Okay, maybe Marnie’s correct and I am a little obsessed with Katherine. Yes, some of that obsession is valid. Since I saved Katherine’s life, it’s only natural to be concerned with her well-being. But the truth is harsher than that. I became fixated on Katherine to avoid facing my own problems, of which there are many.
Annoyed—at Katherine, at Marnie, at myself—I grab the binoculars, carry them inside, and drop them into the trash. Something I should have done days ago.
I return to the porch and my go-to security blanket of bourbon, which I sip until Marnie calls back a half hour later, the familiar sounds of Manhattan traffic honking in the background.
“I already know what you’re going to say,” I tell her. “Katherine’s there. You were right and I was stupid.”
“That’s not what their doorman just told me,” Marnie says.
“You talked to him?”
“I told him I was an old friend of Katherine’s who just happened to be in the neighborhood and wondered if she wanted to grab lunch. I don’t think he believed me, but it doesn’t matter because he still told me that the Royces are currently at their vacation home in Vermont.”
“And those were his exact words?” I say. “The Royces. Not just Mr. Royce.”
“Plural. I even did the whole oh-I-thought-I-saw-Katherine-across-the-street-yesterday routine. He told me I was mistaken and that Mrs. Royce hasn’t been at the apartment for several days.”
A fierce chill grips me. It feels like I’ve just been thrown into the lake and am now lost in the water’s frigid darkness.
I was right.
Tom was lying.
“Now I’m really worried,” I say. “Why would Tom lie to me like that?”
“Because whatever’s going on is none of your business,” Marnie says. “You said yourself that Katherine seemed unhappy. Maybe she is. And so she left him. For all you know, there’s a Dear John letter sitting on the kitchen counter right now.”
“It still doesn’t add up. I did what you suggested and looked at her Instagram. She just posted a picture from inside her apartment.”
Marnie chews on that a minute. “How do you know it’s her apartment?”
“I don’t,” I say. I only assumed it was because Katherine said so in the caption and because it had a view of Central Park and looked to be roughly where the Royces’ apartment is located.
“See?” Marnie says. “Maybe Katherine told Tom she was going to the apartment but really went to stay with a friend or a family member. He might not have any clue where she is and was too embarrassed to admit that.”
It would be a sound theory if I hadn’t seen Tom’s comment on the picture.
Keep the home fires burning, babe!
“That means it really is their apartment,” I tell Marnie after explaining what I saw.
“Fine,” Marnie says. “Let’s say it is their apartment. That either means Katherine’s there and the doorman lied, or it means she posted a photo that was saved on her phone to hide the fact from her husband that she’s not really at their apartment. Either way, none of this points to Katherine being in danger.”
“But I heard Katherine scream early this morning,” I say.
“Are you certain that’s what you heard?”
“It wasn’t an animal.”
“I’m not suggesting it was,” Marnie says. “I’m merely saying that maybe you didn’t hear it at all.”
“You think I imagined it?”
The delicate pause I get in return warns me that Marnie’s about to drop a truth bomb.
A big one.
Atomic.
“How much did you have to drink last night?” she says.
My gaze is drawn to the mostly empty whiskey bottle still overturned on the porch floor. “A lot.”
“How much is a lot?”
I think it through, counting the drinks on my fingers. The ones I can remember, at least.
“Seven. Maybe eight.”
Marnie lets out a small cough to hide her surprise. “And you don’t think that’s too much?”
I bristle at her too-earnest tone. She sounds like my mother.
“This isn’t about my drinking. You have to believe me. Something about this situation isn’t right.”
“That might be true.” Marnie’s voice remains annoyingly calm. Like someone talking to a kindergartener throwing a tantrum. “It still doesn’t mean Tom Royce murdered his wife.”
“I didn’t say he did.”