The House Across the Lake(81)

Finished, I sit propped against the wall, weeping and hyperventilating and screaming into a towel yanked from the rod beside me. I’ve moved from wanting to believe none of this is happening to wanting to know how to make it stop happening.

Because I won’t be able to keep it together.

Not that I’m anywhere close to composed right now.

But I know it’ll only get worse if Len doesn’t start talking. One can only take so much stress and fear and utter fucked-upness before losing it entirely.

I haven’t reached that point, although I might very soon. Until then, there’s work to be done. So I stand, somewhat surprised that I can, and splash cold water onto my face. As I dry off with the towel into which I screamed, I’m struck by a small thought of consolation.

At least the situation can’t get any worse.

Until it does.





Because I was too busy either throwing up, gasping, towel screaming, or splashing my face with water, I didn’t hear the car pull into the driveway.

Or its door opening and closing as the driver got out.

Or their footfalls as they approached the house.

The first time I’m aware of someone’s presence is when they knock on the door. Two raps so loud and startling they might as well be gunshots. I’m looking in the powder room mirror when I hear them, and my frozen expression is the very picture of deer-in-headlights panic. Lips parted. Eyes as big as quarters and shot through with surprise. My face, so pink and puffy a second earlier, drains of color.

Two more knocks snap me out of it. Fueled by a primal urge for self-preservation, I sprint from the powder room with the towel still in my hand, aware of what I need to do without giving it a moment’s thought. I fly up the stairs and into the bedroom, startling Len, who at last tries to speak.

He doesn’t get the chance.

I stuff the towel into his mouth and knot the ends behind his head.

Then it’s back down the stairs, pausing halfway to catch my breath. I take the rest of the steps slowly, feeling my heartbeat move from a frantic rattle to a steady thrum. In the foyer, I say, “Who is it?”

“Wilma Anson.”

My heart jumps—a single unruly spike—before settling again. I wipe the sweat from my brow, plaster on a smile big enough to reach a theater’s cheap seats, and open the door. I find Wilma on the other side, shaking off the rain that drenched her on the trip between car and porch.

“Detective,” I say brightly. “What brings you by in this weather?”

“I was in the neighborhood. Can I come in?”

“Sure.” I open the door wide and usher her into the foyer, where Wilma spends a second staring at me, her gaze cool and probing.

“Why are you so wet?” she says.

“I was just out checking on my boat,” I say, the lie appearing out of the blue. “Now I’m about to have some coffee.”

“At this hour?”

“Caffeine doesn’t bother me.”

“Lucky you,” Wilma says. “If I had a cup right now, I’d be up until dawn.”

Because she’s still appraising me, seeking out any sign that something’s amiss, I gesture for her to follow me deeper into the house. To do otherwise would only make her more suspicious. I guide her into the kitchen, where I pour coffee into a mug before carrying it to the dining room.

Wilma follows me there. As she takes a seat at the dining room table, I look for the gun holstered under her jacket. It’s there, telling me she’s here on official business.

“I’m going to assume this isn’t a friendly visit,” I say as I sit down across from her.

“A correct assumption,” Wilma says. “I think you know what this is about.”

I honestly don’t. So much that has happened in the past twenty-four hours could warrant a visit from the state police.

“If this is about my phone call earlier, I want you to know how sorry I am. I wasn’t thinking right when I accused Boone.”

“You weren’t,” Wilma says.

“And I don’t believe he has anything to do with what’s going on.”

“He doesn’t.”

“I’m glad we agree.”

“Sure,” Wilma says, making it clear she doesn’t give a damn if we agree or not. “Too bad I’m not here to discuss Boone Conrad.”

“Then why are you here?”

I peer at her through the steam rising from my coffee mug, trying to read her thoughts. It’s impossible.

“Have you watched the Royce house at all this evening?” Wilma says.





NOW





I take a sip of bourbon and stare at the person restrained to the bed, consumed with both fear and fascination that someone so evil can be contained inside someone so beautiful. Such a thing shouldn’t be possible. Yet it’s happening. I’m witnessing it with my very own eyes. It makes me keep the bourbon glass pressed to my lips.

This time, I take a gulp.

“I remember when you used to get tipsy after a single glass of wine,” Len says as he watches me drink. “That’s clearly changed. I suppose I had a little something to do with that.”

I swallow. “More than a little.”

“Am I allowed to say I’m worried about you?” Len says. “Because I am. This isn’t like you, Cee. You’re very different from the person I fell in love with.”