The House Across the Lake(79)

Rather than free his other leg, I move to his hands. I untie his left one first, the knot yielding faster now that I’ve gotten the hang of it. The moment his hand is free, Len moves it toward me, and for a panicked second I think he’s going to hit me. Instead, his palm rests against my cheek, caressing it with feather-like gentleness, just like he used to do after we made love.

“Christ, I’ve missed you.”

I pull away from his touch and start untying the rope attached to his right hand. “I can’t say the same.”

“You’ve changed,” he says. “You’re meaner now. Harder.”

“Because of you.”

I unwind the rope from the bed frame and give it a tug while quickly moving away from the bed. Len’s forced to move with it, jerked partially upright like a marionette. I keep the rope taut as I cross in front of the bed and grab the one still tied around his left hand.

“You forgot my other leg,” Len says.

“No, I haven’t,” I say. “Slide forward and let me tie your hands behind your back. If you make it easy for me, then I’ll untie your other leg.”

“Can I get a kiss first?”

He gives me a flirty wink. Seeing it makes me want to puke.

“I’m serious,” I say. “Tom’s going to come back any second now.”

Len nods and I let the rope go slack. Once his hands are behind his back, I press them together and wind the rope around both wrists several times before tying the tightest knot I can manage. Satisfied that he can’t get loose, I move to the foot of the bed and work on the length of rope around his left ankle.

Tom returns just as I finish untying it, the rope still falling away from the bed frame as his footfalls ring out from the stairwell.

Len slides off the bed as I search for something to fight off Tom, if it comes to that. I assume he won’t let us go easily. I settle on a broken table leg leaning against a steamer trunk. Grabbing it, I realize that we have no plan. There wasn’t time to come up with one. The best I can hope for is that Len is just as determined as I am to get out of this basement.

And that he won’t try to hurt me in the process.

At the bottom of the stairs, Tom stops, glances at the bed, does a double take.

“What the—”

Len rushes him before he can get the rest of the sentence out, battering Tom with his shoulder like a wild ram.

Caught off guard, Tom tumbles to the floor.

Len remains upright and hustles toward the stairs, the ropes around his ankles trailing behind him. Tom reaches out, grabs one, yanks. Before he can pull hard enough to bring Len to the floor, I slam his arm with the broken table leg. Tom howls in pain and lets go of the rope, allowing Len to skitter away.

Standing between them, still brandishing the chunk of wood I’ve just used as a weapon so the spirit of the man whose death I caused can escape in the body of the woman I’d thought Tom had killed, one thought rings through my skull.

What the fuck am I doing?

The answer is simple: I don’t know. I wasn’t prepared for any of this. How could I have been? Now that it’s happening—truly, legitimately, holy shit happening—I’m just going on gut instinct, fueled by both the desire to locate the women Len killed and the fear that Tom will learn I’m guilty of exactly what I accused him of doing. Right now, separating them seems like the best course of action.

So I run up behind Len, give him a shove, and try to propel him up the stairs before Tom can catch us. Which he almost does. We’re halfway up the steps when he come barreling after us, forcing me to swing the broken table leg at him like it’s a Louisville Slugger. The wood slams against one wall of the stairwell before ricocheting into the other.

Tom staggers out of the way, trips, drops onto all fours. The whole time, he shouts at me. “Casey, stop! Please don’t do this!”

I keep moving, catching up to Len at the top of the stairs and shoving him through the door. When both of us are out of the stairwell, I turn around and see Tom scrambling up the steps, calling out, “No! Wait!”

I slam the door, reach for the chain, slide it into place just as Tom bangs against it. The door lurches open a crack before being stopped by the chain. Tom’s face fills the two-inch gap between door and frame.

“Listen to me, Casey!” he hisses. “Do not trust her!”

I push against the door, trying to shut it again as, next to me, Len starts shoving the nearby hutch. It barely moves. He grunts and pushes, forgetting he’s now in the body of someone with half his former size and strength. Forced to join in, I let go of the door and start pulling the hutch. Together, we’re able to nudge it an inch in front of the door before Tom rears back, ready to make another escape attempt.

He smash-kicks the door.

The chain snaps.

The door flies open a crack before bouncing off the back of the hutch.

Straining and heaving, Len and I shove the hutch against the door, forcing it shut and trapping Tom on the other side. He pounds and kicks and begs me to let him out.

I intend to.

Eventually.

Right now, though, I need to get Len to the lake house, where I can question him in peace.

We exit through the kitchen door, Tom’s thumps and calls eclipsed by the storm outside. The wind roars, bending the surrounding trees so hard I’m surprised they haven’t snapped. Rain falls in blinding sheets and thunder cracks overhead. There’s a flash of lightning, in which I see Len start to run.