiling.
My pulse thumps as I flip through the rest of the sketches. Six in, and my jaw unlocks, mouth agape. In a close-up sketch, I see soft waves and a pedal boat. Inside, a forlorn woman pedaling alone. The woman in it—her ponytail, her parted bangs, her heart-shaped face—is unmistakable. It’s Mom.
I shuffle through the stack faster now, hands trembling.
There are no other people, only landscapes.
I find a black book on a stool beside the table, snapping off the elastic enclosure to find more of his sketch work.
About halfway through, my breath catches again.
This sketch shows a direct view of Mom’s living room window.
The chimney, the patio furniture, every detail is precise.
And through the glass, a girl holding binoculars to her eyes.
It’s me.
Everything clicks into place. The paranoia I had tried to dismiss, the doubt I cast aside. My screaming instincts were correct.
He’s been watching me, too.