“Or working remote. Which is basically everyone these days.”
We both fall silent, turning the idea over. My mind runs through logistics. Amelia said he drives a Land Rover. If it’s not in the driveway, that’s one clue. A dark house, no lights, no sounds, that’s another.
Rory straightens. “I have an idea.”
He unlocks his phone, searches for something, and presses it to his ear. I hear the faint ring before a woman’s voice answers.
“Hello,” Rory says, adopting a calm, professional tone. “Is Harrison Klein in? I’m waiting on a callback.”
A proud smirk curls across my lips.
After a pause, “No problem. I’ll call back later. Thanks for your time.” Rory hangs up the phone.
He turns to me. “She said Harrison just stepped into a meeting. He’s at the Seattle office.”
28
AMELIA
Phoebe is gone in a flash, and I finally lock my classroom door. Through the skinny, rectangular window, I catch sight of kids filing toward the lunchroom in uneven waves, kindergarten through eighth grade, each clutching a lunch bag or brown sack.
I drop into my swivel chair, pull from my bag the deli sandwich and grapes I bought this morning, and pop one of the reds into my mouth.
Parker Lane,I repeat in my head, hoping to spark a memory.
I suck on another grape, draining the juice out, gnawing on its crepey skin, eyes fading out of focus and into a trance. I still can’t figure out what about the name is familiar. For all I know, it’s the name of a villainous character from a TV show I used to watch. Or the protagonist in one of the hundreds of books I’ve devoured since birth. That’s more likely—it’s from fiction rather than real life.
Still, if Phoebe’s right and this man lives on the lake, and theTorys suspect him of being tangled up in whatever happened to Madison… a quick search could abate the query.
I look at the pile of homework waiting on my desk, weekend assignments I should be marking instead of chasing a name that might mean nothing.
I tell myself I’ll give the kids independent work time this afternoon, carve out a block to grade during school hours rather than wasting my scraps of personal time.
I close my eyes, searching for a moment of peace. Every day here feels like a grind—teaching, talking, grading, testing, emailing, planning, organizing. It doesn’t ease up. My fifty-minute prep period isn’t enough to complete my tasks each day, and I wonder if I’m the only one. Mrs. Crowley across the hall is admirably put together. Mr. Johnson one room over runs his third-grade class like a well-oiled machine.
Ms. Bly oftentimes feels a mess.
The drive back to Blair every afternoon, helping Imogen pack, doesn’t leave room to work from home. There’s no time left over to unwind. Or to grieve the loss of my mother.
I remind myself it’s only temporary. This sinking feeling will pass. I will surface.
When I started teaching, I knew it wouldn’t be easy. But I didn’t imagine how consuming it could be—how much of yourself you give away, piece by piece. It’s not reading stories with kids—it’s laying a foundation for the people they’ll become. It’s being steady when everything else is uncertain. It’s filling in the gaps when budget cuts loom, spending your own paycheck to make sure the classroom feels alive, positive. It’s trying to make every day matter, even when you’re barely holding yourself together.
This month, that has felt impossible.
Many of my students come from good homes. Some don’t. Somelack rudimentary love from their families, a homemade lunch, or a listening ear. Being attuned to these gaps, filling in where I can—it’s part of the job. I wouldn’t trade it. Because I get to be the person who notices, who is steady, who is there. Especially if they have no one else. My own needs slip behind theirs, but there’s an odd grace in that. To be entrusted with something larger than myself.
The back of my eyes buzz with fatigue anyway.
One minute,I tell myself. Then I’ll address the forsaken, foreboding stack.
I adjust in my swivel chair, unwrap my veggie sandwich, and chomp into it, shredded carrots snapping under my teeth. A smear of hummus coats my lip, which I lick away as I open my old white MacBook, punch in my password, and stare at the blank search bar.
Parker Lane.
“Who are you?” I whisper to the screen.
The name drags me backward, to childhood, to Mom. It pricks something sour, something that feels bad in my chest.
