30. Imogen
IMOGEN
I shoot Rory a quick text so he won’t come looking for me and discover I’ve gone inside Harrison’s house as I slink deeper inside.
All good out here. Be right there.
I hit Send.
What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Almost immediately, the little “Like” notification pops up. A string of typing bubbles form but abruptly disappear. I shrug, slip my phone back into my pocket, and press forward.
Across from the open-concept living room is the kitchen, situated next to the monumental front door.
I stick my head inside to see cedar cabinets and neutral-toned granite countertops.
A brown paper bag sits beside the fridge, the words RAINBOW ACRES stamped across it in bold green ink. The Holloways’ market.
Past the kitchen is a hallway, which leads to a staircase at the far edge of the house. There’s a half bathroom and an office up here on the ground floor. I assume the bedrooms are downstairs, built against the cliffside.
Still whirring with anxiety that someone might be here, I slip into the office with the caution of prey entering a predator’s den.
I can feel my pulse in my teeth, telling myself this is the only room worth risking.
I don’t know what kind of proof I’d find in his bedroom.
His office, where he did work linking to Madison, could hold secrets.
Twin panes frame the lake like one of his watercolors, their view pinned above a long wooden desk scattered with mail, papers, and a sleek desktop computer.
I picture Harrison sitting here, working, plotting, looking right down at all of us.
Although our yard’s hemlock trees cover the living room windows from this angle, there’s still an exceptional perspective of our English knot garden and dock—if you look hard enough.
The walls on either side of the room present built-in shelves lined with books, old and new. It’s an impressive collection.
I pad across doughy carpet and hover over his desk. Every letter tucked into the wooden file organizer bears the same name. No shared address, no second occupant, as far as I can see.
One by one, I slide open the desk drawers, breath hitching at each quiet click. The contents are achingly normal: paper clips, pens, business forms. The kind of junk anyone would have. Which somehow feels sinister, too, like it’s staged to look ordinary.
I lower myself into his stylish leather office chair and punch a random key on his keyboard.
For a moment, all I see is my reflection staring back at me through the monitor’s black mirrored glass.
I almost glance away, too ashamed to see myself: the intruder.
Then the screen comes to life. There’s no passcode required, and it’s already open to his vacant home screen, which displays a wallpaper of one of his finished watercolors—a stormy coastline.
Glaring at both the Messages and Mail icons in his computer’s dock, I hesitate to click on either of them, counting the list of crimes I’ve committed thus far on one hand: trespassing, unlawful entry, infringement of privacy.
At least you didn’t open his mail, my mind offers darkly.
Hurry, another voice rushes. Before Rory catches you. Before Harrison comes back.
My hand claws around the mouse, and I shakily drag it to Messages—where I hope to find more than mundane work discourse. A list of contacts pops up, a peek at the latest message for each displayed underneath.
These are personal, private messages. They’re not meant for my eyes.
But then I think about how someone has been doing this to me, in Mom’s house. Someone nefariously traipsed into our space, disturbed packed belongings, did god knows what else. Someone did this to us. And there is a chance that person could be him.
I don’t recognize any of the names at first. But his contacts must be synced with his phone.
I click the New Message icon and begin typing Alice. I hoped nothing would come up. I’m here to be proved wrong, aren’t I? Everything goes out the window when Alice Bly appears in the dropdown list. I already knew they were familiar, but this proves somewhat recent correspondence.
Nothing comes up in the thread—no texting history with Mom. At the very least, they’ve never spoken on this machine. Or since he got it. Unless he bought this in the past few weeks, or deleted the messages, they didn’t text the night she died.
Rachel and Harrison are practically neighbors. She lives down the road, a cluster of houses away. She said she didn’t get a good look at him. But if it were Harrison, wouldn’t she have recognized him? Or was the storm too belligerent? Was it too dark?
I delete all traces of the new message and think of what to look up next.
Madison is the next name I try. I almost don’t, knowing the history would have to span back over a year—since she went missing.
Madison Tory comes up immediately. When I click her name, a thread unfolds in front of me. There are countless texts—all businesslike, friendly.
I keep whipping my head back, imagining someone creeping into the room behind me each time I look at the screen. I can hardly read clearly as fear rises.
The final message from Madison is dated September 26, 2023, at 1:17 p.m. It reads:
Hi! Can we meet after work? There’s something I want to talk to you about.
Eerily vague…
Six minutes later, Harrison replied.
Sure—come up to my office when you’re done for the day…
I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and open the Calendar app to see what the date was last Thursday, when the one-year anniversary interview with Michelle aired on The Susan Ritter Show.
It was September 26.
Meaning Harrison Klein was potentially the last person to see Madison Tory before she disappeared on her way home from work.
A low chime slices through the silence and my breath audibly hitches.
I look behind me again, but the room is empty.
The sound came from the computer, from an incoming text.
It comes down in a notification, and surfaces at the top of the conversation list. I exit out of Madison’s text.
When I do, this new message replaces it.
I don’t mean to look, but when I see who the text is from, I can’t help but stare.
Rory’s father, Emmett Holloway, just sent Harrison a text.
Still on for tonight?
The Christmas party photo told me that, at least back in the ’90s, Emmett and Harrison knew each other. But seeing that they’re presently in touch surprises me somehow. Rory told me he didn’t know who Harrison was, or who lives in the black house on the cliffside.
Admittedly, I don’t know every single friend of Mom’s. But I know most of them. Maybe it’s different with men. Maybe Rory doesn’t insert himself in his dad’s personal life that way. I try desperately to give him the benefit of the doubt for the first time.
My eyes crawl up the thread, desperate for more—anything to give details on tonight. The last texts they exchanged were four days ago, nothing more recent to indicate a new plan.
I read the messages repeatedly in disbelief, even blinking rapidly to ensure my eyes aren’t playing a vicious trick on me… Because on Thursday, September 26, the anniversary of Madison’s disappearance, Harrison texted Emmett:
Now that Alice is dead—I need to figure out what to do with her girls. They’re back in town…
Emmett replied minutes later.
We should talk on the phone about this.
I will call you in 5.
The words echo in my skull over and over.
Figure out what to do with her girls.
My mind is racing, trying to decode the meaning like an answer will miraculously emerge on-screen.
I shakily drag the mouse toward the corner of the screen, ready to put the computer to sleep and get the hell out of here.
Thump.
A car door closes outside, and I shoot out of the chair in a panic.
Harrison’s home.