The House Across the Lake(51)

“But Tom could be gone by then,” I say. “Can’t you at least question him?”

“I plan to.”

“When?”

“When the time is right.”

“Isn’t now the right time?” I start to sway back and forth, put into motion by the impatience fizzing inside me. All the things I want to tell Wilma are the same things I can’t tell her. Revealing that I know Katherine’s phone, clothes, and rings remain in her bedroom would also be admitting that I broke into the Royces’ house. So I keep it in, feeling like a shaken champagne bottle, hoping I don’t explode under the pressure. “Don’t you believe us?”

“I think it’s a valid theory,” Wilma says. “One of several.”

“Then investigate it,” I say. “Go over there and question him.”

“And ask him if he killed his wife?”

“Yes, for starters.”

Wilma moves into the adjoining dining room without invitation. Dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and sensible shoes, she finally resembles the TV detective of my imagination. The only similarity to her outfit from last night is a scrunchie around her wrist. Green instead of yellow and clearly not her daughter’s. Slung over Wilma’s shoulder is a black messenger bag, which she drops onto the table. When she sits, her jacket flares open, offering a glimpse of the gun holstered beneath it.

“This isn’t as simple as you think,” she says. “There might be something else going on here. Something bigger than what happened to Katherine Royce.”

“Bigger how?” Boone says.

“You ever do a trust exercise? You know, one of those things where a person falls backwards, hoping he’ll be caught by the people behind him?” Wilma demonstrates by raising her index finger and slowly tilting it sideways. “What I’m about to tell you is a lot like that. I’m going to trust you with classified information. And you’re going to reward that trust by doing nothing and saying nothing and just letting me do my job. Deal?”

“What kind of information?” I say.

“Details of an active investigation. If you tell anyone I showed them to you, I could get in trouble and you could get your asses put in jail.”

I wait for Wilma to reveal she’s exaggerating with a just-kidding smile. It doesn’t happen. Her expression is as severe as a tombstone as she gives the scrunchie on her wrist a twirl and says, “Swear you will tell no one.”

“You know I’m good,” Boone says.

“It’s not you I’m worried about.”

“I swear,” I say, even though Wilma’s seriousness makes me wonder if I want to hear what she’s about to say. What I’ve discovered already today has me sparking with anxiety.

Wilma hesitates, just for a moment, before grabbing her bag. “When did the Royces buy that house?”

“Last winter,” I say.

“This was their first summer here,” Boone adds.

Wilma unzips the messenger bag. “Did Tom Royce ever mention coming to the area before they bought it?”

“Yeah,” I say. “He told me they spent several summers at different rental properties.”

“He told me the same thing,” Boone says. “Said he was glad to finally find a place of their own.”

Wilma motions for us to sit. After we do, Boone and me sitting side by side, she pulls a file folder out of her bag and places it on the table in front of us.

“Are either of you familiar with the name Megan Keene?”

“She’s that girl who disappeared two years ago, right?” Boone says.

“Correct.”

Wilma opens the folder, pulls out a sheet of paper, and slides it toward us. On the page is a snapshot, a name, and a single word that brings a shiver to my spine.

Missing.

I stare at the photo of Megan Keene. She’s as pretty as a model in a shampoo commercial. All honey-blonde hair and rosy cheeks and blue eyes. The embodiment of Miss American Pie.

“Megan was eighteen when she vanished,” Wilma says. “She was a local. Her family owns the general store in the next town. Two years ago, she told her parents she had a date and left, kissing her mother on the cheek on her way out. It was the last time anyone saw her. Her car was found where she always left it—parked behind her parents’ store. No signs of foul play or struggle. And nothing to suggest she never planned to come back to it.”

Wilma slides another page toward us. It’s the same format as the first.

Picture—a dark beauty with lips painted cherry red and her face framed by black hair.

Name—Toni Burnett.

Also missing.

“Toni disappeared two months after Megan. She was basically a drifter. Born and raised in Maine but kicked out of the house by her very religious parents after one too many arguments about her behavior. Eventually, she ended up in Caledonia County, staying at a motel that rents rooms by the week. When her week was up and she didn’t check out, the manager thought she’d skipped town. But when he entered her room, all her belongings still seemed to be there. Toni Burnett, though, wasn’t. The manager didn’t immediately call the police, thinking she’d return in a day or two.”

“I guess that never happened,” Boone says.

“No,” Wilma says. “It definitely did not.”