The Season of Sinking

by Daphne Woolsoncroft

Genres: Suspense; Mystery

Synopsis

In the second thriller from a hit true crime podcaster turned novelist, a woman’s unsettling past creeps back into her consciousness as she returns to her hometown and begins to suspect the locals are hiding a terrible secret swirling around her mother's recent death.

When Imogen Bly's mother suddenly passes away, she leaves her Seattle apartment and returns to Lake Blair—the picturesque Washington town where she grew up. After Imogen and her twin sister Amelia arrive, ready to pack up their mother's home, strange things begin to happen, reminding Imogen of her long‑held feelings of dread surrounding her hometown.

Imogen enlists the help of her first crush, next-door neighbor Rory, to uncover the truth about her mother's death and the traumatic event she experienced as a child. But is the boy who got away really the man with something to hide? Or is the suspicious neighbor in the house across the lake behind it all? When Imogen’s own family’s tragedies lead her to question the disappearance of a local young woman the previous year, her persistent unease becomes terrifyingly real and suddenly nowhere feels safe…

Release date: July 7, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

For six seconds my eyes have been open, and I already process the rain sliding in silver rivers down the glass outside my fourth-story apartment windows, refracting the streetlamp’s glow in hundreds of trembling droplets. And I can feel it, the sweat curling around the crest of my hairline, the hum of Seattle’s quieted nightlife vibrating beneath my ribs, and I know I’m okay.

Still. None of it calms me when the sweat turns cold against my raised flesh, and I remember it was only The Nightmare. Tears brim behind my eyelashes as fear pins me to the bed in the darkness—save for that petite sliver of streetlamp shine, casting its faint glow into my bedroom. I beg it to comfort me, to trick my subconscious into believing the waking world is gentler than the one I dream of.

But The Nightmare slides back in, thrusting into memory like an unwelcome lover, all hard and fast, keeping me breathless and cursing its constancy.

A crash of glass.

Mom screaming my name.

The boy’s bloodied face.

Like sick clockwork, I dreamt of it again. The same confounding spectacle that has plagued me sporadically since childhood.

“It’s over. You’re awake,” I whisper soothingly, swiping my wet forehead.

I push my lips into a hollow O and breathe out, forcing back the nausea, searching manically for a sudden distraction. Then I hear the low hum of boats on the Puget Sound only blocks away, preparing to dock with plentiful seafood deliveries as dawn rises. And I know that, in a few hours, Alaskan salmon and halibut from said boats will be thrown across Pike Place Market by bearded men in rubber fishing bibs—who will loudly echo the fish’s name with each brawny toss—to entertain the tourists, and I picture it.

Halibut!

Halibuuut!

A twitch pulls at the corner of my lip when I visualize the tourists laughing and pointing their phones at the handsome men repeating their silly act for the hundredth time that day, shoveling samples of mac and cheese and clam chowder into their mouths, hungry, too, for the show.

I take a deep breath, gently shoving the duvet off my heated skin and propping myself on my palms, scanning my small bedroom for intruders. Because The Nightmare always makes me feel like I’m being haunted.

No ghosts.

I roll over and kneel, my posture mocking prayer, and face the wall behind my headboard. With a tug, the curtain spills open to reveal brick buildings and windswept trees, their outlines bleary in the dimness. And there are the trusty streetlamps, illuminating the sidewalks for no one, as it’s too early for anyone other than the fishermen. I can’t even hear the twitter of birds yet.

I unlatch the windowpane, desperate for a misted breath of night, to feel the outside world on my skin, like an embrace from my neighborhood. Instead, it steals any air I still had. I suddenly remember that I live in a haunted house of my own. One that ensures I’m constantly tormented during my waking hours.

My mother is dead.

