A current of relief nudges me. Perhaps Parker and Meredith don’t live here after all. But the Wickers do—a new family. When the Turners lived here, this house barely had two bedrooms. Behind Pamela, I see the same honeyed 1960s wood paneling, the same low ceilings. As though no renovations have been done. Surely four adults couldn’t be crammed in here: Cale, Pamela, Parker, Meredith. The thought should reassure me… but it doesn’t. Because if this isn’t their home, then how did the index card lead me here? How does Cale Wicker tie both this house and the Seattle one together? The relief drains out as quickly as it came, leaving the itch of suspicion worming back in.
“Nice to meet you, Pamela. Do you live alone?”
She looks beside her, as though someone is standing just out of sight. But I don’t hear anyone.
“How rude of me,” she says. “Would you like to come in? I’m always happy to get to know a new neighbor. Y-you can tell me about what brought you to the area.”
A pricking sensation rises on the back of my neck. Something isn’t right about this woman. And as I have no intention of sitting in her living room and conjuring up more lies, I decline her invitation.
“I’d love that,” I lie, “but I’m just making my rounds quickly before work. Let’s raincheck?” I begin to turn.
“Wait!” Pamela blurts. “H-how will we have that raincheck if I don’t have your phone number? Or know which house you live in?”
Pamela’s mouth has dropped into an anxious cradle again. Like a marionette whose strings have been cut.
My brain howls:Run. Forget the pleasantries. Go home to Imogen.
But my lips betray me, forming words I don’t even mean.
“Well. I’m only two doors down on the other side,” I lie. “You can stop by—”
Before I can finish my sentence, I’m interrupted by a male voice suddenly coming from somewhere close inside the house.
“Fuck this,” he snaps.
Before I know what’s happening, a tall man appears beside Pamela. In an instant, his fingers hook around my wrists, hauling me into the house before I can scream. My feet skid on the rug as the door slams behind me like a gunshot.
Pamela flips the dead bolt. The back of my head hits the floor as I’m flung downward, hard. The man pins me, leaving my body defenseless. I cry out, attempting to cushion my skull, but I can’t move my arms.
“You can’t do anything right, Mother!” he roars at Pamela, his reddening face hanging over me.
Cartoon stars swarm my periphery as he grips my jaw between thumb and forefinger, forcing my gaze to lock on his.
“Hello, Amelia.” The sudden softness in his tone is worse than the anger. It’s gentle, almost nurturing in a way that’s insincere.
My breathing quickens to a full panic. My vision clears in shaky bursts, and I see him properly. Late twenties, black hair plastered damp to a pale forehead, a faint scar dragging across his cheekbone.
“Why did you give us a fake name, ‘Amber’?” he asks, amused. “We know who you are.” His fingers pat my cheek in a mock caress. “Then again, I suppose we’ve been doing the same thing. Haven’t we, ‘Pamela’?” He throws the name over his shoulder, sneering.
My eyes dart to her, praying she’ll intervene, but she only cowers frozen behind him, arms wrapped around herself.
I try pushing up on my elbows, and he presses my head back against the floor with the flat of his palm. The sound of his tongue clucking, taunting me, makes my stomach flip.
He beams down at me, voice bright and casual. “I don’t think we had the official pleasure of meeting… way back when.” He pauses, smiles again. “I’m Parker Lane.”
40
IMOGEN
I pad on my tiptoes to the door as the incessant knocking continues.
The rain batters the roof, branches cracking against the windows from the wind’s fury. Whoever is outside is manning a storm to be here. My thumping heart tells me to ignore them, wait for them to leave, then jump in the car and speed off.
The knocking becomes louder, more determined.
I can’t see who it is without going outside, as the porch view is obstructed.
It might be the police…
