The House Across the Lake(66)

His side.

Which means there’s also a chance Boone’s the person who caused Katherine to scream.

“Stay away from me,” I say as Boone starts to approach. The way he moves—slowly, methodically—is more intimidating than if he were in a hurry. It gives me ample time to notice how big he is, how strong, how it would take him no effort at all to overpower me.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” he says. “I didn’t do anything to Katherine.”

He keeps walking toward me, and I look around for the nearest escape route. Right behind me are the French doors leading to the porch, still locked. I might be able to unlock them and run outside, but doing so would take up precious seconds I’m not sure I can spare.

When Boone’s almost within reach, I skirt sideways and bolt into the heart of the kitchen. Although not an escape, it at least gives me access to things with which I can defend myself. I pick one—the largest blade from the knife block on the counter—and thrust it in front of me, daring Boone to come closer.

“Leave my house,” I say. “And don’t ever come back.”

Boone’s mouth drops open, as if he’s about to make another denial—or switch to threatening me. Apparently deciding silence is the best policy, he closes his mouth, lifts his hands in defeat, and leaves the house without another word.





I move from door to door, making sure all of them are locked. The front door is secured minutes after Boone passes through it, and the doors to the porch remain locked from the night before. That leaves one more—the creaky blue door in the basement.

The last place I want to go.

I know there’s nothing physically dangerous down there. It’s nothing but junk, once frequently used, now forgotten. It’s the memories of the day Len died that I’d like to avoid. No good can come from reliving that morning. But since the basement door is how Boone got inside last night, I need to lock it to keep him from doing it again.

Even though it’s only mid-morning, I have a shot of vodka before heading down to the basement. A little liquid courage never hurts.

Nor does a second helping.

And a third.

I’m feeling much better when I finally start down the basement steps. I barely hesitate at the bottom one, pausing only a second before placing both feet onto the concrete floor. But the front of the basement is the easy part. Here lie the happy memories. Playing Ping-Pong with my father. Marnie and me during a Christmas vacation, putting on hats and parkas before bounding out onto the frozen lake.

The bad memories are toward the back, in the mudroom. As I enter it, I regret not having a fourth shot of vodka.

I speed toward the door and twist the handle. It’s locked. Boone did what I’d overlooked yesterday at the Royces’. Maybe that’s the house he should have broken into instead of mine.

Knowing the blue door is also secure, I turn back to the rest of the mudroom, facing a wall paneled in flat, horizontal boards that have been painted gray. The nails keeping them in place are visible, giving off a rustic vibe that’s trendy now but was merely utilitarian when the house was built. One of the boards is missing two nails, revealing a slight gap between it and the wall. It reminds me again of how old the house is, how fragile, how easy it would be for someone to get inside even with all the doors locked.

Trying to shake away that grim but honest assessment, I push out of the mudroom, through the basement and up the stairs to the dining room, where I snatch the vodka from the liquor cabinet and have one more shot. Properly fortified, I pull my phone from my pocket, ready to call Eli and tell him everything that’s happened the past few days.

He’ll know what to do.

But when I check my phone, I see that Eli actually called me while I was still asleep. The voicemail is short and sweet and slightly unnerving.

“Just got done watching the news. This storm’s looking like it’s going to be worse than they thought. Heading out for supplies. Call me in the next half hour if you need anything.”

That was three hours ago.

I try calling Eli back anyway. When the call goes straight to voicemail, I hang up without leaving a message, grab my laptop, and carry it to the living room. There I do something I should have done days ago: a Google search of Boone Conrad.

The first thing that comes up is an article about his wife’s death, which I expected. Completely unexpected is the nature of the article, made clear in the headline.

“Cop Probed in Wife’s Death.”

I stare wide-eyed at the headline, my nerves becoming jumpy. It only gets worse when I read the article and learn that members of Boone’s own department noticed discrepancies in his story about the day his wife died. He’d told them—as he told me—that she was still alive when he left for work that morning. What Boone neglected to mention was how the medical examiner had narrowed the time of death to a two-hour window, including a half hour in which he still could have been home.

But the suspicion didn’t stop there. It turned out Boone’s wife—Maria was her name—had gone to see a divorce attorney a week before her death. And although he swore he didn’t know Maria was considering divorce, Boone’s colleagues had no choice but to recuse themselves from the case and let the state police conduct a formal investigation.

I keep searching, finding another article dated a week later, this one announcing that Boone wouldn’t be charged in Maria Conrad’s death. The article points out that there was nothing to prove Boone hadn’t killed her. There simply wasn’t any evidence to show that he had.