Wilma doesn’t take her eyes off the licenses and locks of hair. She knows what it all means.
“All three women are in the lake.” I point to Old Stubborn, now a silhouette in the quickening dusk. “Right there.”
“How do you know?”
“Because there’s no other place my husband would have put them.”
I can’t tell her the truth, for oh so many reasons, the chief one being that she wouldn’t believe me. My hope is that this—one wife confiding to another—might be enough to convince her.
“I’ll bring in divers tomorrow and see if you’re right,” she says. “If you are, well, life’s about to get a whole lot more complicated for you. People will know your husband was a killer—and they’re going to judge you for it.”
“I know.”
“Do you? This is a lot more damning than a tabloid headline,” Wilma says. “You’re going to spend the rest of your life tied to that man. You can try to distance yourself from his actions, but it’ll be hard. You might not be able to show your face in public for a very long time.”
I think about that picture of me raising a glass to the paparazzi that ran on the front page of the New York Post. “I’ve already got that covered. Besides, I just want there to be justice. I want everyone who knew and loved Megan, Toni, and Sue Ellen to know what happened to them—and that the man who did it can’t hurt anyone else.”
Quiet settles over the boat—a moment of silence for the three women whose bodies now rest far below. When it ends, the last of the sunset has slipped behind the mountains, leaving the two of us sitting in the murkiness of early evening.
“How long have you known?” Wilma says.
“Long enough.”
“Enough to have taken matters into your own hands?”
“If I did,” I say, “it’ll be awfully hard to prove now.”
I stay motionless, too nervous to move as I wait for Wilma’s response. She doesn’t make it easy for me, taking almost a full minute before saying, “I suppose you’re right.”
Hope blooms in my chest. I think that this is maybe, hopefully, possibly one of those rare exceptions Wilma talked about earlier.
“Len was cremated, after all,” I say. “There’s no body to examine.”
“That makes it impossible,” Wilma says. “Besides, I see no reason to reopen that case, considering no foul play was ever found in the first place.”
I exhale, letting go of most of the fear and tension that had been rising inside of me. Apparently it’s my lucky day. I was given a second chance at life by Katherine Royce. Now here’s Wilma Anson offering me a third.
I have enough self-awareness to know I don’t deserve them.
But I’ll accept them all the same.
All that remains is concern over one small loose end.
“What about the postcard?”
“What about it?” Wilma says. “That thing’s been examined six ways to Sunday. We’ll never know who sent it. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if it just up and vanished from the evidence room. Things like that get lost all the time.”
“But—”
She stops me with a look uncharacteristically readable in every way. “Are you seriously going to argue with me about this? I’m giving you an out, Casey. Take it.”
I do.
Gladly.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome.” Two seconds pass. “Never bring it up again or I’ll change my mind.” Two more seconds. “Now take me back to shore. It’s late, and you’ve just given me a shitload of paperwork to deal with.”
Night has fully fallen by the time Wilma leaves. I go through the dark house turning on lights before heading to the kitchen to decide what to make for dinner. The glass of bourbon I poured last night still sits on the counter. The sight of it makes me quake with thirst.
I pick it up.
I bring the glass to my lips.
Then, thinking better of it, I take it to the sink and pour the bourbon down the drain.
I do the same with the rest of the bottle.
Then another.
Then all the bottles.
My mood swings like a pendulum as I rid the house of alcohol. There’s the same fury one feels when clearing out a no-good lover’s belongings. There’s I-can’t-believe-I’m-doing-this laughter. There’s excitement, wild and chaotic, along with catharsis and desperation and pride. And there’s sadness—a surprise. I didn’t expect to be mourning a drinking life that has only brought me trouble. Yet as the contents of bottle after bottle swirl down the drain, I’m overcome with grief.