The House Across the Lake(50)

The binoculars.

Handing them to me, he says, “I borrowed them after I saw you walking past the house. I knew what you were up to and ran onto your porch to keep watch.”

“Why didn’t you stop me from going?”

“Because I was thinking about doing it myself.”

“But you just told me it was stupid and dangerous.”

“It was,” Boone says. “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t necessary. Did you find anything?”

“Plenty.”

We resume walking, making our way past where Boone is staying on the way to my place. Strolling side by side as leaves the color of a campfire swirl around us, it would be a lovely walk—almost romantic—if not for the grim subject matter at hand. I tell Boone about how Katherine’s rings, phone, and clothes are still in her bedroom before getting into what I found on Tom’s laptop, including Harvey Brewer.

“Tom was slowly poisoning her,” I say. “Just like what this guy did to his wife. I’m certain of it. Katherine told me she hadn’t been feeling well. She kept getting suddenly weak and tired.”

“So you think she’s dead?”

“I think she found out about it. Hopefully, she ran. But there’s a chance . . .”

Boone gives me a somber nod, no doubt thinking about the tarp, the rope, the hacksaw. “Tom got to her before she could.”

“But we have proof now.” I grab my phone and start swiping through the photos I took. “See? That’s the article about Harvey Brewer, right on Tom’s own laptop.”

“It’s not enough, Casey.”

I stop in the middle of the leaf-strewn road, letting Boone walk several paces ahead before he realizes I’m no longer at his side.

“What do you mean it’s not enough? I have pictures of Katherine’s phone and clothes, not to mention proof her husband was reading about a man who murdered his wife.”

“What I mean,” Boone says, “is that it’s not legal. You got all that stuff by breaking into their house. A crime that’s worse than spying.”

“You know what’s even worse?” I say, unable to keep an impatient edge out of my voice. “Planning to kill your wife.”

I still haven’t budged, forcing Boone to come back and wrap one of his big arms around my shoulders to get me moving again.

“I agree with you,” he says. “But that’s how the law works. You can’t prove someone committed a crime by committing another crime. In order to really nail him, we need some kind of evidence—not gained illegally—that could point to foul play.”

What he doesn’t say—but what I infer anyway—is that, so far, Tom Royce has been very good at covering his tracks. That Instagram photo he posted on Katherine’s account is proof of that. Therefore it’s unlikely he left some damning piece of evidence within legal reach.

I stop again, this time stilled by the realization that there is a piece of evidence in my possession.

But it wasn’t left by Tom.

This was all Katherine’s doing.

I start off down the road again, the motion as abrupt as when I’d stopped. Rather than walk, I return to running, trotting far ahead of Boone on the way to the lake house.

“What are you doing?” he calls.

I don’t slow as I shout my reply. “Getting evidence. Legally!”

Back at the house, I head straight for the kitchen and the trash can that should have been emptied a day ago but thankfully wasn’t. A rare win for laziness. I sort through the garbage, my fingers squishing into soggy paper towels and clammy wads of oatmeal. By the time Boone reaches me, I’ve overturned the can and dumped its contents onto the floor. After another minute of searching, I find what I’m looking for.

A piece of broken wineglass.

Triumphantly, I hold it to the light. The glass is dirtier now than when I found it glinting in the yard. Crumbs dust the surface, and there’s a white splotch that might be salad dressing. Hopefully that won’t matter because the saltlike film I’d seen the other day remains.

If Tom Royce really did slip something into Katherine’s wine that night, hopefully this piece of glass will be able to prove it.





When Wilma Anson arrives, the glass shard has been safely tucked inside a Ziploc bag. She studies it through the clear plastic, the tilt of her head signaling either curiosity or exasperation. With her, it’s hard to tell.

“Where’d you get this again?”

“The yard,” I say. “The glass broke when Katherine passed out in the grass while holding it.”

“Because she’d allegedly been drugged?” Wilma says.

“Poisoned,” I say, correcting her.

“The lab results might say otherwise.”

Boone and I agreed it wasn’t a good idea to tell Wilma just how, exactly, I came to suspect Tom of trying to poison his wife. Instead, we told her I had suddenly remembered Katherine mentioning the name Harvey Brewer, which led me to the internet and my theory that Tom might have tried the same thing Brewer had done to his wife. It was enough to get Wilma to come over. Now that she’s here, the big question is if she’ll do anything about it.

“That means you’re going to test it, right?” I say.

“Yes,” Wilma says, the word melting into a sigh. “Although it’ll take a few days to get the results back.”