The House Across the Lake(39)

On the porch, Boone has the binoculars in hand again, even though no lights can be seen inside Tom and Katherine’s place. The house wouldn’t be visible at all if not for the moonlight shimmering over the lake.

“Did he come back?” I say.

“Not yet.” Boone sets the binoculars down and accepts the paper plate filled with turkey on white bread and a side of potato chips. Not my finest culinary moment. “I was just admiring how good these things are.”

“My husband bought them. For birding.”

Boone’s voice grows hushed. “I’m sorry about what happened to him, by the way. I should have told you that the other day.”

“And I heard about your wife.”

“I guess Eli told you.”

“He did. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Likewise.” He pauses before adding, “I’m here, if you ever want to talk about it.”

“I don’t.”

Boone nods. “I get that. I didn’t, either. Not for a long time. But one of the things I’ve learned in the past year is that it helps to talk about things. Makes it easier to deal with.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“She fell down the stairs.” Boone pauses, letting the information settle in. “That’s how my wife died. In case you were wondering.”

I was, but I didn’t have the courage to ask outright. Despite my current habit of spying on my neighbors, I mostly still have respect for others’ privacy. But Boone seems to be in the mood to divulge information, so I nod and let him continue.

“No one quite knows how it happened. I was at work. Got home from my shift, walked in the door, and found her crumpled at the bottom of the stairs. I did all the things you’re supposed to do. Call nine one one. Try CPR. But I knew as soon as I saw her that she was gone. The ME said she had been dead for most of the day. It must have happened right after I left for work. She either tripped or lost her balance. A freak accident.” Boone pauses to look at the food on his plate, still untouched. “Sometimes I think it’s the suddenness of it that makes it hard to deal with. She was there one minute, gone the next. And I never got to say goodbye. She simply vanished. Like in that TV show.”

“The Leftovers,” I say, not bothering to mention I had been offered a part on the show but turned it down because I found the subject matter too depressing.

“Right. That’s the one. When it’s so sudden like that, it makes you regret all those times you took for granted. I can’t remember the last thing I said to her, and that kills me. Sometimes, even now, I stay awake at night trying to think of what it was and hoping it was something nice.” Boone looks up at me. “Do you remember the last thing you said to your husband?”

“No,” I say.

I put my plate down, excuse myself, and go inside. Seconds later, I’m in the dining room, kneeling at the liquor cabinet, a bottle of bourbon gripped in my fist. As my final words to Len storm through my head—unforgettable no matter how much I try—I tip the bottle back and swallow several blessed gulps.

There.

That’s much better.

Back outside, I see that Boone’s taken a few bites from his sandwich. That makes one of us who feels like eating.

“I’m not really hungry,” I say, wondering if he can smell the bourbon on my breath. “If you want, you can have the rest of mine.”

Boone starts to reply but stops when something on the other side of the lake catches his attention. I look where he’s looking and see a pair of headlights pulling into the driveway of the Royce house.

Tom has returned.

I reach for the binoculars and watch him bring the Bentley to a stop beneath the portico on the side of the house before cutting the headlights. He gets out of the car, carrying a large plastic bag from the only hardware store in a fifteen-mile radius.

Boone taps my shoulder. “Let me look.”

I hand him the binoculars, and he peers through them as Tom enters the house. On the first floor, the kitchen lights flick on. They’re soon followed by the dining room lights as Tom makes his way deeper into the house.

“What’s he doing?” I ask Boone.

“Opening the bag.”

“What’s in it?”

Boone sighs, getting annoyed. “I don’t know yet.”

That ignorance lasts only a second longer before Boone lets out a low whistle. Handing the binoculars back to me, he says, “You need to see this.”

I lift the binoculars to my eyes and see Tom Royce standing at the dining room table. Spread out before him is everything he bought from the hardware store.

A plastic tarp folded into a tidy rectangle.

A coil of rope.

And a hacksaw with teeth so sharp they glint in the light of the dining room.

“I think,” Boone says, “it might be time to call my detective friend.”





Detective Wilma Anson isn’t even close to what I expected. In my mind, I pictured someone similar to the detective I played in a three-episode arc of Law & Order: SVU. Tough. No-nonsense. Dressed in the same type of function-over-style pantsuit my character wore. The woman at my door, however, wears purple yoga pants, a bulky sweatshirt, and a pink headband taming her black curls. A yellow scrunchie circles her right wrist. Wilma catches me looking at it as I shake her hand and says, “It’s my daughter’s. She’s at karate class right now. I have exactly twenty minutes until I need to go pick her up.”