31. Imogen
IMOGEN
Harrison’s house is so quiet that the slam of a car door outside strikes like lightning—even over the rainfall.
This isn’t some bustling suburban street with constant passing cars or chattering neighbors serving as background noise. The house sits at the terminus of a private dead-end road that few have reason to come to.
It’s been nearly twenty minutes since I left Rory parked outside. Twenty minutes he’s been sitting there alone, rain drumming his car, watching for trouble. And not a single text from him. That suddenly feels suspicious. Why hasn’t he checked in? Is he still out there? Did something happen?
I’m sure as hell not going to sit here and find out, I think, jumping out of the desk chair.
The leather squelches beneath me, and I spin it carefully back into place as though erasing evidence of me being here. My muscles vibrate with adrenaline as I step into motion, creeping down the hall.
I can picture it: the front door yawning open mid-sprint, Harrison stepping inside, his keys jingling, catching me gliding past the threshold.
Heart jackhammering, I skim past the front door, darting for the living room, eyes locked on the entryway windows, praying not to see the shape of a figure on the porch. Through the glass, the yard seems vacant, but everything quivers under the relentless rain. It’s hard to tell what’s real.
When I make it back to the window, I finally take my eyes off the front door and look in front of me. It almost happens in slow motion, my eyes flicking ahead to the window, spotting a person’s face, framed perfectly in the glass.
I stop so abruptly it feels like I’ve slammed into an invisible wall—as though standing still will camouflage me. The figure stands motionless on the other side, the rain streaming down their hood, blurring their features.
“What are you doing in there?” the person whispers.
A breath leaves me in a single ragged gust. It’s Rory.
I nearly topple with relief, but continue silently stepping toward the window, closing the distance between us.
I jam my feet into my boots without a word, knowing I have no defense. I grab my bundled raincoat from the floor and pass it through the window, swinging my leg over and out.
Only once I’m outside, boots on wet earth, raincoat snug, the window latched behind me, do I speak. My voice is a frantic whisper as I scan the road.
“Is he home?” I ask, earsplitting rain pattering against everything around us.
“No,” he whispers. “But you were taking a while and I got worried.”
I grab his arm, leading us quickly up the slick front path. We slide back into his car, doors thudding shut in unison, and I drag the seat belt across my chest with shaking hands.
As Rory starts the engine, I can’t stop replaying what I found. What more might’ve been hidden on that computer—emails, search histories. How close I might’ve been to proof, if I’d had even five more minutes.
Still, what I did see confirms what I feared: Harrison Klein has been watching me. He knew Mom. And he could have killed Madison. Maybe. He, at least, was one of the last people to see her alive.
I’m stumped on how I’ll tie any of this together.
I face Rory. “The window was already open, and I wanted to look around. I know I shouldn’t have.”
He gives me a long look, buckling his seat belt and turning on the ignition. “For all you know, he has cameras hidden in the house. Or a wife downstairs in bed.”
“How’d you know he has a downstairs?” I ask, sharper than intended.
He blinks at me. “You can see it from our houses. I’m just assuming.”
I shake my head. “I know it was stupid. But I was in and out. It was no big deal, really.”
It’s a lie, bitter on my tongue. The things I found aren’t something I can hand over lightly. And knowing that Emmett and Harrison are close, I can’t risk this getting back to him through Rory. There’s still a sore, pulsing part of me that wonders if I can trust him fully.
Of course I can, I tell myself.
Rory spins the car into a U-turn and makes the winding trek back to North Lake Blair.
“Well… did you at least find anything in there?”
I pause a moment, deciding what exactly I’m willing to share.
“Not really,” I say finally. “I saw some of his paintings, and that was pretty much it. His view of the lake is nice.”
The words come out with a tail of acid reflux, and I’m nauseous from the cryptic text Harrison sent to Emmett Holloway. Now that Alice is dead—I need to figure out what to do with her girls…
My legs start bouncing again, restless under my palms, with half a mind to drive straight to Amelia’s school once I get home. To pull her from class and take her far, far away from this place.
Rory lets out a scoffing laugh, his knuckles tightening on the wheel as our bodies sway with the curvature of the cliffside road. “So… you’re gonna let this whole thing go?”
“Yes,” I say, too fast. I shift in my seat to face him, staring at his side profile. “We can’t tell anyone, okay? Not your parents, or my sister. I don’t want anyone knowing we came over here.”
