That’s the realization that came over me as I rambled on the phone even though no one was listening. The story of my life. Right now, I have nothing and no one. Eli’s gone, Boone can’t be trusted, and Marnie wants nothing to do with this. I am completely alone, and it makes me utterly, unbearably sad.
I wipe my eyes, sigh, pick up the binoculars again because, hey, I have literally nothing else to do. I zero in on the Royces’ kitchen, where Tom has finished reheating the soup. Instead of a bowl, he pours it into a large thermos and screws on the lid.
Curious.
Thermos in hand, he opens a drawer and pulls out a flashlight.
Curiouser.
Soon he’s outside, the flashlight’s beam slicing through the darkness. Seeing it brings back a memory of the other night, when I noticed Tom do the same thing from the bedroom window. Although I couldn’t tell where he was going to or coming from then, I certainly do now.
The Fitzgeralds’ house.
In an instant, I go from buzzed to hyperalert, suddenly aware of everything. The clouds scudding in front of the moon. A loon hooting a lonely call in an unseen nook of the lake. The flashlight moving through the trees, bobbing and winking like a giant firefly. Another memory returns, pried loose by the sight.
Me against the door, Tom on the other side, shouting things I’d been too drunk and scared to comprehend.
You have no idea what’s going on, he said. Just leave us the fuck alone.
Us.
Meaning not just him.
Meaning someone else is a part of all this.
My chest expands. A bubble of hope, pushing against my rib cage.
Katherine could still be alive.
I wait to make my move until Tom completes the return trip to his house. It happens fifteen minutes later, the flashlight’s beam appearing outside the Fitzgerald place and moving in the opposite direction of its earlier path. I follow it with the binoculars all the way to the Royce house, where Tom turns off the flashlight just before going inside.
I put down the binoculars and spring into action.
Down the porch steps.
Across the yard.
Onto the dock.
It’s started to rain—fat drops that land hard on my face, my hair, the planks of the dock as I make my way to the boat moored to its end.
The wind has picked up, too, turning the lake choppy. The boat bobs and sways, making it difficult to step into and forcing me to do an awkward half leap from the dock. Once inside, I instantly regret the drinks I’ve had as the boat rides the ever-growing swells of the water.
I close my eyes, lift my face to the wind, and let the rain spatter my skin. It’s definitely not a cure-all. My stomach keeps churning and my head continues to ache. But the rain is cold enough to sober me up and painful enough to make me focus on what I need to do next.
Get across the lake.
I untie the boat from the dock, not daring to use the motor. I know how sound travels on this lake, even in a storm, and don’t want to risk getting caught. Instead, I paddle, using slow, measured strokes to counteract the roughness of the water. It’s exhausting—far more taxing than I expected—and I need to pause in the center of the lake to catch my breath.
As the boat continues to rise and fall, I swivel in my seat and look at every house on Lake Greene’s shore. My family’s house and the Fitzgerald place are so dark they almost blend in with the night. The same goes for Eli’s house, telling me he still hasn’t returned.
In contrast, the entire first floor of the Mitchells’ house is aglow, making me picture Boone pacing from room to room, angry at me. Then there’s the Royce place, dark on the first floor and only the window of the master bedroom lit on the second. Maybe Tom, finished with whatever needed to be done at the house next door, is going to bed, even though it’s only eight o’clock.
To the west, a rolling wall of pitch-black clouds blocks out the stars, the moon, most of the sky itself. It looks like a wave. One about to crash onto the valley and drown everything in its path.
The storm has arrived.
I resume rowing, now more worried about being out on the lake in worsening conditions than facing what awaits me on the other side. Already, the rain is falling harder, the wind is blowing stronger, and the water is churning faster. It takes three strokes of the paddle to go the distance of one in normal conditions. When I do eventually reach the other side of the lake, my shoulders are tight and aching, and my arms feel like jelly. I barely have the strength to moor the boat as it bucks in the wind, its side continually slamming against the Fitzgeralds’ dock.
Getting out of the boat requires another precarious leap, this time onto the dock. I then hurry to land, exhausted, nervous, and soaked to the bone. Overhead, thunder begins to rumble across the sky. Flashes of lightning illuminate the ground ahead as I swish across the yard to the French doors at the back of the Fitzgerald house.