I drive through pea-soup fog and horizontal rain on my way out of Seattle. The highway’s traffic is light for a Wednesday afternoon, empowering me to speed past those on the slightly clogged lane beside me, full of people driving back from work in the city. Many locals who live in my picturesque hometown make their money in Seattle and end their day in a place that feels far more removed than a forty-five-minute commute. That’s something Mom always loved about living on Lake Blair: being immersed in nature but close to excitement if she ever chose to seek it.

Terribly exhausted from interrupted sleep, I sip coffee as I drive and pretend it didn’t take the sun coming up at 7:00 to comfort me back to a short snooze, stretching slumber into late morning.

Earlier, as I lay atop my duvet in the throes of grief, eyes swollen with warm tears, I could practically feel Mom’s fingernails tidying my honeyed locks, soothing me to sleep as she did when I awoke from the same nightmare as a child. Impossible to pinpoint the source of terror, as the dream’s details disappear upon waking. I only ever remember violence, some unknown scandal lurking in the depths of my subconscious. But the storyline never mattered, so long as Mom heard my whimpers from the neighboring room and came in, soft fingertips and steadying comfort at the ready.

The giant evergreen firs engulf the road, leaving a strip of charcoal skies overhead, matching my mood. My hands grip the cold steering wheel as wind twirls the left side of my hair like a twister. I find myself mesmerized by the blustering soundtrack it creates—if only for a short spell. It’s the third day of autumn, and the weather report boasts sunless skies and light rain for the rest of the week, but I don’t mind. Breathing in the crisp Pacific Northwest air, I hug the trickling river beyond the guardrail and the bright, moss-covered trees lined up along it. The wiper blades on my car work tirelessly to keep droplets out of view as I stare blankly out the windshield. As I pull off the highway toward Lake Blair, I somewhat come to life when I recognize the pungent aroma of grand fir trees, their tantalizing notes of citrus reminiscent of a freshly peeled tangerine.

That juicy familiarity sours as I begin to pass landmarks of my childhood, an inexplicable uneasiness replacing all feeling.

I fled this place nearly as soon as I reached adulthood, keeping in consistent communication with Mom over weekly phone calls, or texts every couple of days about her burning the weekly batch of cookies again, or we’d send each other smiling selfies wherever we were. After I moved into the city years ago, I didn’t let myself come back to Blair for a long time. I almost had to force myself to return for holidays, or lake events Mom put on, as something about being in this town never felt right to me, like there are ghosts all over the place. I just can’t see them.

A stickiness settles in my gut as I spy my favorite video store that stubbornly still resides on the same street corner it’s inhabited my entire life. Shortly past it: my middle school. Then the authentic Italian sandwich shop I’d visit nearly every day after class with Amelia.

My twin sister drove separately so neither of us would be stranded out here without a car, already anticipating the desire to flee at any given moment if it all becomes too much. It’s an idea that would’ve never materialized years ago, when we were still interwoven as fraternal twins, inseparable for every movement and chapter. Unexpected forces picked our sisterhood apart thread by thread, with the norm becoming canceled plans on account of her boyfriends, or her job, or her friends. Amelia’s to-do list, for a while now, is always full and purposeful. Absent of any space for her sister, Imogen, making the idea of being under the same roof again, in a word, comforting. In another, nostalgic. Until I remember why we’re doing it.

I stop my car at the bottom of the driveway, and I don’t even remember how I got here. I look to my right and see what used to be the Turners’ house, a sweet older couple who made jam out of their kitchen and sold it at the local farmers market every Sunday. They had lived in that house since I was a baby. But both died over the past few years, Mom told me. Now the plaque on their mailbox reads THE WICKERS.

To my left, just before our house, it appears the Holloways still reside in the pastel-green lakefront manor at the end of the cul-de-sac, as I recognize their son Rory’s old motorcycle behind the gate.

Does he still live there?

I lost touch with Rory after high school graduation and never saw him or his family during my infrequent visits here over the years. Due to his sort of brooding, creative persona, I can see him as a guerilla artist living in San Francisco now. Or a failed New York City poet surviving off wired checks from his rich hippie parents. Or maybe he still lives here, on Lake Blair, stunted from becoming anything at all.