“You think I want anyone knowing?” he reassures me.
I exhale and pivot back toward the passenger window, my reflection ghosting over the lake below. The splattering rain skating down the glass, creating a transparent dotted layer over the lake, pulls me into a strange daze.
My breath hitches as Rory turns the wheel sharper than he means to around a bend, and I’m sure we’re going to hydroplane. Go hurtling into the water.
I imagine it. Flinging off the cliff. Roller-coaster belly.
Hair springing up toward the roof with gravity’s will.
The deep descent would last only seconds—a suspended, soundless terror—before we’d slam against the inflexible waters, like hitting a brick wall.
On the way down, I would reach for Rory’s hand, hunting for a final moment of consolation before the big sleep.
The impact wouldn’t kill us, but sinking thirty feet below until we were atop the cold, gooey mud on the bottom would.
We’d die down there, water filling the car faster than we could escape it as fish curiously swam by. His car would become our coffin.
If ghosts exist, Mom’s would be down there. Her hair splayed lusciously, her body haloed in a soft green glow. Smiling. Beckoning me to join her on the other side. To become a ghost at the bottom of the lake with her. To be by her side for eternity, with the fishes.
She’s so beautiful. And she’s down there, waiting for me.
What happened to you? I beg in my head, the vision taking over. Who did this, Mom? Who took you away?
My voice hardly penetrates through the water, like trying to talk in a dream, but your words don’t form properly.
I miss you so much, I try again. But the sentence unravels into streams of bubbles, gurgles. And her spirit is pulled deeper into the water, out of reach. I stretch my hands out, body restricted by my seat belt. Mom! I sob. Come back! Please!
But she keeps fading away, becoming glassier in appearance until she’s gone completely, stolen from me twice.
And then the idea of nosediving isn’t as pleasant. She may not be down there at all.
A hard curve in the road jolts me back. Rory veers us onto the main road, away from the lake. I blink a single tear down my cheek, my eyes burning. I secretly swipe it away before Rory catches me crying again. I know he wouldn’t mind, but I do.
When we approach our street, he speaks. “I have to go down to the office for a while with my mom, but I can try to get some other work done from your house before I go, if you want. So you’re not alone all afternoon.”
His pity is kind, and sincere. But it makes me feel guilty. Like all I do is soak him in sorrow. Like I’ve become his personal natural disaster, bringing the flood daily.
“Thanks. That’s okay, though,” I say. “It’ll be good for me to put my head down and finish packing.”
The car slinks down Little Mountain Road and rounds the bend up to Mom’s house. My shoulders sag at the sight of it—its memory ruined now.
Before we make it to the top, a flash of red and blue floods our view. A police cruiser is on its way out.
Rory brakes, rolling down his window to speak with them. My first thought is that they know—that someone, somehow, saw me at Harrison’s house, and they’ve come to drag me out by the wrists.
The cruiser slows when it reaches us, then stops and the window lowers, lining up with Rory’s car.
“Ms. Bly?” asks Officer Harding, his face weatherworn but polite. “Just finishing up a property check. Everything looks clear. No disturbances outside, nothing suspicious.”
“That makes me feel a little better,” I manage, pulse easing.
“I’m glad. My shift’s about done, but I’ll let Officer Wright know to do a drive-by around sunset, keep eyes on the place.” He smiles, tipping two fingers off the brim of his cap. “Y’all stay safe.”
Rory nods from behind the wheel, watching as the cruiser glides down the driveway behind us, taillights winking once before vanishing beyond the trees.
When we park at my front door, I stare at his profile again, soft in the muted light of the window. My chest squeezes at how steadfast he’s been today, all weekend. I lean across the center console and press my lips to his.
“Thank you,” I murmur against his mouth.
He smiles, his hand brushing my cheek. “Go on,” he says gently. “I’ll check in with you tonight.”
He watches me exit, approach my door, try my key.
I push it open, and a chaotic commercial blares from the living room TV, colliding with the familiar “Front door open” chime from Robot Woman.
The lights hum in every room—my pathetic attempt at making the house look occupied apparently worked.
Hopefully, my car in the driveway helped scare anyone off—if they’ve even been back since last night.
They could be at work right now in Seattle. Say, at Pacific Records.
