The wind has picked up enough to whip the lake into unruliness. Trish, announcing her impending arrival. The water rolls toward the shoreline, slapping the stone retaining wall just beyond the porch. It sounds unnervingly like someone stomping through the water, and I can’t help but imagine the fish-pecked bodies of Megan Keene, Toni Burnett, and Sue Ellen Stryker rising from the depths and stepping onto shore.
Even worse is when I picture Katherine doing the same thing.
And worse still is imagining Len there as well, a mental image so potent I swear I can feel his presence. It doesn’t matter that, unlike the others, his body was found and cremated, the ashes sprinkled into this very lake. I still think he’s there, a few yards from shore, standing in the darkness as water laps past his knees.
You know the lake is haunted, right?
No, Marnie, it isn’t.
Memories, though, are a different matter. They’re filled with ghosts.
I drink more to chase them away.
Two—or three—glasses of bourbon later, the ghosts are gone but I’m still here, beyond buzzed and sliding inexorably into utter drunkenness. Tom’s still here, too, safe in his house that’s now bright as a bonfire.
Apparently Wilma didn’t want to haul him in for further questioning, or Tom somehow told enough lies to avoid it for now. Either way, it’s not a good sign. Katherine’s still missing, and Tom’s still walking free as if nothing is wrong.
Holding the binoculars with hands that are numb and unsteady from too much bourbon, I watch him through the kitchen window. He stands at the stove with a dish towel thrown over his shoulder like he’s a professional chef and not just a coddled millionaire struggling to reheat soup. Another bottle of five-thousand-dollar wine sits on the counter. He pours himself a glass and takes a lip-smacking sip. Seeing Tom so carefree while his wife remains unaccounted for makes me reach for the rocks glass and empty it.
When I stand to go inside and pour another, the porch, the lake, and the Royce house start listing like the Titanic. Under my feet, it feels like the earth is shifting, as if I’ve stumbled into some stupid disaster movie Len would have written. Instead of walking back to the kitchen, I stagger.
Okay, so I’m not nearing drunkenness.
I’ve already arrived.
Which means another drink won’t hurt, right?
Right.
I splash more bourbon into the glass and take it back outside, moving with caution. One foot slowly in front of the other like a tightrope walker. Soon I’m in the rocking chair, plopping into it with a giggle. After another sip of bourbon, I trade my glass for the binoculars and peer at the Royce house again, focusing on the kitchen.
Tom’s no longer there, although the soup remains. The pot sits on the counter next to the wine, wisps of steam still coiling in the air.
My gaze slides to the dining room, also empty, and then the large living room. Tom’s not there, either.
I tilt the binoculars slightly upward, tracing with my vision the same path I took in person earlier.
Exercise room.
Empty.
Master bedroom.
Empty.
Office.
Empty.
A worrisome thought pokes through my inebriation: What if Tom suddenly took off? Maybe he got spooked by his conversation with Wilma Anson. Or maybe she called him right as he was about to eat his soup, saying she wanted him to come in for formal questioning, which sent him running for his keys. It’s entirely possible he’s driving away this very second, speeding for the Canadian border.
I swing the binoculars away from the second floor toward the side of the house, looking for his Bentley. It’s still there, parked beneath the portico.
As I bring my gaze back toward the house, sliding it past the back patio strewn with dead leaves and the bare trees on the lakeshore that they’ve fallen from, I notice something on the Royces’ dock.
A person.
But not just any person.
Tom.
He stands at the end of the dock, spine as straight as a steel beam. In his hands are a pair of binoculars, aimed at this side of the lake.
And at me.
I duck, trying to hide behind the porch railing, which even in my drunken state I understand to be ridiculous on so many levels. First, it’s a railing, not a brick wall. I’m still visible between the whitewashed slats. Second, Tom saw me. He knows, like Katherine did, that I’ve been watching them.
Now he’s watching me back. Even though I’ve lowered the binoculars, I can still see him, a night-shrouded figure on the edge of the dock. He stays that way another minute before turning suddenly and walking up the dock.