The House Across the Lake(32)

Tom squints, scratches the back of his neck, and then folds his arms tight across his chest. “She said she didn’t want to be here when Hurricane Trish passed through. She was worried. Big house. Strong winds. All this glass.”

That’s the opposite of what Katherine told me yesterday. According to her, it was Tom who was concerned about the storm. Still, it’s certainly possible me talking about being without power for days made her change her mind. Just like it’s also possible she’s not into roughing it as much as she claimed.

But then why is she gone while Tom remains?

“Why didn’t you go with her?” I ask.

“Because I’m not worried about the storm,” Tom says. “Besides, I thought it best to stick around in case something happens to the place.”

A rational answer. One that almost sounds like the truth. I’d be inclined to believe it if not for two things.

Number one: Tom and Katherine fought last night. That almost certainly has something to do with why she left so suddenly.

Number two: It doesn’t explain what I heard this morning. And since Tom isn’t going to mention it, it’s up to me.

“I thought I heard a noise this morning,” I say. “Coming from this side of the lake.”

“A noise?”

“Yes. A scream.”

I pause, waiting to see how Tom reacts. He doesn’t. His face remains still as a mask until he says, “What time?”

“Just before dawn.”

“I was asleep long past dawn,” Tom says.

“But I thought that’s when Katherine left?”

He stands frozen for a second, and at first I think I’ve caught him in a lie. But he recovers quickly, saying, “I said she left early. Not at dawn. And I don’t appreciate you insinuating that I’m lying.”

“And I wouldn’t need to insinuate that if you just told me a time.”

“Eight.”

Even though Tom throws out the number like he’s just thought of it, the timeline fits. It takes a little under five hours to get from here to Manhattan, making it more than conceivable that Katherine would be there by now, even with a lengthy pit stop.

Tom lifts a hand to his cheek, rubbing the spot where it connected with his wife’s fist. “I don’t understand why you’re so curious about Katherine. I didn’t know the two of you were friends.”

“We were friendly,” I say.

“I’m friendly with lots of people. That doesn’t make it okay to interrogate their spouses if they went somewhere without telling me.”

Ah, the old minimize-a-woman’s-concern-by-making-her-think-she’s-obsessed-and-slightly-hysterical bit. I expected something more original from Tom.

“I’m simply concerned,” I say.

Realizing he’s still rubbing his cheek, Tom drops his hand and says, “You shouldn’t be. Because Katherine’s not concerned about you. That’s the thing you need to understand about my wife. She gets bored very easily. One minute, she wants to leave the city and drive up here to the lake for two weeks. A couple of days after that, she decides she wants to go back to the city. It’s the same with people. They’re like clothes to her. Something she can try on and wear for a while before moving on to the newest look.”

Katherine never gave off that vibe. She—and the brief connection we had—seemed genuine, which makes me think even more that Tom is lying.

Not just about this.

About everything.

And I decide to call his bluff.

“I talked to Katherine last night,” I say. “It was after one in the morning. She told me you two had a fight.”

A lie of my own. A little one. But Tom doesn’t need to know that. At first, I think he’s going to tell another lie in response. There’s something at work behind his eyes. Wheels turning, seeking an excuse. Finding none, he finally says, “Yes, we fought. It got heated. Both of us did and said things we shouldn’t have. When I woke up this morning, Katherine was gone. That’s why I was being vague about everything. Happy now? Or are there even more personal questions about our marriage you’d like to ask?”

At last, Tom seems to be telling the truth. Of course that’s likely what happened. They had a fight, Katherine left, and she’s now in New York, probably calling the most expensive divorce lawyer money can buy.

It’s also none of my business, a fact I never seriously considered until this moment. Now that I have, I find myself caught between vindication and shame. Tom was wrong to imply I was being obsessive and hysterical. I was worse: a nosy neighbor. A part I’ve never played before, either on-stage or onscreen. In real life, it’s not a good fit. In fact, it’s downright hypocritical. I, of all people, know what it feels like to have private problems dragged out for public scrutiny. Just because it had been done to me doesn’t mean it’s okay for me to do it to Tom Royce.

“No,” I say. “I’m really sorry to have bothered you.”

I slink back down the dock and step into the boat, already making a to-do list for when I get back to the lake house.

First, toss Len’s binoculars into the trash.

Second, find a way to occupy myself that doesn’t involve spying on the neighbors.

Third, leave Tom alone and forget about Katherine Royce.