I call them without a second thought, toggling between the photo and my phone’s keypad until the number is typed in completely.
I hold my breath.
I hit the call button.
At the kitchen counter, Boone’s phone begins to ring.
NOW
What did you do with the girls after you killed them?” I say. “Are they here, in the lake?”
He lolls his head to the side and faces the wall. At first, I think he’s giving me the silent treatment again.
Rain slaps the window.
Just beyond it, something snaps.
A tree branch succumbing to the wind.
On the bed, he speaks, his voice only one step louder than the storm raging outside.
“Yes.”
The answer shouldn’t be a surprise. I think about the postcard, that bird’s-eye view of Lake Greene, the four words shakily written beneath three names.
I think they’re here.
Nevertheless, I’m hit with a tiny tremor of shock. I inhale. A rattling half gasp prompted by the confirmation that Megan Keene, Toni Burnett, and Sue Ellen Stryker have been at the bottom of the lake all this time. More than two years, in Megan’s case. A horrible way to be buried.
Only they weren’t buried here.
They were dumped.
Disposed of like pieces of trash.
Just thinking about it makes me so sad that I instantly have another sip of bourbon. When I swallow, the alcohol burns rather than soothes.
“Do you remember where?”
“Yes.”
He rolls his head my way again. As we lock eyes, I wonder what he sees in mine. I hope it’s what I’m trying to project and not my emotional reality. Steely reserve instead of fear, determination instead of unfathomable grief for three women I’ve never met. I suspect, however, that he can see right through me. He knows I act for a living.
“Then tell me,” I say. “Tell me where they can be found.”
He squints, curious. “Why?”
Because then the truth will be known. Not just that he killed Megan, Toni, and Sue Ellen, but what happened to them, where they were when they died, where they now rest. Then their families and friends, who have gone too long without answers, will be able to grieve and—hopefully, eventually—be at peace.
I don’t tell him this because I don’t think he cares. If anything, it might make him less willing to talk.
“Is this about finding them?” he says. “Or finding out what happened to Katherine?”
“Both.”
“What if only one of those things is possible?”
I slide a hand across the mattress until I’m touching the handle of the knife. “I think everything’s on the table, don’t you?”
He responds with an eye roll and a sigh, as if bored by the idea of me actually using the knife.
“Look at you acting all tough,” he says. “I have to admit, even this weak attempt at threatening me is a surprise. I might have underestimated you a little.”
I wrap my fingers around the knife. “More than a little.”
“There’s just one problem,” he says. “Some unfinished business I’m not sure you’ve thought of yet.”
In all likelihood, he’s right. There’s a lot I haven’t thought of. None of this was planned. I’m working without a script now, improvising wildly and hoping I don’t fuck it all up.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He moves his arms as far as they can go, the ropes binding them to the bedposts stretched taut. “And you’re clearly staying. Which leaves me curious about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“What you plan on doing with Tom Royce.”
BEFORE
I let the phone keep ringing, too stunned to end the call. For his part, Boone doesn’t bother to answer it. He knows who’s calling.
Me.
Trying to reach the same person who had called Katherine Royce.
“I can explain,” he says at the same time the call transfers to his voicemail recording, bringing two versions of Boone to my ears. They wind around each other, performing a surreal duet.
“Hi, I’m not available to take your call. Please—”
“—listen to me, Casey. I know what—”
“—your name and number, and I’ll—”
“—thinking, and I can assure—”
“—you back.”
I tap my phone, cutting off the recorded Boone as the real one gets up from the kitchen counter and takes a step toward me.
“Don’t,” I warn.
Boone raises his hands, palms up, in a gesture of innocence. “Please just hear me out.”