Without it, I wouldn’t be this worried.
Even if it was just my imagination, I can’t stop thinking about it.
I slump in the rocking chair, imitating the ache-inducing condition I woke up in. Eyes closed tight, I try to recall the exact sound I heard, hoping it will spark some revelation of memory. Although I bristled when she mentioned it, Marnie was right to say I drank too much last night. I did, with good reason, just like every night. But in my drunken stupor, it’s entirely possible I imagined that scream. After all, if Eli didn’t hear it and Tom didn’t hear it, then it stands to reason I didn’t really hear it, either.
Then again, just because no one else claims to have heard it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. When a tree falls in a forest, to use that hoary cliché, it still makes a sound. And as Mixer reminds me when I check my phone for the umpteenth time, there’s another person on this lake who I haven’t yet asked. I can see his little red triangle on my screen right now, located a few hundred yards from my own.
Yes, I know I promised Eli that I would stay away from him. But sometimes, such as now, a promise needs to be broken.
Especially when Boone Conrad might have the answer to what’s currently my most pressing question.
I stand, put away my phone, and hop down the porch steps. Rather than go to the front of the house and make the trek from driveway to driveway, I choose the same path Boone used the other day and cut through the woods between us. It’s a pretty route, especially with the setting sun casting its golden shine on this side of the lake. It’s so bright I have to squint as I walk. A welcome feeling that reminds me of being onstage, caught in the spotlight, warmed by its glow.
I loved that sensation.
I miss it.
If Marnie were here, she’d tell me it’s only a matter of time before I’m back treading the boards. I sincerely doubt it.
Up ahead, visible through the thinning trees, sits the hulking A-frame of the Mitchell house. Like the Royces’， it has large windows overlooking the lake, which now reflects the flaming hues of the sunset. That, coupled with the house’s shape, reminds me of a child’s drawing of a campfire. An orange triangle sitting atop a stack of wood.
As I push through the tree line into the Mitchells’ small, leaf-studded yard, I spot Boone on the back deck. Dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, he stands facing the lake, a hand shielding his eyes from the setting sun. Immediately, I understand that he, too, is watching the Royce house.
Boone seems to know why I’m here, because when he sees me crossing the lawn, a strange look passes over his face. One part confusion, two parts concern, with just a dash of relief for good measure.
“You heard it, too, didn’t you?” he says before I can get a word out.
“Heard what?”
“The scream.” He turns his head until he’s once again facing the Royce house. “From over there.”
Have you seen anything else?” Boone says.
“Only what I already told you.”
The two of us are on the back porch of my family’s lake house, me watching Boone watch the Royce house through the binoculars. He’s at the porch railing, leaning so far forward I worry he’ll break right through it and tumble to the ground below. He’s certainly big enough, which I realized only when we were standing face-to-face. Because I was above him during our first meeting, I couldn’t quite tell how tall he is. Now I know. So tall he towers over me as I stand next to him.
“You told me you’ve been here since August,” I say. “Did you ever meet Tom and Katherine?”
“Once or twice. I don’t know them very well.”
“Did you notice anything strange about them?”
“No,” Boone says. “Then again, I wasn’t watching them through these.”
He pulls the binoculars away from his eyes long enough to give me a grin, telling me he’s joking. But I detect a hint of judgment in the remark, suggesting he’s not totally okay with what I’ve been doing.
I’m not, either, now that I’m a foot away from the man I spied on while he was naked. At no point has Boone voiced suspicion that I had watched him skinny-dip the other night. In turn, I give no hints that I was indeed watching. It makes for an awkward silence in which I wonder if he’s thinking that I’m thinking about it.
On the other side of the lake, the Royce house remains dark, even though the cottony grayness of dusk has descended. Tom still hasn’t returned, as evidenced by the empty space under the portico where his Bentley should be.