I shake my head. “No. But… I do have something else. Something I think you might be able to help me with. And it might even be connected.” I take a breath, hearing myself say it out loud for the first time: “I think my mother may have been murdered.”
His brows knit together, head tilting slightly as confusion flickers across his face. I’m not sure if he’s the one who attended the scene, or who carried her body away to the funeral home, where she now waits—likely already reduced to ash, ready to be boxed and shipped to Amelia’s apartment in Seattle. The thought of her remains sitting alone on Amelia’s doorstep, sealed inside cardboard, makes my heart sink.
“I remember you mentioning your mother’s death yesterday,” he says carefully. “But is it being investigated as a homicide?”
I recount what happened—the storm, the kayak, her body found the next morning. Then I tell him about Rachel outside the Waterside Theater last night, about the man she swore she saw behind her on the dock. Wright turns to his computer, the glow of the outdated monitor reflecting in his eyes as he searches. He pulls up the report and notes the responding officer: Porter, who isn’t here today.
“Unfortunately,” Wright says, voice low, “if your mother has been cremated, and there was no autopsy… there’s very little we can do to prove how she died. But I don’t work homicide.”
The words sink like stones. My face falls, the fragile thread of hope I’d been gripping snapping loose. Ever since Rachel, it felt like clarity might’ve been in reach—that I was standing just on the other side of answers. Rory’s voice echoes in my mind: warning me not to burn myself alive stoking the fire, reminding me that Mom’s death wasn’t likely to be more than a terrible accident.
But what if it wasn’t? If I quit now, will I ever stop wondering?
As though he can hear my internal ramblings, Wright softens. “Look. The timing—the trespassing incident, so close to your mother’s death—it’s suspicious.” He exhales. “I’ll talk to Officer Porter. See if he can follow up with that neighbor, pull up anything else that might help. Okay?”
I nod, thanking him before rising from the gray chair in defeat.
I could wait until tomorrow, let Porter track Rachel down, hope something useful surfaces. But resignation feels unbearable. Instead of heading home intruedefeat, I know there’s one more stop I can make.
17
IMOGEN
I cautiously steer through suburban Blair, sifting the memory files in my head, thumbing for details from Leo Towns’s fifty-fifth birthday party. It was held at his house, tucked into the mountain on Blair’s northern edge, a gathering of neighbors and out-of-towners alike. That side of Blair feels different—more cramped than the lakefront pockets, yet branded theHighlandsfor its steep hills and sense of seclusion. Exclusive in feel, though not as much in price, since none of the houses touch the water.
Mom, Amelia, and I had climbed the hill from the cake shop downtown and reached his door within minutes, I remember.
White paint? Cape Cod characteristics.
Small, but stately. It was where he’d lived with his ex-wife.
Vines. Intricate, suffocating the shutters. Curling around the windows.
A brick walkway where Mom caught her high heel, nearly dropping the chocolate raspberry cake that swayed in her hands.
Two unanswered texts from Amelia sit on my phone, asking what I’m doing. Hoping this will be a fruitful conversation, I don’t respond. Yet. The minutes slip past, quickening, while I creep through unfamiliar streets, scanning both sides so I won’t miss Leo’s house.
What if he moved? Painted? Remodeled?
What if I’m wasting my fucking time?
These days, trapped in sentimentality, time is of the essence. Every detour from packing adds weight to the clock ticking in my head. Yet, in some ways, I don’t mind it here. The views are serene, Mom’s house is bliss, and the toytown environment is almost refreshing. But there’s a darkness festering—steady, unshakeable. I feel it.
I round a particularly sharp bend and am struck by déjà vu. Amelia’s groan of nausea from that long-ago night surfaces, tickling a spot in my memory. I’ve been here before. I pay special attention to the approaching homes, convinced that spotting Leo’s is imminent.
And there it is. A dignified white New England–style home, lush vines crawling wildly on its exterior. But no brick walkway. Perhaps he replaced it after the hazard nearly cost him his cake.
Leo Towns. Contractor. That’s how he and Mom first crossed paths—when she bought her house and needed small fixes. Everyone in Blair hired him eventually; he had that reputation. At the time, he was still married. But he and Mom’s easy friendship grew over years, and later, after his divorce, it budded into something romantic. She opened doors for him—introduced him to steady work at the community center.
And that’s where he was, years later, the day he found her body by the dock.
I park along a row of cypress trees at the edge of his yard and step out, following the new stone path that replaced the crumbling brick. Each footfall strengthens my conviction that this is the same houseI visited. Whether he currently inhabits it is unclear—no car in the driveway, no name on the mailbox.
When I raise my hand toward the old-fashioned doorbell, my pulse flutters with a dangerous thought:What if I’m about to walk into the home of a killer?
He found her body. Didn’t anyone ever wonder if that was too convenient?
In the reflection of the wide front window, the world outside bends back at me. But I spot a lamp glowing inside. The curtain must be drawn, striking another concerning thought… Leo could be inside, watching me—calculating, aware that I’ve come for answers. If he was with her that night, if he’s buried some truth, he’ll know I know. What happens then?
