I shuffle through the stack faster now, hands trembling. There are no other people, only landscapes. I find a black book on a stool beside the table, snapping off the elastic enclosure to find more ofhis sketch work. About halfway through, my breath catches again. This sketch shows a direct view of Mom’s living room window. The chimney, the patio furniture, every detail is precise. And through the glass, a girl holding binoculars to her eyes.
It’s me.
Everything clicks into place. The paranoia I had tried to dismiss, the doubt I cast aside. My screaming instincts were correct.
He’s been watching me, too.
30
IMOGEN
I shoot Rory a quick text so he won’t come looking for me and discover I’ve gone inside Harrison’s house as I slink deeper inside.
All good out here. Be right there.
I hit Send.
What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Almost immediately, the little “Like” notification pops up. A string of typing bubbles form but abruptly disappear. I shrug, slip my phone back into my pocket, and press forward.
Across from the open-concept living room is the kitchen, situated next to the monumental front door. I stick my head inside to see cedar cabinets and neutral-toned granite countertops. A brown paper bag sits beside the fridge, the words RAINBOWACRESstamped across it in bold green ink. The Holloways’ market.
Past the kitchen is a hallway, which leads to a staircase at the far edge of the house. There’s a half bathroom and an office up here on the ground floor. I assume the bedrooms are downstairs, built against the cliffside.
Still whirring with anxiety that someone might be here, I slip into the office with the caution of prey entering a predator’s den. I can feel my pulse in my teeth, telling myself this is the only room worth risking. I don’t know what kind of proof I’d find in his bedroom. His office, where he did work linking to Madison, could hold secrets.
Twin panes frame the lake like one of his watercolors, their view pinned above a long wooden desk scattered with mail, papers, and a sleek desktop computer. I picture Harrison sitting here, working, plotting, looking right down at all of us. Although our yard’s hemlock trees cover the living room windows from this angle, there’s still an exceptional perspective of our English knot garden and dock—if you look hard enough. The walls on either side of the room present built-in shelves lined with books, old and new. It’s an impressive collection.
I pad across doughy carpet and hover over his desk. Every letter tucked into the wooden file organizer bears the same name. No shared address, no second occupant, as far as I can see.
One by one, I slide open the desk drawers, breath hitching at each quiet click. The contents are achingly normal: paper clips, pens, business forms. The kind of junk anyone would have. Which somehow feels sinister, too, like it’s staged to look ordinary.
I lower myself into his stylish leather office chair and punch a random key on his keyboard. For a moment, all I see is my reflection staring back at me through the monitor’s black mirrored glass. I almost glance away, too ashamed to see myself: the intruder. Then the screen comes to life. There’s no passcode required, and it’s already open tohis vacant home screen, which displays a wallpaper of one of his finished watercolors—a stormy coastline.
Glaring at both the Messages and Mail icons in his computer’s dock, I hesitate to click on either of them, counting the list of crimes I’ve committed thus far on one hand: trespassing, unlawful entry, infringement of privacy.
At least you didn’t open his mail, my mind offers darkly.
Hurry,another voice rushes.Before Rory catches you.Before Harrison comes back.
My hand claws around the mouse, and I shakily drag it to Messages—where I hope to find more than mundane work discourse. A list of contacts pops up, a peek at the latest message for each displayed underneath.
These are personal, private messages. They’re not meant for my eyes.
But then I think about how someone has been doing this to me, in Mom’s house. Someone nefariously traipsed into our space, disturbed packed belongings, did god knows what else. Someone did this to us. And there is a chance that person could be him.
I don’t recognize any of the names at first. But his contacts must be synced with his phone.
I click the New Message icon and begin typingAlice. I hoped nothing would come up. I’m here to be proved wrong, aren’t I? Everything goes out the window when Alice Bly appears in the dropdown list. I already knew they were familiar, but this proves somewhat recent correspondence.
Nothing comes up in the thread—no texting history with Mom. At the very least, they’ve never spoken on this machine. Or since he got it. Unless he bought this in the past few weeks, or deleted the messages, they didn’t text the night she died.
Rachel and Harrison are practically neighbors. She lives down the road, a cluster of houses away. She said she didn’t get a good look at him. But if it were Harrison, wouldn’t she have recognized him? Or was the storm too belligerent? Was it too dark?
I delete all traces of the new message and think of what to look up next.
Madisonis the next name I try. I almost don’t, knowing the history would have to span back over a year—since she went missing.
