The House Across the Lake(92)

“I probably would have done the same thing,” she says. “It’s easy to talk about justice and responsibility and taking matters into your own hands when it’s not happening to you. But this did happen to you, Casey. And you did what a lot of women would have done in your shoes.”

“I’m afraid that won’t matter to the police.”

“Maybe not,” Katherine says. “But I don’t plan on telling them anything about it. This will stay just between us.”

I desperately wish it could, but this goes beyond me and Katherine. There are others to consider, including the friends and families of three women still submerged in the frigid darkness of Lake Greene. They’re at the forefront of my thoughts as I climb into the boat and make my way across the water. I keep a grip on my phone, still in its Ziploc bag, ready to call Wilma Anson as soon as I get back to the house.

The person standing on my dock delays that plan a bit.

“Hey,” Boone says, giving me a wary wave as I cut the motor and bring the boat into the dock.

“Hey yourself.”

I let Boone tie up the boat because, one, he seems eager to do it and, two, I’m exhausted. Definitely far too tired to be talking to him at the moment, although it’s clear that can’t be avoided.

“Eli told me you found Katherine,” he says, shooting a glance across the water. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine.”

I give him an abridged version of the official story as we walk from the dock to the porch. I collapse into a rocking chair. Boone remains standing.

“I’m relieved to hear that she’s safe and sound,” he says. “Good for her. And good for Tom.”

He stops talking after that, leaving me to pick up the slack. “Was that why you came by?”

“Yes. And also to tell you that I’m leaving the lake. I’ve done all the work I can do at the Mitchell place, so I found a nice studio apartment a few towns over. Now you no longer need to worry thinking there’s a murderer living next door.”

While Boone’s voice retains a hint of the anger I heard the last time we talked, another mood rides on his words. It sounds like sadness.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t completely honest. But it should be clear to you by now that I had nothing to do with what happened to Katherine or those other missing girls,” Boone says, reminding me that he still knows nothing about Len’s crime—or how I made him pay for them.

Twice.

“As for what happened to my wife,” Boone says, “yes, I was investigated after her death. And, yes, there was a time when people thought I had killed her. There was no proof of that, but there also wasn’t any proof that I hadn’t. At least, proof that I was willing to show people.”

I look up at him, surprised and suddenly insatiably curious.

“There was more to it than what you told the police?”

“My wife didn’t fall down the stairs by accident.” Boone stops, takes a breath. “She killed herself.”

I flinch, shocked.

“I know because she left a note telling me she was sorry and that she had been unhappy for a long time—something I thought I knew but didn’t. Not really. She had been more than unhappy. She’d been plunged into darkness, and I blame myself for never noticing how bad it was until it was too late.”

Boone finally sits.

“I called Wilma as soon as I found the suicide note. She came over, read it, and told me I needed to go public with it. By then we both knew I looked suspicious. It was obvious. But I still couldn’t do it. That kind of news would have destroyed her family. I decided that thinking it was an accident would be easier for them to deal with than knowing she’d taken her own life. They, like me, would have blamed themselves for not noticing how much pain she was in and failing to get her the help she needed. I wanted to spare them all of that. And I didn’t want people judging Maria for what she did to herself. Or, worse, letting that taint their memories of her. I wanted to shield everyone from the same guilt and pain I was going through. Wilma grudgingly agreed, and together we burned the note.”

No wonder Wilma had been so certain about his innocence. Unlike me, she knew the whole story. And what looked like blind trust was in reality a beautiful kind of loyalty.

“She’s a good friend,” I say.

“She is. She did her thing and convinced everyone we worked with that I was innocent. I hope that, eventually, you’ll believe me, too.”

I think I already do.

I don’t know enough about his marriage to judge Boone—something I had no trouble doing when there was more bourbon than blood in my system. Right now, all I know is that, deep down, Boone seems like a good person who’s struggling to tame his demons just like the rest of us. And as someone who’s been terrible at demon taming, I should give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Thank you for stating your case,” I say. “And I believe you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Then I should go before you change your mind,” Boone says, flashing me that killer grin one last time. Before leaving the porch, he hands me a business card. Printed on it is the name of a nearby church, a day of the week, and a specific time.

“That’s the weekly AA meeting I go to,” he says. “Just in case you ever feel the need to give it a try. It can be intimidating at first. And it might be easier for you if there’s a familiar face present.”