The House Across the Lake(80)

Before he can get away, I grab the ropes still around his ankles and tug them like reins. Len flops to the ground. Not knowing what else to do, I leap on top of him, holding him in place as the rain pummels us both.

Beneath me, Len grumbles, “I thought you were setting me free.”

“Not even close.” I slide off of him. “Get up.”

He does—not an easy task with his arms still bound behind his back and me gripping the ropes around his ankles like he’s an unruly dog on a leash. When he’s finally on his feet, I nudge him forward.

“Head toward the dock. Slowly. The boat’s there.”

“Ah, the boat,” Len says as he shuffles in the direction of the water. “That brings back memories.”

Moving through the storm, I wonder just how much he remembers about the night he died. Judging by his sarcasm, I assume most of it. It makes me curious if he has any knowledge about the fourteen months between then and now. It’s hard to imagine him being aware of time’s passage as his spirit floated in the water. Then again, I also never imagined him shuffling down a dock in the body of a former supermodel, yet here we are.

Once again, I think: This isn’t happening. This is a nightmare. This can’t be real.

Unfortunately, it feels all too real, including the wind, the rain, the waves rising from the wind-whipped lake and crashing over the dock. If this was a dream, I wouldn’t be soaking wet. Or so fucking scared. Or nervous that the lake water sloshing around my ankles might send me sliding off the dock.

Ahead of me, Len does slip, and I fear he’s about to fall into the water. With his hands bound behind his back, he’d surely drown. I’m not concerned about the drowning part. Clearly. It’s him drowning before telling me where he put his victims’ bodies that worries me.

Len manages to keep his balance and drop into the boat just as it crests a wave at the end of the dock. I scramble in behind him and quickly start to knot the ropes around his ankles to the legs of his seat, which is bolted to the floor.

“This is all so unnecessary,” he says as I finish knotting the ropes around the seat’s legs.

“I beg to differ.”

With Len secured, I climb to the back of the boat and start the motor. Rowing isn’t possible in water this rough. It’s tough going even with the outboard motor running at full throttle. A trip that’s normally two minutes ends up being closer to fifteen. When we do reach the other side of the lake, it takes three tries and two jarring slams against the dock before I’m able to tie up the boat.

I repeat the dance we just went through at the Fitzgerald place. Untie Len’s legs, force him out of the boat as it bucks on the waves, and shuffle with him up the dock as water crashes around us.

By the time we reach the house, Len has become sullen and silent. He says not a word as I march him upstairs to the porch, then inside the house itself. The only sound I hear is a disgruntled sigh when I prod him to climb another set of steps, this time to the third floor.

At the top of the stairs, I choose the first bedroom I see.

My old room.

Not only does it provide quick access to the steps if things go horribly awry and I need to escape, but the twin beds inside have brass frames similar to the one in the Fitzgeralds’ basement.

When it’s time to tie Len to this bed, I do the reverse of what I’d done at the Fitzgeralds’ house. Left ankle first, to keep him in place, followed by the left wrist.

Because the bed is pushed into a corner of the room, I’m forced to lean my entire body over his in order to secure his right wrist. Such an intimate position. One that’s both familiar and foreign. The memory of long, lazy nights lying on top of Len collides with the reality of his new body and Katherine’s soft skin, long hair, full breasts.

I tie his wrist in a hurry, my fingers fumbling with the rope because I fear he’ll use that moment to fight me off. Instead, he stares up at me, looking as love-struck as Romeo. His lips part in a deep sigh of longing, his breath hot on my face.

It smells horrible, feels even worse.

Like an invasion.

Wincing, I finish the haphazard knot, slide off him, and move to the foot of the bed. Once his right leg is tied to the bed frame, I plop onto the opposite bed and say, “You’re going to answer some questions for me.”

Len remains mute, refusing to look my way. He chooses the ceiling instead, staring at it with exaggerated boredom.

“Tell me about Katherine,” I say.

More silence.

“You’re going to have to talk eventually.”

Still nothing from Len.

“Fine.” I stand, stretch, move to the door. “Since we’re not going anywhere until you start talking, I guess I’ll make some coffee.”

I pause in the doorway, giving Len a chance to respond. After thirty more seconds of silence, I head down to the kitchen and start the coffee maker. Leaning against the kitchen counter, listening to Mr. Coffee hiss and drip, the full weight of tonight’s events finally hits me.

Len is back.

Katherine is somewhere.

Tom is trapped in the Fitzgeralds’ basement.

And me? I’m about to be sick.

The nausea arrives in a sneak attack. One second, I’m upright. The next, I’m doubled over on the floor as the kitchen spins and spins and spins. I try to stand, but my legs are suddenly too weak to support me. I’m forced to crawl to the powder room, where I retch into the toilet.