Our neighbors to the right are the Bensons, who definitely still live in their house, but only seasonally. And right now, I’d consider this off-season. Meaning they’re probably back in Los Angeles, excitedly shoving their kids off to private school.

Although we’re at the top of a private driveway, Mom wanted us to be part of the neighborhood. She was always getting everyone together for soirees or potlucks. Our house was regularly full of people and life.

I shudder at the thought of how ominously empty it’s been recently.

I hit the gas and cruise around the corner until I reach the top of the driveway. When I park, my mouth fills with saliva, nausea taking over. I didn’t plan for this part. The getting out. The walking to the door, the entering of the house. And I didn’t think about how much it was going to hurt going through all her things once I finally made it inside. I’d probably see unused and nearly spoiled cookie dough sitting in her fridge, begging to be baked by her. Or I’d get random wafts of the cinnamon pine cones that have always sat on her mantel. Or recognize her handwriting on random Post-it notes within her desk drawers.

Part of me didn’t plan on making it here at all. There was always the possibility I’d get into a head-on collision during the gloomy drive over, relieving me from living with this bottomless melancholy.

But here I am. Staring at the front door of the first place I ever lived. The house Mom brought me to from the hospital. The house I inhabited for my first nineteen years.

Amelia isn’t here yet, so I wait in the car, happy to push off the unimaginable for as long as possible.

I’m not going in there alone, I tell myself.

But the “pushing this off” thing turns into anxiety and anticipation. And I no longer want any part of it. I want to burst through the door and get it done and move forward.

I grab my cell phone from the cupholder and check Amelia’s location, hoping she left at our agreed time. Knowing her, I’m surprised she didn’t arrive before me. I look at the reading on my location app.

Amelia, Blair, WA • Now, 1 mile

As the rain lets up, I exit my car and stand in the driveway, allowing my eyes to roam across the Tudor-style home. I can’t help but smile at its gables, and original front door, and tree-covered serenity. To anyone else, the sight could evoke visions of baked goods in the windowsill or a straw-hatted woman trimming shrubs in the English knot garden on the west side of the house. I let myself imagine that for a few lovely moments, until it’s wiped out by all the sadness spilling from its attractive chimney. As though when I finally open the front door, I’ll be knocked off my feet by the physicality of its gloom.

I walk to the edge of the property to glance at the lake, sloshing away from the mild, late-September storm. The leaves are just starting to turn and fall from their hosts, painting the scene with red and orange and yellow.

This was Mom’s favorite time of year, and she just missed it.

Lost in thought, I jump a little when I hear Amelia’s car pulling up, pebbles popping under her car’s tires. Before her car even stops bouncing from being thrown into park, she leaps out and hugs me. It’s the kind of hug I lose myself in and dread the moment we will pull apart. Because for this moment, time stops. I feel warm and safe. It’s been nearly a week since I’ve seen her, yet somehow it feels like the first time we’ve been in the other’s presence since before. Neither of us says a word; we just cry for a long while into each other’s shoulder.

I don’t know how I will bear the weight of this pain for the rest of my life, and I don’t want to. I’m desperate to rewind and find a way to undo it.

Throughout my entire school career, from elementary to high school, the sirens of ambulances passing my school struck stark fear into me that Mom had died in some kind of accident. That in the moment I was hearing the wailing, her body was being carted away to the hospital one town over, minutes away from being pronounced dead, and I’d never see her again. I’d get a note from my teacher that the principal wanted to see me. And there, a police officer would be waiting to deliver the earth-shattering news that my mother didn’t make it and that I was parentless. To get ahead of the panic, I’d covertly slip her a text message telling her I loved her, or I’d ask her what she was doing. Until I heard back, my heart would be thumping in agony, deducing my suspicions to fact. When I’d finally detect the vibration in my pocket, accompanied by the word Mom, I could take air in again.

