I continue, slow. “You didn’t, like”—I close my eyes, finding the words—“come in here, right? Yesterday. Or even before.”
“What are you talking about?” His expression shows shock, confusion.
“Did you ever see my mom, before she died?” I try. My throat dries. “Did you, like, hang out? Did you ever come over?”
“What are you asking?” He frowns, guarding a real answer.
I stumble, unsure how to answer him.I’m asking a lot of things,I want to say.Can’t you hear me?
Eve’s words from earlier ring in my head, too. She said Mom was having trouble sleeping. She mentioned something about noises in the house.“Bump-in-the-night–type stuff.”Could that have been Rory? Is it possible? Would he have reason?
If I let my true thoughts out, I’ll become the “difficult girl”—a label I’ll never out-apologize. The one who lets grief seep under her skin and shape monsters. I’ve spent years trying not to be that girl. The “too much” girl. The one who can’t be easy, or chill, or good company unless she suppresses her emotions and smiles like they don’t exist. But Iamgrieving, and it might be messy and dragging me down, but I’m carrying it the only way I know how. If I keep quiet about my suspicions, if I let my need to be desirable outweigh my instinct, then I won’t ever find what I’m looking for.
“I need to know what’s real,” I say instead. “I need to know you haven’t ever used that key.”
I think back to the past couple days, wondering if I’ve heard the “Door Open” chime at an odd time, besides the other night when I found it ajar. If Rory used the key, Robot Woman would have notified us. I’ve heard it each time Amelia or Wes came and went, or myself. But never at a time I couldn’t explain it. Could I have missed it while in the bathroom? In my room with the door closed?
“Forwhat?” he asks, defensiveness meeting disappointment. “I told you. I found it outside tonight. I didn’t even think much of it. That’s why I didn’t give it to you when I first came in.”
I sift through all our conversations. His hesitation in defending me with Rachel. Was he the man behind Mom on the dock that night?
Then there’s his ex-girlfriend’s mysterious death… Has it all been right in front of me?
“What happened to your girlfriend?” I ask softly. “The one who died.”
He flinches, eyes narrowing, a mix of hurt and anger flashing across his face. “Imogen… What are you—” He stops, running a hand through his hair. “You ask that like I had something to do with it. Or whatever happened to your mom. Do you hear yourself?”
“Tell me,” I nearly shout, interrupting him. A tear rolls down one cheek, spit cloying in my mouth.
“Lacy died in a car accident!” he shouts, shaking his head.
Lacy, I presume, is the girlfriend. But I didn’t know her, or what really happened to her. Does it even matter?
He backs up, speechless for a moment.
“Look. I don’t know what to think,” I try, unsure of how I’m feeling about any of this. “There’s this key in your pocket, you walked away from my house yesterday after the break-in, you—”
“You’re twisting all these things I’ve done into something they’re not,” he says. I almost believe him. “You know what?” He looks at me, hard, sad, defeated. “I feel sorry for you.”
Rory grabs his cell phone off the floor, leaves the rose key, and slams the front door.
A small piece of me wants to chase him, to explain, to make excuse after excuse. But the safest thing for me to do right now is stay away from him—take space until I know up from down. Until my world isn’t spinning, until I’m out of the funhouse.
I turn toward the living room, walking to the windows in thought. I wipe my eyes, bury my head in my hands, and the tears keep coming. My brain hurts. It’s overflowing with nonsense. Every what-if collides in my head and I want to turn my brain off. I want to disappear, shrink into the walls, anything to escape the weight of the chaos. I’m suffocating.
The vintage door knocker continues to thwack as it sways and clangs outside, jolted from the slam.
There’s nothing now but my own blaring thoughts. I close my eyes, wishing the world could pause.
From the silence of my crisis comes a sound. It’s not from outside, butinsidethe house. From the neighboring dining room. At first, I think I’m imagining it, my mind playing tricks from the serving of stress.
I hear a shoe delicately hit the floor behind me. And when I look up, eyes meeting the window’s reflection, even through blurred vision, I see them.
21
AMELIA
At the fall of dusk, I hop into the passenger seat of Wes’s car and we head downtown for dinner. With Rory stopping by to see Imogen, we figured we’d give them some space before returning with armfuls of takeout. Part of me is even curious to explore Blair awhile and walk its quaint streets. I can’t help but wonder what’s changed since I lived here.
