Imogen
The first thing I see is a crumpled sandwich wrapper. Not just any wrapper, but the same kind of deli sandwich that had been mysteriously sitting in the fridge last week, the day we first arrived. But it’s nothing compared to what I find next. A black mesh bra. My bra. The one that’s been missing.
It’s folded neatly on the floor, almost reverently, and my stomach folds in on itself.
What the hell?
The image of the shadowed figure bolting through the dining room last night pops into my head, and my throat dries. Was this where they were hiding? Right above our heads?
I feel sick, vulnerable. Every instinct in me screams to get out.
Instead, I crawl toward the papers scattered across the boards like a dropped deck of cards, corners curled from handling.
The attic is otherwise barren—no boxes, no holiday decorations, no forgotten baby clothes.
Just these papers, the wrapper, and my bra—like a sick breadcrumb trail.
I pluck out the nearest sheet with quivering hands.
Cascades Health Therapists it isn’t replaying short clips of something unknown buried in my subconscious, nor is it entirely made up as I’d always imagined. It’s now a full picture—start to end.
In my hands are the missing documents from the manilla folder I found last Thursday in Mom’s file cabinet.
The documents that should have been nestled into the file that read IMOGEN INCIDENT—2003.
Somehow they’ve made their way up here, reviewed and ingested alongside a turkey sandwich by an unknown intruder.
I find the file under one of the papers—the one I added to the KEEP stack after packing up the office.
I hadn’t even noticed it was missing among Saturday’s chaos. Is this what they were looking for?
I force myself to read every last page, the entire story my mom unspooled in the forms. Each detail strikes like a lash, memories buried deep—too dark for my developing brain to hold on to.
Now I remember what I did to that boy.
And what Parker Lane did to me first.
A sob wriggles up my throat, but I can’t keep it down. I pull my phone out of my pocket, checking for Amelia’s location. She’s approaching the neighborhood now, nearly home.
Thank God.
I’ve never needed her more. I can’t be here alone.
Tucking my phone away, I collect the papers, crinkling them with violently shaking fingers.
My mouth floods with saliva, but I swallow it, trying not to gag.
The stack clutched to my chest, I snag my bra but leave the sandwich wrapper exactly where it is—as if it’s radioactive, tainted by whoever crept into Mom’s attic.
Suddenly, I hear a noise from below. I pause, listening for more, but there’s nothing else.
Still, I’m hesitant when I lower myself back onto the dining table, exiting the attic.
And then I hear it again. A sharp, nearby rapping.
Someone’s knocking on the front door.