I fucking refuse.
I run a hand along the lake bed, seeking out a rock I can use to hit Tom. Maybe it’ll be enough to make him stop pressing against my throat. Maybe he’ll let go entirely. Maybe I’ll be able to escape.
Instead of a rock, my fingernails brush glass.
The wine bottle.
I reach for it, grab it by the neck, swing.
The bottle bursts from the surface, slicing through the air before slamming into the side of Tom’s skull.
His hands fall away from my neck as he grunts, sways, topples over. I rise from the water. Tom splats into it, facedown and motionless.
On the other side of the lake, police cars have started to gather in the Royces’ driveway. Their lights reflect off the water in spinning streaks of red, white, and blue as officers swarm the back patio and rush inside.
Wilma got my message.
Thank God.
I try to stand, but am only able to bring myself into a kneeling position. When I attempt to yell to the cops, my cries come out a muted croak. My throat’s too battered.
Next to me, Tom remains facedown in the water. Just above his left ear is a small crater where the bottle connected with his skull. Blood pours from it, mixing with the water and forming a black cloud that blooms and spreads.
I know he’s dead the moment I flip him over. His eyes are as dull as old nickels and his body eerily still. I touch his neck, finding no pulse. Meanwhile, the blood continues to ooze from the dent in his head.
I finally stand, bending my legs to my will. The wine bottle, still intact, remains gripped in my hand. I take it to shore, placing it in a strip of rocks between lake and land.
Behind me, Tom jerks back to life with a watery gasp.
Not a shock.
Not in this lake.
I march back into the water and grab his arms. I try not to look at him, but it can’t be avoided as I drag him ashore, making sure no part of his body is still touching the lake. He catches my eye and smiles.
“We need to stop meeting like this,” he says before hissing the nickname I’m both dreading and expecting. “Cee.”
“We will,” I say.
I grab the bottle, smash it against the rocks, and, with a stab and a twist, drive the jagged edge into his throat until I’m certain he’ll never be able to speak again.
LATER
I’m the last one awake.
Of course.
It’s easy to sleep in now that the sun’s path in the sky has changed with the seasons, entering the row of windows at an oblique angle that misses the bed entirely. When I do rise, the smell of coffee and the sounds of cooking are already slipping under the door. Everyone else, it seems, has been up for ages.
Downstairs, I find the kitchen abuzz with activity. Marnie and my mother huddle at the stove, debating the correct way to make French toast. I kiss them both on the cheek and let them bicker while I pour a cup of coffee.
In the dining room, Eli and Boone set the table. Six place settings in all.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Boone says. “We thought you’d never get up.”
I take a sip of coffee. “I was tired. Had a long night.”
“New Year’s Eve will do that to you.”
We all rang in the new year on the back porch, raising glasses of ginger ale in a toast at the stroke of midnight.
It was a good night.
That got even better.
“Casey could learn a thing or two from you about being an early riser,” my mother tells Boone from the kitchen. “When I got up this morning, you were already awake and your bed already made.”
Across the dining room, Boone gives me a sneaky look that almost makes me break out into laughter. We’re still not sure if my mother hasn’t yet figured out that we’re together or if she realized it weeks ago and is now toying with us. Either way, it’s a game we all seem to enjoy. Unlike Monopoly, which Boone beats me at every damn time.
I haven’t told him the truth about what really happened to Katherine and how I knew that Len murdered three women. The same goes for Marnie and my mother. They, like most of America, still think Katherine got lost on a hike—her sense of direction addled by the small doses of poison Tom had been slipping her—and that I found the hair and driver’s licenses of the three missing women while going through Len’s belongings.
I plan on telling Boone, Marnie, and my mother the truth someday. I really do. I just need more time. It was hard enough admitting to Boone that I’d watched him from the porch as he stood naked on the Mitchells’ dock.
He told me he had assumed that.
He also suggested I do it again as soon as the weather gets warmer.