“Why were you calling her?”
“Because I was worried,” Boone says. “I’d called her the day before, not getting any answer. And when I saw you break into the house, I called one last time, hoping that we were wrong and she was there avoiding me and that you barging in like that would force her to answer the phone and tell me she was okay.”
“Avoiding you? You told me you barely knew her. That you’d only met once or twice. You said the same thing to Wilma. That seems like a lot of concern for someone you claimed not to know very well.”
Boone sits back down at the counter, a smug look on his face. “You have no right to judge. You hardly knew Katherine.”
I can’t argue with that. Katherine and I were barely past the acquaintance stage when she disappeared.
“At least I didn’t lie about it,” I say.
“You’re right. I lied. There, I admitted it. I did know Katherine. We were friends.”
“Then why didn’t you say that? Why lie to me? To Wilma?”
“Because it was complicated,” Boone says.
“Complicated how?”
I think back to the afternoon I spotted Katherine in the water. There was one thing about that moment that should have bothered me then but ended up getting lost in the shuffle of everything else that’s happened.
Why hadn’t I seen her earlier?
I was there all afternoon, sitting on the porch, facing her house and dock. Even though it was far away and I hadn’t yet hauled out the binoculars—and even though I wasn’t paying much attention to the water—I would have noticed someone on the other side of the lake coming outside, strolling down their dock, diving in, and starting to swim.
But I saw nothing. Not until Katherine was in the middle of the lake.
Which meant she’d been swimming not from her side of the lake, but from mine. Specifically, the area of the Mitchell house, where the lake bends inward, partially hiding the shore.
“She was with you, wasn’t she?” I say. “The day she almost drowned?”
Boone doesn’t blink. “Yes.”
“Why?” Jealousy seeps into my voice, unintended yet also unavoidable. “Were you two having an affair?”
“No,” Boone says. “It was all very innocent. We met the night I arrived in August. She and Tom came over to introduce themselves and told me they were here until Labor Day and that I shouldn’t be a stranger. The next day, Katherine swam across the lake to my dock and asked me if I wanted to join her.”
“Do you think she was trying to seduce you?”
“I think she was just lonely. If she did have sex in mind, I didn’t pick up on it. She’s a supermodel, for Christ’s sake. She could have any man she wanted. No way did I suspect she was interested in me.”
All this aw-shucks modesty is an act. Boone knows exactly how good-looking he is. I picture him naked on the dock, bathed in moonlight, as beguilingly beautiful as Katherine herself. Now more than ever, I’m convinced he knew I was watching that night.
“So you went swimming together,” I say.
“A few times, yeah. But nothing more. Afterwards, we’d hang out on the deck and talk. She was really unhappy, that much was clear. She never said it outright. Just strongly hinted that things were bad between her and Tom.”
Katherine had done the same with me, dropping arch comments about the state of her marriage. Like Boone, I’d assumed she was sad, lonely, and looking for a friend. Which is why I had no reason to lie about the extent of our relationship.
“If it was all so innocent, why didn’t you come clean earlier?”
“Because it stopped being that way. Well, it almost did.” He slumps on the stool, as if telling the truth has made him exhausted. If it weren’t for his elbows on the counter propping him up, I assume he’d drop straight onto the floor. “The day after Labor Day, before she and Tom went back to New York, I kissed her.”
I picture a scenario similar to the two of us yesterday. Boone and Katherine sitting together, closer than they should be, the heat of attraction radiating from their bodies. I imagine Boone running a finger across her lower lip, leaning in, kissing the spot he’d just touched. Another smooth move.
“Katherine freaked out, left, went back to her fancy life with her billionaire husband.” Boone’s voice has turned hard—a tone I’ve never heard from him before. There’s an echo of anger and bitterness in it. “I never thought I’d see her again. Then, a few days ago, there she was, back in that house with Tom. She never told me they’d returned. Never stopped by to see me. I called her a few times, just to see how she was doing. She ignored them. And me.”