It’s disorienting to see him in the flesh, so close I could cross the room and touch the condensation on his glass. He eats the kind of solitary lunch Mom used to—a club sandwich, a house salad, and bar chatter as company.
Eve turns to the screen with his card, and I force my gaze to the brass beer taps in front of me, pulse thudding, wondering if he overheard me mention Mom. The room is a wash of conversation and indie rock, and still I can’t shake the thought that my words somehow reached him. As unsure as I was about my sudden distrust around Leo, I can’t pinpoint why I wouldn’t want Tim to hear of my miniature investigation. As if he could have anything to do with it.
As Eve struts back toward me, I glance his way again. His eyes remain on me as he swallows from his beer—intense, purposeful. Then, without finishing it, he scrawls on the receipt and walks out of the tavern. His gait was just so that I’d stretch to say hestormedout.
The abruptness of it all fills me with another shudder, like my mind has an answer it won’t release. Like I recognize him in ways Ican’t put words to—the answer locked behind a door I can’t open. And yet, the idea that I’d somehow irked him—that my presence or conversation drove him out—seems implausible.
He had just ordered a new drink, drank barely half of it, and then left, his attention never straying. My brain scrambles for foolish explanations:Did he know I spied on him as a kid years ago? Did I disturb him on the lake the other night with Rory? Does he have some kind of vendetta against us?
I don’t even know this man. But seeing him in person solidified something. That he’s someone I need to watch out for.
I take another sip of wine and look to Eve, leaning forward so no one else can hear. “Do you know that guy? The one who just left?” I cock my head toward the door.
“The old rocker dude?” she asks. “No. I’ve seen him in here before, but we’re not on a first-name basis or anything.”
The receipt. My eyes flick to the check on the bar, but it’s too far, too public. Too many people would notice if I tried. Wouldn’t they?
“Did you ever see him talking to my mom?” I press, knowing how it sounds. “He just… looks familiar.”
Her face scrunches in thought as she fills another pint. “Not that I remember. But your mom was… social. She’d hug people, say hi to everyone. I couldn’t tell you if he was ever one of them.”
After she walks away, I call after her. “Look. I know you probably can’t do this, but…” I pause until she’s back in front of me. I sigh, and I just say the damned thing. “Could you please check his name on the tab?”
She pauses, likely assessing her moral compass. I know how bizarre it sounds, because if someone asked me to do that at my bar, I’d hesitate, too.
“I don’t think I can do that,” she says, a kind scoff escaping her throat.
I lick my lips, finding my angle. “I’ve been asking about my mom a lot because I think something happened to her. Something bad,” I say quietly, twisting my wineglass by its base. “I’m worried that guy is bad news… and maybe even knows something.”
It’s not entirely untrue. Tim gives me the creeps. My gut is screaming that something is off about him. It’s utterly unshakeable.
Eve looks around, chewing on her lip. “Hold on.”
She crosses the bar, pulls his tab, and closes it out on a nearby screen before adding it to a pile. Walking back, she says, “He paid with a company card. His name isn’t even on it.”
“What’s the company?” I try, pushing my luck.
She looks uncomfortable, like she’s fighting the choice to give it up or keep it to herself. But then she blurts it out. “Pacific Records.” And in a conversation-ending move, she walks away.
Pacific Records. The name pulses in my mind—hammering. Familiar yet elusive. Not a major record label that anyone would know, but it’s one I’ve heard before. Surely established somewhere on the West Coast. Maybe one of my old favorite band’s labels.
No…
My memory clicks.
It’s a record label in Seattle. And the last time I heard its name was just a few days ago on Mom’s TV, during a morning news segment.
It’s where Madison Tory was working when she went missing.
19
AMELIA
I snatch the tape gun off the floor and strike it against the top of the final box that was tampered with yesterday. Peppered around me are stacked boxes holding various files and paperwork, trash bags brimming with junk, and furniture with Post-it notes screamingSellorToss. If we wrap the house up tonight, like we hope, I’ll have to ask Leo if he can haul off in his contractor’s truck whatever we can’t take. I’m sure he’d be happy to help.
Imogen packed up this room—the office—first, I think. It was the room she was handling when she found the 2003 incident folder. I looked everywhere for that file—but it wasn’t in the mess. At first, that set my teeth on edge. Then I relaxed. Imogen probably trashed it without a second thought. Less mystery, less mess, no problems.
A little exhale escapes me as I swipe sweat from my forehead, the ache in my arms reminding me how much I’ve hauled and sorted today. The wreckage has to have been caused by some desperatewanderer or a petty burglar looking for cash. Someone who didn’t find what they wanted and left. That’s what I’m choosing to believe, because the alternative is worse. Nothing’s missing, but the thought of them rifling through our things, inour mother’s house, makes my stomach knot. If I let myself spiral, I’ll drive both of us mad, so I cling to the simplest answer, even if I don’t fully believe it.
