As the rain lets up under the tree coverage, the windshield is hit with dotted mist—a sure sign we’re nearing the rumbling dam. The wind here is guttural, dragging the lake’s water upward and flinging it into the air.
The maps prove I’m right. And then, all at once, I see it.
The black house.
Beyond a short Romanesque cobblestone wall, topped with lanterns that gleam in the storm, is Harrison Klein’s house. Even through the veil of rain, it’s impossible to mistake: a sprawling mid-century modern home. It’s sandwiched between two other homes, with enough distance in between each to create a barrier of privacy, particularly thanks to the tall cedars sown on all properties.
Rory slows down, killing the ignition across from Harrison’s house. It’s an exclusive spot, with no neighbors across the street, just a towering mountain of dense forest. His is the second to last before the dam, the dead end of South Lakeside Road.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Rory says, fat drops of rain banging against the sunroof.
His words should comfort me, but they don’t. Maybe it’s the torrential rain, or the ominous aura emanating from the house. Either way, now that it’s real, I regret coming here.
I shove the thought aside, persevering.
“Stay here and keep watch. If someone shows up, text me. I’ll be quick,” I say, buttoning my raincoat and tugging the hood over my head.
Rory exhales sharply, unhappy. “Check for cameras first. Anddon’tgo inside.” When I open the door, his hand shoots out, grippingmy arm. His voice softens. “Please be careful. I kind of like having you around.”
I give him a tight smile, then slip into the rain, darting across the road toward the front gate. It’s simple, wooden, a divider between the street and his slightly sloping yard. From here, I can almost see my house between his scattered trees.
I don’t spy any cameras, no keypad. The gate has a simple hitch mechanism, and I yank the chain pulled over from the other side. I push the gate open, exposing a scattered stone trail with pathway lights placed along it, and a grandiose Gothic door at the end that belongs on Dracula’s castle—towering, black, arched, fitted with two heavy ring knockers that would undoubtedly offer a heartyboomif I dared. Below it, in contrast, is a mat exclaimingWelcome!
I lean toward the window beside the door, pressing my hood against the glass. Inside, the house is still and unlit.
Rounding the left side, I find a clear view of the lake, and the staircase that drops down the slope to Harrison’s private dock. More windows line this wall, and after a quick glance around to confirm I’m alone, I cup my hands to the glass and see a sleek living room: black leather sectional, contemporary standing lamps.
I press experimentally against the frame. To my shock, the window slides open without resistance. No alarm beeps, no barking dog explodes from another room. The quiet throb of rain outside accompanies my thumping heartbeat as I calculate how to proceed. Rory’s voice is in my ear:Don’t go inside.But staring into a stranger’s living room won’t tell me anything. And if I leave now, this whole trip is wasted.
Before my conscience can talk me out of it, I hoist myself onto the sill, swing a leg through, and land silently on the hardwood floor.I strip off my boots and raincoat, stacking them neatly by the open window so I don’t create a trackable mess.
The air hits me: a faint smell of incense, the penetrating silence of a seemingly empty house.
I can’t believe I’m in here. Mechanically, my breath slows as I walk as deliberately and boisterously as Frankenstein’s monster, one swinging step at a time, arms out in front of me. The floor doesn’t creak, but each step still somehow feels amplified.
Though the lights are out, the wall of windows aggressively offers enough light to fill the room, even in the sterling storm. Harrison’s windows are more commanding than anything I’ve seen in Mom’s house, or the Holloways’. They carry an intensity. Directly on the other side of the glass is a straight plunge into the lake below. Its panoramic views are almost nauseating.
As I make my way to the window, I spy Harrison’s telescope, which is far more pirate-y up close. It’s beautiful, made of heavyweight gold, mounted on three wooden legs, its lens pointed down at the center of Lake Blair. I bring my eye to the circular glass, dragging it upward, intrigued at the view of Mom’s house from here.
A lump forms in my throat as I realize just how far the magnification reaches—showing a view directly into her empty living room. I press harder against the lens, curiosity mingling with fear, and the end of the telescope bumps the glass wall, sending me staggering backward. My hand flies to my mouth, stifling a gasp, and I spin around, eyes wide, expecting someone—Harrison—to appear. But nothing happens. I must be alone here.
I breathe shallowly, trying to calm the surge of adrenaline. My eyes linger to the right side of the living room, and I’m intrigued by a stone fireplace, scorched from years of use. Next to it, a massivewooden table sits angled under a black lamp, strewn with watercolor paintings on thick cotton paper.
I slide closer on socks like a figure skater and a corner of my mouth lifts at the alluring images: European buildings I’ve never seen, Pacific Northwest mountains and seascapes, colors blended in fluid, dazzling strokes. The table is full of art.
Maybe he’s not strange. Just misunderstood,I think.
My conscience finally screams at me:Why am I in here?
My eyes catch a giant binder clip holding a stack of sketches. The top drawing is a pencil sketch of Lake Blair. I recognize its layout instantly—the central island, the houses perched on the hills, the famous fir trees lining the community.
When I scan the scene harder, any enchantment I felt toward it diminishes.
Down on the water is a rowboat with two figures: a man and a woman. Their faces are blank, unfinished, but I know, somehow, that one of those people is me. And the other is Rory.
Goosebumps prick my arms as I imagine Harrison, looking down at us from the wall of windows that night, silhouetted against the interior light. Rory had yelled up to him, and Harrison walked away, switching off the big light above. I raise my face to see the same paper lantern hanging proudly from the ceiling.
My pulse thumps as I flip through the rest of the sketches. Six in, and my jaw unlocks, mouth agape. In a close-up sketch, I see soft waves and a pedal boat. Inside, a forlorn woman pedaling alone. The woman in it—her ponytail, her parted bangs, her heart-shaped face—is unmistakable. It’s Mom.