Despite imagining her death innumerable times, I never truly thought about when it would happen. At least not until I was much older, when I had kids of my own. Until she was feeble and delicate, and we saw it coming distantly. Its instantaneous nature couldn’t have been further from anticipated.

Amelia drops her arms and pushes her forehead against mine, likely mirroring my thoughts.

I stare at her. The girl who looks like me, but different. Reddish hair to my blonde, straight nose to my curved. Same blue-green eyes and heart-shaped lips. Like Mom’s, too.

I wipe the mascara flakes off our cheeks and take a deep breath, holding Amelia’s hand. My bangs push off my face as the howling wind sweeps those newly fallen leaves around our feet, dancing as though we’re at a party. I want to kick them for having so much fun.

Despite the bit of distance, I can hear the Holloways’ wind chimes collide, mimicking clanging church bells in a vacant courtyard. This sets an eerier tone for what I’m about to do, but we clunk along the flagstone walkway to the front door anyway and brace for emotional impact.

I fumble with my keys to find the one for the house and nearly crash into the entry’s coatrack as the security system robot voice blares in my right ear: “Front door open.”

Yes, I know the front door is open, I think. I’m the one opening it.

I turn toward the panel, hoping to switch it off, nearly hitting the Panic button instead, which would surely send police swarming. I shrug, giving up, hoping the notifications will become a comfort.

As I spin around, I’m struck with the smell of winter spices from those pine cones on her mantel. The ones I knew would be there.

It feels like she’s here with us now. Like at any second, she’ll round the corner, ready to greet me with her bright white smile and awkward hug, bending over and squeezing my abdomen like she’s the child. Her positive effervescence glowed; it was tangible. She was everyone’s favorite person.

I pull my damp boots off and place them on the rack by the door, turning up the thermostat above it to warm the house, which presently is chilly and depressing. Amelia just stands in the living room looking around, not saying anything. She walks around the house aimlessly, visibly lost and likely wishing one of the exposed beams above would fall and crush her.

I glide across the hardwood with purpose and light a fire in the stone fireplace using a box of matches I find atop the mantel before heading into the open-concept kitchen to put on some tea. I spend too much time picking out a mug as a mode of distraction.

When the kettle starts to whistle, I pour scalding water on an Earl Grey tea bag, watching it twirl around the mug and blow up like blistered skin. I almost feel bad for it.

“Imogen?” Amelia asks softly.

Her voice sounds distant at first, like I’ve fallen into my cup and my hearing is muffled from the water clogging my ears. Soon enough, I snap back to reality, my unblinking eyes stinging. I meet her gaze.

“Did you hear me?” she asks, taking a brief beat. “What’s our plan?”

I lick my dry lips and think. “I guess we just keep whatever we want to keep. Whatever’s sentimental,” I manage to say. “And the rest…” I trail off.

Thinking about getting rid of anything in this house makes me numb. I don’t even want to sell the place. But neither of us wants to live out here on the lake, and although many happy, wonderful memories crowd this house, I can’t imagine residing here without Mom.

Part of me wants to sit on it a little longer and think about what we’re doing. Mom’s been gone for two weeks, and it feels like we’re already putting her in the past. Leaving her behind. Maybe I’ll have kids someday. Raise them on this lake like Mom did us. Spend weekend nights snuggled up with them on the island that sits in the middle of the lake, watching old movies on the projector with neighbors while snacking on hot popcorn. Springing off the rope swing into the water and teaching them how to swim in the same place I was taught. Watching them run around the supposedly haunted community center with friends from next door, hoping to spot a spirit in the windows like we did, scaring each other in the process.

As these memories occupy my mind, dark clouds appear over them. Because something about this community also brings fear, uncertainty, bitterness. I can’t put my finger on why I feel this way, but I always have. There’s an eeriness in the air, a weight. A dark presence.

Aside from the looming negativity, I know that if we keep this house with all her things in it and leave for the city like we did years ago, we’ll be abandoning her again. As much as I don’t want to go through the compulsory ceremony that is losing someone I love so profoundly, I know I can’t do that properly until I deal with the house.

