The House Across the Lake(44)

This leaves me so rattled my legs tremble when I go downstairs to the kitchen and my hands shake as I pour a cup of coffee. While drinking it, I use my phone to confirm that, no, Katherine hasn’t posted another photo to Instagram since yesterday and, yes, her location on Mixer remains directly across the lake from me.

Neither of those is a good sign.

Later, after forcing down a bowl of oatmeal and taking a shower, I’m back on the porch with my phone, in case Wilma Anson calls, and the binoculars, in case Tom Royce makes an appearance. For an hour, both go unused. When my phone does eventually ring, I’m disappointed to hear not Wilma’s voice, but my mother’s.

“I talked to Marnie and I’m concerned,” she says, cutting right to the chase.

“Concerned that I talk to her more than I talk to you?”

“Concerned that you’ve been spying on your neighbors and now seem to think your new model friend was murdered by her husband.”

Goddamn Marnie. Her betrayal feels as pointed and painful as a bee sting. What’s worse is knowing it’ll get even more irritating now that my mother is involved.

“This has nothing to do with you,” I tell her. “Or Marnie, for that matter. Please just leave me alone.”

My mother gives a haughty sniff. “Since you haven’t denied it yet, I assume it’s true.”

There are two ways to play this. One is to issue the denial my mother so desperately craves. Just like my drinking, she’ll be doubtful but will eventually fool herself into thinking it’s true because it’s easier that way. The other is to simply admit it in the hope she gets as exasperated as Marnie did and leaves me alone.

I go with the latter.

“Yes, I’m worried the man across the lake murdered his wife.”

“Jesus, Casey. What has gotten into you?”

She shouldn’t sound so scandalized. Banishing me to the lake house was her idea. Of all people, my own mother should have realized I’d get up to no good after being left alone here to my own devices. Though in my mind, finding out what happened to Katherine is a good thing.

“She’s missing and I want to help her.”

“I’m sure everything’s fine.”

“It’s not,” I snap. “Something very wrong is going on here.”

“If this is about Len—”

“He has nothing to do with this,” I say, even though this has everything to do with Len. What happened to him is the sole reason I’m willing to believe something bad also could have befallen Katherine. If it happened once, it could easily happen again.

“Even so,” my mother says, “it’s best if you stay out of it.”

“That’s no longer an option. A guy staying at the Mitchells’ place thinks the same way I do. We already told a detective friend of his.”

“You got the police involved?” My mother sounds like she’s about to get the vapors or drop the phone or pass out from shock. Maybe all three. “This—this isn’t good, Casey. I sent you there so you’d be out of the public eye.”

“Which I am.”

“Not when there are cops around.” My mother’s voice lowers to a whispered plea. “Please don’t get involved any further. Just walk away.”

But I can’t do that, even if I wanted to. Because as my mother talks, something catches my eye on the other side of the lake.

Tom Royce.

As he crosses the patio on the way to his Bentley, I raise the binoculars and my mother’s voice fades into background noise. I focus solely on Tom, searching for ways in which he could seem suspicious. Is his slow, easygoing walk to the car all an act because he knows he’s being watched? Is that grim look on his face because his wife left him? Or is it because he’s thinking about how he refused to let her leave?

My mother keeps talking, sounding like she’s a thousand miles away. “Casey? Are you listening to me?”

I continue to stare across the water as Tom slides behind the wheel of the Bentley and backs it out from under the portico. When the car turns left, heading toward town, I say, “Mom, I need to go.”

“Casey, wait—”

I hang up before she can finish. Staring at the now-empty Royce house, I think about the last birthday I celebrated with Len. The Big Three-Five. To celebrate, he rented an entire movie theater so I could finally fulfill my dream of watching Rear Window on the big screen.

If my mother were still on the line, she’d tell me what I’m doing is playing pretend. Role-playing Jimmy Stewart in his wheelchair because I have nothing else going on in my sad little life. While that’s probably truer than I’d care to admit, this isn’t just playacting.

It’s real. It’s happening. And I’m a part of it.

That doesn’t mean I can’t take a cue from good old Jimmy. In the movie, he had Grace Kelly search his suspicious neighbor’s apartment, finding the wedding ring that proved he had murdered his wife. While times have changed and I don’t know if Katherine’s wedding ring will be enough proof for Wilma Anson, maybe something else in that house will do the trick.

By the time Tom’s Bentley vanishes from view, the phone is stuffed back in my pocket, the binoculars are taking my place in the rocking chair, and I’m marching off the porch.

While he’s away, I plan on doing more than just watch the Royces’ house.