The House Across the Lake(38)

“Do you think he’s going to come back?” I say. “Or did he get the hell out of Dodge?”

Boone returns to the binoculars. “I think he’ll be back. There’s still furniture on the patio. If he was leaving for the winter, he would have taken all of it inside.”

“Unless he had to leave in a hurry.”

Boone hands me the binoculars and lowers himself into a rocking chair, which creaks under his weight. “I’m not ready to think the worst.”

I felt the same way an hour ago, when I wasn’t sure the scream was real and there were logical reasons as to why Katherine wasn’t where Tom says she was. Now that Boone has confirmed what I heard and Katherine’s Mixer location marker remains parked at her house while her husband’s has long disappeared, I’m ready to let my suspicions run free.

“Where were you when you heard the scream?” I ask Boone.

“In the kitchen, making coffee.”

“Are you always such an early riser?”

“More like a very light sleeper.” Boone shrugs, and in that sad little lift of his broad shoulders, I sense a weary acceptance common among people haunted by something. It sucks, it seems to say, but what can you do? “The door to the deck was open. I like to hear the birds on the lake.”

“Because it’s too quiet otherwise.”

“Exactly,” Boone says, pleased I remember something from our first conversation. “I was just about to pour the coffee when I heard it. It sounded to me like it came from the other side of the lake.”

“How could you tell?”

“Because it would have sounded different on this side. Louder. I knew as soon as I heard it that it came from over there.” Boone points to the opposite shore, his finger landing between Eli’s house and the Royces’. “There was just enough distance for me to catch the echo.”

“Did you see anything?” I say.

Boone shakes his head. “I went out to look, but there was nothing to see. The lake was calm. The far shore appeared to be empty. It was like any typical morning out here.”

“Only with a scream,” I say. “You agree with me that it sounded like a woman, right?”

“Even more, I agree that it sounded like Katherine Royce.”

I leave the railing and drop into the rocking chair next to Boone. “Do you think we should call the police?”

“And tell them what?”

“That our neighbor is missing and we’re worried about her.”

On the table between us sit two glasses of ginger ale. Not my first choice of drink, but I would have felt bad nursing a bourbon in front of Boone. The ginger ale, which has been sitting in the fridge since the last time I stayed here, is flat as a map. Boone doesn’t seem to mind as he takes a sip and says, “We don’t want to do that just yet. First of all, we don’t know that Katherine is definitely missing. If we go to the police, the first thing they’re going to do is talk to Tom—”

“Who might be the reason Katherine is missing.”

“Maybe,” Boone says. “Maybe not. But when the police talk to him, he’ll likely tell them the same thing he told you and point to that Instagram post you showed me to prove it. That will make the cops back off. Not forever. Especially not if more people who know Katherine come forward to say they haven’t heard from her. But long enough to give Tom ample time to run.”

I glance to the far side of the lake and the empty spot where Tom’s car used to be parked. “If he hasn’t already started running.”

Boone lets out a grunt of agreement. “And that’s the big unknown right now. I think we should wait and see if he returns.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“I know someone we can call. She’s a detective with the state police, which is who’ll be investigating it anyway. If there even is something to investigate. We’ll tell her what the deal is and get her opinion. Right now, it’s best to be as discreet as possible. Trust me, Casey, we don’t want to make an accusation, get police and rescue involved, and then find out we were wrong the whole time. Cops frown upon that kind of thing.”

“How do you know so much about cops?”

“I used to be one.”

I’m caught by surprise, even though I shouldn’t be. Boone possesses a familiar kind-but-weary cop flintiness. And muscles. Lots of muscles. I don’t ask why he stopped being a cop and he doesn’t elaborate. Knowing that he’s now in AA, I can connect the dots myself.

“Then we’ll wait,” I say.

Which we do, sitting in relative silence as nightfall covers the valley.

“Don’t you wish I’d brought my Monopoly board?” Boone says when the clock strikes seven.

“Is it rude to say no?”

Boone lets out a rueful chuckle. “Very. But your honesty is refreshing.”

At seven thirty, after hearing Boone’s stomach rumble one time too many, I head inside and make us sandwiches. My hands tremble as I spread mayonnaise on the bread. Withdrawal shakes. My body wants to be drinking wine right now and not fizzless ginger ale. I glance at the liquor cabinet in the adjoining dining room, and my body seizes up with longing. A tightness forms in my chest—an internal itch that’s driving me crazy because it can’t be scratched. I take a deep breath, finish the sandwiches, and carry them outside.