I grab my cup of tea and glance up at Amelia, who is still in the living room. She turns on the TV to liven up the place, and I sit at the kitchen counter swirling honey into my mug, too sickened to actually take a sip.

“It’s supposed to rain again tonight,” Amelia says, fussing at her ginger locks. “Want to help me bring in the cardboard boxes?”

I slip my boots back on and trudge outside with her to pull flattened stacks of boxes in four sizes from her back seat.

“Thanks for getting all this,” I blurt.

“We’ll probably end up needing more, but this should get us through the first few days,” Amelia says. “Sorry you have to start packing without me. I know it’ll be hard being here alone.”

I almost forgot she’ll be back at work in the morning, putting most of the packing on me. A lump forms in my esophagus at the thought.

“It’s okay. I know your job is more important than mine,” I say, balancing a stack of boxes on my head and jogging to the porch. And I meant it. But it didn’t come out that way.

Miscalculating how close the boxes are to the wall, I smack into the front of the house and lose my balance, dropping the boxes and knocking over a floor lantern next to the entry mat. Luckily, it doesn’t shatter.

“Are you okay?” Amelia asks, sounding almost frustrated.

I wave her off.

Under the lantern is a spare house key, painted to look like a single rose. It’s the same key my mom had customized for the house long ago, to match the one on her own set, and mine and Amelia’s. I put the large lantern back on top of it, grab the dropped boxes, and head inside.

After suffering through a silent dinner of frozen pizza with Amelia, we retire to our old bedrooms. I drag my bloated overnight bag into mine and choke down any sense of nostalgia that rises in me. My Alfred Hitchcock posters still caress the walls, sans the layers of dust I’d expect on account of the room’s vacancy. It’s just like Mom to continue to clean it after I’ve gone, yearning for the day I’d come back and need a bedroom again.

I let myself look at old photos pinned on my bulletin board: a Polaroid of Amelia sitting on the hood of my first car, a few of me and my high school friends, a photo booth set of my old boyfriend Aiden and me after seeing a horror movie in the city, and one where I look very young. Maybe first grade. Sporting a white T-shirt, denim shorts, and pigtails, I showed off my crooked front tooth with a big thumbs-up at what looks like a lake party. I see my mom in the background laughing, and some neighbor kids I grew up with. My first best friend, Laura; my first crush, Rory Holloway; and another boy with dark hair, who I don’t recognize, probably since I can’t see his face under his sweeping mop of hair.

I switch on my bedside lamp and close the curtains before changing into sweats and a T-shirt and collapsing onto the full-sized bed. The springs squeak below my back, the mattress almost as old as the TV that sits upon my desk. Holding the lake party photo in hand, I stare hard at Mom, hoping to commit this version of her to memory. Nineties blonde bob. Always smiling. Constant attention from friends, her daughters. When everything was bliss.

I miss her so much.

I pull my knees and duvet against my chest, hugging it like a makeshift body pillow. Trembling as I choke back sobs, I struggle to keep Amelia from hearing me in the other room. Taking the blanket in my mouth, I bite hard and let the tears flow, down feathers masking any pathetic sounds that escape from my throat. I stay like this for minutes until my eyes run dry. For a while, the crying continues anyway, with mousy whimpers being the only proof of a breakdown. Until finally, exhaustion takes over and numbness fills me.

Everything will be okay, I lie.

At last, Imogen Bly has returned to Lake Blair.

He knew she must have come back to find him, homesick for him. Why else would she return? Others might say grief brought her back here. But he knew better. Imogen wasn’t here for her dead mother. She was here for him.

He’d found her in Seattle four months ago, years between their last meeting. His surprise was evident when he noticed her behind the counter of Bar Henry, a spot he’d stumbled into by chance. But it wasn’t chance. He knew it had to be fate, walking into that particular bar on that particular night. He didn’t even li. . .