I roll my eyes to the ceiling. I’m never one to nose, or poke, but there’s something about this name that clings.
I type it in, sendingParker Laneinto the ether that is the World Wide Web. I’m struck with millions of hits: brands, businesses, cul-de-sacs in faraway neighborhoods. It’s a laughably broad search.
I take another bite of my sandwich and glance at the door. The hallway has quieted; the students are settled in the cafeteria now. I grin at the trivial conversations they must be having: planning Halloween costumes, or a sleepover for the weekend, trading snacks. Kids being kids, normal and innocent.
I pluck a slippery slice of avocado off the bread and pop it into my mouth, shifting to the large windows on my right. Outside, wet leaves blanket the lawn, a sea of fire against the slate-gray sky. From here onthe second floor, the sloping field and distant houses look serene. I breathe it in, holding on, mentally worshipping its tranquility.
I can get through anything,I remind myself.I’ve got this.
A silly mantra I’ve embraced since beginning my teaching career. For when the world becomes too loud.
Shaking myself back to the task, I tackSeattleonto the end of Parker’s name and hit search. I’m prompted to a digital phone book, a directory of all the Parker Lanes in Seattle. There’s only two. One is in his sixties, with a past residence in Seattle, current residence in Anchorage, Alaska.
The age listed for the other is thirty,currentlyliving in Seattle.
Found you.
Probably.
The page lists phone numbers, past addresses, emails, public records—all locked behind a paywall. All it freely displays is his name, age, connections, and address.
When I copy the address into Google Maps, I lean in closer to the screen. His house is tucked in a neighborhood behind the school. I drive past the road that leads there every day to get here.
I click back to the past page and scroll down toRelated To.
Michael Lane, Gary Combs. And then, Meredith Lane.
My heart drops at the sight of the name. No, plummets. Shattering somewhere below the floor. I choke on the saliva pooling in my mouth.
The name aligns with memory, dredging up a faded image I haven’t seen in years.
I know exactly who Parker Lane is.
Suddenly, nothing matters more than getting to that house to prove he lives there… that he’s far from Lake Blair.
29
IMOGEN
South Lakeside Road is whip sharp, cutting tightly around the mountain on the way to Harrison Klein’s house. Rory drives with a calm, pacific steadiness, as though the wet road’s twists are nothing, and I latch on to his composure to keep my own fears in check. When his hand rests on my thigh, I realize my leg is bouncing in apprehension. Part nerves of the drive, part dread of whatever waits at Harrison’s. Of what would happen if I got caught—depending on who found me: the police or Harrison. Jail time or murder bait. Both undesirable outcomes of an idiotic, reckless idea.
I force a breath through my nose, halting the tremor in my leg, and give Rory what I hope passes as a reassuring glance.
The wipers thrash across the windshield, useless against the storm. Sheets of water hammer the glass so hard it looks like someone is standing over the car, upending buckets straight onto us.
The sky is cloud-ridden, making it look less like late morning and more like dusk.
“What if he comes home?” I blurt, staring at the warped tree line. “What if the office closes because of the storm?”
Rory purses his lips. “We live in Washington. This storm isn’t anything new.” He flicks me a quick look before another bend demands his attention. “Still. I think we should turn back. It’s not worth it.”
“No,” I protest too quickly. I soften. “It’ll be fine. I’m just going to peek around. No one will even know I was there. Or you.”
The clock on the dash reads 11:32. We left The Salted Mug less than fifteen minutes ago. Even if Harrison bolted from his meeting the second Rory called Pacific Records, it would still take him forty minutes to make it here from Seattle. That gives us at least half an hour. But worst-case scenario is only that: worst case.
I open my phone, thumb hovering over the map pin I dropped earlier. No street view exists this far around the lake, so I had to rely on memory and the satellite layout, tracing the shoreline against Mom’s house across the water. I’m almost certain I’ve marked the right one. At the very least, close enough. Two more turns and we’ll reach the small stretch of road with three houses clinging to the cliffside.
I know these homes from a distance. When I was growing up, they were the backdrop across the lake, houses staring back at us like unblinking eyes, settled near Sawyer Dam. This time of year, the dam is a danger, its hundred-foot drop down to Sawyer Creek pulling water toward the infinity pool lip like a mouth sucking on the lake. Boaters are wise to stay away in storms; one wrong push of current could sweep them too close—not like any residents woulduse their boats of leisure in this weather anyway. Which is part of why Mom’s death strikes me as oddly as it does.