I throw Rory a thumbs-up through the downpour, thrust the lock in place, and sweep the house, busting each door open with forced confidence.
Like the officer said, all clear. When I know I’m alone, I head back to the kitchen.
The stove’s clock informs me it’s just after noon.
Nearly an hour until lunch with Macy. I make myself useful, knowing that the sooner I finish the house, the sooner I’ll be safely back in Seattle.
Taping fresh boxes, I unravel the entire kitchen.
By the time the last box is taped shut, the kitchen feels hollow in a way I’ve never seen it.
The counters are stripped bare, every cupboard emptied, every plate and mug swaddled in paper.
Early afternoon light slants through the rain-streaked windows as Bewitched murmurs from the living room TV—cheerful, familiar voices keeping me company while I work.
I linger on certain things longer than I mean to: the set of orange ceramic leaf plates she broke out at Thanksgiving, a French bulldog cookie jar for our late dog, Pearl.
The kitchen is a skeleton.
I wipe my palms on my jeans, grab my cell phone off the counter, and punch in Macy’s number. Whatever dirt she has on Harrison feels more important now than ever.
“Macy Easton,” she chimes, like a well-rehearsed line.
“Hey,” I say, nervous. “It’s Imogen. Is this still a good time?”
“Hey,” she whispers. I hear a door click shut. “I’m just getting back to my desk for lunch.”
My questions better be worth it.
“I won’t take up too much of your time,” I promise. “And I know it’s probably hard to talk about. But with my mom’s passing, I’m trying to figure some stuff out about Harrison Klein. Do you know him?”
“No, I never met him. I’ve seen him around town,” she says. “But Madison worked with him.”
“Um,” I start, mentally sorting my words. “Did she ever talk about him, positively or negatively?”
“A couple times. They worked closely together, so she’d mention his name in passing whenever she told me about certain work projects.”
I think back to the forum thread commenter, discussing the potential inappropriate contact by an executive at the label. With the minimal information I have, my question range is limited.
“So, nothing inappropriate was going on there? I’m just trying to gauge if he could be involved,” I say, almost stuttering. “I heard that he was the last person to talk to her before she went missing.”
“There were some sketchy things going on at Madison’s work.” She pauses. “I still have this loyalty to her… She told me stuff in confidence.”
“I understand. I don’t mean to pry.” My face meets my hand, my back sinking in the couch cushion. “With my mom’s death, and a recent break-in, it’s hard not to wonder what happened to her. And if someone here knows more, you know?”
“I get it,” she says, dropping back into a kind tone.
“I know she loved her job. But basically… there was a manager of hers who was really… um”—Macy searches for a word—“unprofessional with her. He was the lead in her department—other than Harrison. Since Harrison was sort of, like, her other manager, she knew she could trust him, so she was going to tell him about the exec the day she disappeared. She actually texted me after talking to Harrison, saying that she felt relieved because he was outraged at the other manager’s behavior and was going to help her.
” Macy sniffs. “About ten minutes after I got that text, she was last seen on those cameras.”
The executive in question wasn’t Harrison, then. It was someone else. And she was going to Harrison for help so that she could report her abuser and, hopefully, keep her beloved job.
“Aren’t police suspicious of the other guy? If she was going to report him right before she went missing?” I ask.
“Definitely. They interviewed him, but he was on a business trip the week she disappeared. It seems like he had the motive, but police couldn’t find any proof that he had done it, or even hired someone else to do it for him.
” She pauses again. “At least, not that they’ve told me.
There’s not much to go off of, since there’s no crime scene.
” Her voice drops a notch. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s what he wanted all along.
To make sure there’d be nothing left to find. ”
A cold prickle runs across my scalp.
“Thanks for this,” I say. “I really hope they find her.”
“Don’t tell anyone what I told you. I never even told her family about what she was going through because… like I said, police apparently cleared him. I worried if they knew about him, they’d never let it go. I’m pretty sure I was the only person besides Harrison who knew about it.”
“I won’t say a thing.”
“Be careful, Imogen,” she warns, her tone sharper. “If you’re digging around in this… be careful who sees you doing it.”
Before I can ask what she means, the line clicks dead.
I lower the phone and collapse onto the couch in the fetal position.
Is Harrison the bad guy here?
Or do I have it all wrong?