“Intense?” I say, echoing Marnie’s description of Tom Royce.
“Yeah. But it’s a quiet intensity. Like there’s something simmering just below the surface. Those are the kind of people you need to watch out for. Thank God you were doing just that, Casey. If you hadn’t been watching, no one might have noticed any of this. Which means we can’t let up now. We need to keep watching him.”
I turn toward the lake, focused not on the Royce house but the water itself. Now streaked with afternoon sunlight, it looks peaceful, even inviting. You’d never guess how deep it is or how dark the water can get. So dark you can’t tell what’s down there.
Maybe Megan Keene.
And Toni Burnett.
And Sue Ellen Stryker.
Maybe even Katherine Royce.
Thinking about multiple women resting among the silt and seaweed makes me so woozy I grip the rocking chair’s armrests and look away from the water.
“I don’t think Wilma would like that,” I say. “You heard what she said. She wants us to stay out of the way and let the police handle it.”
“You’re forgetting she also said they wouldn’t have made the connection between Katherine and that postcard without us. Maybe we can find something else that will be of use to them.”
“What if we do? Will they actually be able to use it?”
I think about everything I saw in the Royce house. Katherine’s phone and clothes and the treasure trove of information on that laptop. It’s maddening that none of it can be used against Tom, even though all of it points to him being guilty of something.
“This is different than you breaking into their house. That was illegal. What I’m talking about isn’t.”
Boone lowers the binoculars and gives me a look bright with restless excitement. The opposite of how I’m feeling. Even though I have no idea what he’s planning, I don’t think I’m going to like it. Especially because it sounds like Boone has more in mind than just watching Tom’s house.
“Or we could do what Wilma told us to do,” I say. “Which is nothing.”
That suggestion does little to douse the fire in Boone’s eyes. In fact, he looks even more determined as he says, “Or we could stop by the store Megan Keene’s parents own. Maybe look around, ask a few innocent questions. I’m not saying we’ll crack this case wide open. Hell, most likely it’ll lead to nothing. But it’s better than sitting here, waiting and watching.”
He jerks his head toward the other side of the lake. There’s frustration in the gesture, telling me this isn’t just about Tom Royce. I suspect it’s really about Boone, having once been a cop, now longing to be part of the action again. I understand the feeling. I get fidgety every time I watch a really good movie or see a great performance on TV, my body longing to again get onstage or be in front of the camera.
But that part of my life is over now. Just as being a cop is for Boone. And playing detective isn’t going to change that.
“It could be exciting,” he says, nudging my arm with one of his formidable elbows. “And it’ll be good to get out of the house for a bit. When was the last time you left this place?”
“This morning.” Now it’s my turn to gesture to the Royce house. “Being in there was enough excitement for one day.”
“Suit yourself,” Boone says. “But I’m going with you or without you.”
I almost tell him it’ll be without me. I have no desire to get wrapped up in this more than I already am. But when I consider the alternative—being alone here, waiting for something to happen, trying not to watch when I know I will—I realize it’s best to stick with the hot former cop.
Besides, he’s right. It will do me some good to get away, and not just from the house. I need a break from Lake Greene itself. I’ve spent too much time gazing at the water and the home on the opposite shore. Which is exactly what I’ll be doing if Boone leaves alone. The idea of me sitting here, staring at the sun-speckled water, thinking about all the people who might be resting at the bottom, is so depressing I have no choice but to agree.
“Fine,” I say. “But you’re buying me an ice cream on the way home.”
A grin spreads across Boone’s face, one so big you’d think I just agreed to a game of Monopoly.
“Deal,” he says. “I’ll even spring for extra sprinkles.”
The store Megan Keene’s family runs is part supermarket, part tourist trap. Outside, facing the road in an attempt to lure passing motorists, is a chainsaw sculpture of a moose. Draped over the front door is a banner telling everyone they sell maple syrup, as if that’s a rarity in syrup-drenched Vermont.