33. Amelia
AMELIA
I don’t even notice the rain hitting my cheeks, too focused on getting to my car and driving to Parker Lane’s house.
If the police—or Madison’s family—knew what I knew about Parker, everything would be different.
They’d be staked outside his house, silently watching, or publicly parading with pitchforks, demanding answers into Madison’s case.
They’d know as well as I do that she didn’t run off and start a new life, but that she was murdered. By this man.
All I need is to see his face. To confirm he’s who I think he is. If I’m right, I’ll call the police and tell them everything. No matter what it does to my family, no matter what it awakens. Which, hopefully, will be Madison’s case.
Traffic in the school parking lot churns sluggishly, a snake of SUVs and minivans. I mostly skirt it thanks to my faraway space, rolling out the exit and down the quiet back streets where puddles spread like slick black mirrors.
I rehearse the approach in my head. Do I park and walk right up to the door? Ring the bell? Ask for him like this is a casual social call? What if he recognizes me? What if I don’t recognize him?
Then again, why would he know who I am, now, today? Our paths barely crossed back then. And I’ve changed. I’ve grown into a woman of almost thirty.
The neighborhood behind the school is quiet, drenched in overcast light and the fresh autumn season. Rows of modest postwar homes crouch under dripping eaves, their yards glazed with rain. I keep one eye on the glowing blue dot on my phone, until it leads me to the corner house.
The yellow home’s manicured lawn borders a walkway, leading up to a snug porch with a rocking chair poised next to a cornflower-blue front door. A pot of marigolds shines beside it. It’s quaint, almost surprisingly so. The kind of place you’d expect to smell like apple pie and old books.
I idle at the curb, staring at the house as though it might disappear if I blink. The front window shows the silhouette of a person, shifting beyond lace curtains. I lean toward my car window, peering hard, but they don’t move closer.
Then the door opens. And as it does, the mailman parks his vehicle behind mine, passing my window with his stuffed satchel of letters and packages, headed for Parker’s front door.
There’s an awkward dance between the mailman and someone from the house, exiting right as he tries to drop a package on the porch mat.
I stare closer to see a woman, appearing to be in her thirties.
Her sleek dark hair is pulled into a taut bun, and she’s balancing a toddler on her hip—their chubby fists knotted in her shirt’s collar.
He hands her a stack of mail as she tries to keep her child from lunging at the envelopes, thanking him with a distracted smile, her voice muffled through the glass of my car.
I scramble out my driver’s door, boots splashing in a deep puddle as I do. But I’m determined to seize this chance. If this woman knows Parker, if he’s really here, this might be my only shot at finding out.
The mailman passes me first, flashing a casual grin as he strides down the walk. The woman on the porch still struggles to juggle her toddler and the stack of mail, clearly mid-departure.
“Excuse me,” I call, somewhat breathless, and she drops the mail. “Sorry—here, let me get those.” I dart forward, scooping the dampened letters from the porch boards.
She sighs, visibly flustered. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for an old friend who lives here. His name’s Parker.”
Her eyes narrow. “Sorry, your friend’s not here,” she says, rocking her fussy toddler while she tries to find a specific key on her ring.
“Do you know when he’ll be back?” I press, stepping aside to give her space.
She squints at me again. “There’s no Parker in this house.”
“Parker Lane? Or… maybe Meredith Lane?” I ask, softening my voice.
She pauses, tipping her head back in thought. “Oh—you mean the old owners. They moved months ago. Sold the place to us.” Her toddler drools on her shoulder.
If Parker’s not here, and they really did move… could they have moved back to Blair?
“I know it’s a long shot,” I push gently, “but do you happen to know where they went? I’ve been trying to get ahold of him. He changed numbers, and… I just moved back to Seattle. I’d love to reconnect.”
I look down at my feet and pinch my eyes shut, furious I didn’t plan a better lie. I look like a stalker.
“I never met them. But I’ve got their new address somewhere.” She flips through the stack of mail I handed her. “They never forwarded their mail. We still get their crap all the time.”
She thrusts part of the banded mail bundle toward me. “Here. You can hand-deliver them if you want. I’m tired of playing post office.”
Before I can respond, she pushes her child out toward me like an offering. “Can you hold her a sec while I grab the address?”
“S-sure,” I stammer, stiffening as the squirming weight of her little girl lands in my arms. The baby stares up at me with solemn, oceanic eyes, another plop of drool running down her chin. “Hi,” I say, forcing a smile. “I’m Amelia.”
The little girl blinks.
Her mother returns with an index card, scribbled in blue ink. “Here’s Meredith’s new place. And the rest of their mail.” She deposits the items into my free hand without ceremony.
“I’ll make sure I get these to the Lanes,” I say, exchanging her baby for the stack of mail.
The woman shrugs, proving that she couldn’t care less about who I am and what I have to do with the old owners of her house. She watches as I walk down the steps, then calls after me.
“Tell them to forward their address already.”
I turn and send her a nod, knowing I certainly won’t be doing that.
Trying to keep a casual demeanor, I walk to my car and don’t look at the index card until I’m in the driver’s seat. But when I do… I can’t believe it. The card, supposedly holding the new address of Meredith and Parker Lane, lists a home in Blair, Washington. A home on Little Mountain Road.
The same street as Mom’s.