“There are laws against spying on people, you know.”
“I wasn’t spying,” I say. “I was observing. Casually.”
“Right,” Wilma says, not even bothering to pretend she thinks I’m telling the truth. “How well do each of you know them?”
“Not well,” Boone says. “I met them a couple of times out and about on the lake.”
“I only met Tom Royce twice,” I say. “But Katherine and I have crossed paths a few times. She’s been over here twice, and we talked after I saved her from drowning in the lake.”
I know it’s wrong, but I’m pleased that last part of my sentence seems to surprise the otherwise unflappable Wilma Anson. “When was this?” she says.
“Day before yesterday,” I say, although it feels longer than that. Time seems to have stretched since I returned to the lake, fueled by drunken days and endless, sleepless nights.
“This incident in the lake—do you have any reason to believe her husband had something to do with it?”
“None. Katherine told me she was swimming, the water was too cold, and she cramped up.”
“When you talked to her, did Katherine ever give any indication she thought her husband was trying to do her harm? Did she say she was scared?”
“She hinted that she was unhappy.”
Wilma stops me with a raised hand. “That’s different than fear.”
“She also told me there were financial issues. She said she pays for everything and that Tom would never agree to a divorce because he needed her money too much. She told me he’d probably kill her before letting her leave.”
“Do you think she was being serious?” Wilma asks.
“Not really. At the time, I thought it was a joke.”
“Would you joke about a thing like that?”
“No,” Boone says.
“Yes,” I say.
Wilma brings the binoculars to her eyes again, and I can tell she’s zeroed in on the lit windows of the Royce house. “Have you seen anything suspicious inside? You know, while casually observing?”
“I saw them fighting. Late last night. He grabbed her by the arm and she hit him.”
“Then maybe it’s for the best that they’re currently apart,” Wilma says.
“I agree,” I say. “But the big question is where Katherine went. Her husband says she’s back at their apartment. I called a friend in the city, who went there and checked. The doorman said she hasn’t been there for days. One of them is lying, and I don’t think it’s the doorman.”
“Or maybe it’s your friend who lied,” Wilma says. “Maybe she didn’t talk to the doorman at all.”
I shake my head. Marnie wouldn’t do that, no matter how fed up she is with me.
“There’s also this.” I show Wilma my phone, Instagram already open and visible. “Katherine allegedly posted this from their apartment today. But this picture wasn’t taken today. Look at the leaves in the trees and the calendar on the wall. This was likely taken weeks ago.”
“Just because someone posts an old photo doesn’t mean they’re not where they say they are,” Wilma says.
“You’re right. But Katherine didn’t even take that picture. Her husband did. If you look closely, you can see his reflection in the teakettle.”
I let Wilma peer at the picture a moment before switching from Instagram to Mixer. I point to Katherine’s red triangle, nestled right next to the one belonging to her husband. “Why would Katherine post an old photo she didn’t even take? Especially when, according to the location-tracking software on her husband’s app, her phone is still inside that house.”
Wilma takes my phone and studies the map dotted with red triangles. “This is like a thousand privacy invasions in one.”
“Probably,” I say. “But don’t you think it’s weird Katherine would leave and not take her phone?”
“Weird, yes. Unheard of, no. It doesn’t mean Tom Royce did something to his wife.”
“But he’s covering up where she is!” I realize my voice is a bit too loud, a tad too emphatic. Faced with Wilma’s skepticism, I’ve become the impatient one. It also doesn’t help that I snuck two more gulps of bourbon while Boone used the powder room before Wilma arrived. “If Katherine’s not here, but her phone is, that means Tom posted that photo, most likely trying to make people think Katherine is someplace she’s not.”