“This is Officer Wright with the Blair County Sheriff’s Department. I wanted to give you an update on your case. Is this a good time?”
My heart thumps as Rory rounds the corner, sleepy as I am. Though, suddenly, I am wide awake. I mouth the wordssheriff’s departmentto him, and he nods, waiting for more and taking a seat at the kitchen counter.
“Uh, yeah. Thanks for calling. What do you have?”
“Officers didn’t find anything during patrol last night, and theyhad trouble reaching the man across the lake. But they’re still working on it.”
“Can you give me his name?” I try.
“Not until we know more. For now, he’s just someone we’d like to talk to. But if anything comes up, call us back. We’ll do some more rounds later, make sure everything’s secure on your street.”
I hang up, relaying to Rory the lack of any new information and my unsettled nerves that still surround Tim.
“I guess we’ll have to find this son of a bitch ourselves,” Rory says, shrugging.
And that’s when he insists we get out of the house—change the scenery while we dig into the guy.
So here we are, in downtown Blair, tucked into a coffee shop that smells like butter and roasted beans, where a couple students pore over laptops, friends sip from mugs amid hushed conversation.
The Salted Mug is all warm wood and sea-weathered charm. Mismatched mugs line the shelves behind the counter, and a woodstove in the corner crackles faintly. Nets, driftwood, and faded photographs of storm-battered boats decorate the walls. It’s lived-in, cozy, a place you can sit awhile.
Two cappuccinos steam between me and Rory, and an orange scone crumbles under my restless fingers. He sits close, his knee brushing mine beneath the table. He looks rumpled but unfairly handsome, chocolate hair in careless disarray, morning stubble lining his jaw. Here with me when he doesn’t need to be. But he wants to be. That much is clear to me.
After days mostly trapped in the mausoleum of Mom’s house, even the modest bubble of the coffee shop feels like a healthy dose of oxygen.
I stare at my laptop in the private corner we snagged, doubtingI’ll find any digital trail connecting Tim to Mom, but Madison… That seems an easier feat. If Tim is anywhere, it’s in the fine print of her story, potentially even lurking in articles about her disappearance, or whispered speculation about his involvement.
I ache to prove myself right—for the sake of my sanity, to know these suspicions aren’t just a nervous breakdown in slow motion. I also hope to find nothing, discovering only the absence of connection. That way, I’ll be forced to stop prying the lid off this can of worms.
Droplets batter against the windows as a storm rolls in with the promise of a three-day siege. Those poor movers will be drenched tomorrow. Though I’m sure they’re used to it.
The downpour blurs the world beyond the glass, as if we’ve slipped into a sealed, private chamber. Acoustic guitar drifts from the speakers, enough to grant us even more privacy as I typePacific Records Seattleinto Google.
The record label’s website greets me with a bouncing anniversary graphic—65 Years Strong—while album covers twirl across the screen. I click away from it, selecting the Join Our Team tab, hoping to stumble on employee images and descriptions. But I only find listings for Seattle-based jobs:Touring & Artist Development, Assistant Manager, Business & Legal Affairs.
No smiling headshots.
Unsatisfied, I go back to Google.
Rory leans closer. “Try addingemployees.”
I do, and a new list unfurls. At the top: LinkedIn.
I tell myself Tim is probably too old, too private, to bother with LinkedIn—but I click anyway. Pacific Records’ company page claims 51–200 employees. Beneath it, a grid of faces begins to load: bright-eyed coordinators, fresh-faced audio engineers. A stream of young people building their careers.
Then suddenly. Madison.
Her name practically flashes at me and I click on it before I can second-guess what I’m seeing. As her profile loads, I spot her grinning face next to the title:A&R Assistant at Pacific Records. The page claims she’s worked there full-time for two years and eight months with no interruption. No acknowledgment that she’s been missing for over a year. Her history scrolls out neatly below:Marketing Assistant, Seattle. University of Washington, Class of 2017. Lake Blair High School, Class of 2013.
Scrolling on her page sends a chill up my neck. It offers the appearance of Madison, alive and well, working her dream job in Seattle. When, in reality, she’s presumably dead somewhere, her skeleton rotting below the earth in a location that remains secret.
I click back to the list of employees, scrolling slowly for another minute, scanning each photo and name with intent. Until I see a familiar hairstyle, black hair. In a circular image above the job titlePresident—A&Ris Tim. Only his name isn’t Tim.
It’s Harrison Klein.
A small gasp escapes my throat. The sound is so slight, but Rory’s head jerks toward the screen just as he’s licking foam from his upper lip.
“Is that him?” he asks.
