The House Across the Lake(97)

Across the dining room, Boone gives me a sneaky look that almost makes me break out into laughter. We’re still not sure if my mother hasn’t yet figured out that we’re together or if she realized it weeks ago and is now toying with us. Either way, it’s a game we all seem to enjoy. Unlike Monopoly, which Boone beats me at every damn time.

I haven’t told him the truth about what really happened to Katherine and how I knew that Len murdered three women. The same goes for Marnie and my mother. They, like most of America, still think Katherine got lost on a hike—her sense of direction addled by the small doses of poison Tom had been slipping her—and that I found the hair and driver’s licenses of the three missing women while going through Len’s belongings.

I plan on telling Boone, Marnie, and my mother the truth someday. I really do. I just need more time. It was hard enough admitting to Boone that I’d watched him from the porch as he stood naked on the Mitchells’ dock.

He told me he had assumed that.

He also suggested I do it again as soon as the weather gets warmer.

As for everything else, that story is a little bit harder to tell, and I’m not ready for the honeymoon phase of whatever it is Boone and I are doing to end. Also, at least for the time being, I need one thing in my life not tainted by the events of October.

The day after Tom’s attack, a state police search-and-rescue team swarmed the lake. The bodies of Megan Keene, Toni Burnett, and Sue Ellen Stryker were all recovered at the same time, found exactly where Len said they were.

The press lost their collective minds. I can only imagine how many editors needed smelling salts after hearing Mixer founder Tom Royce tried to poison fashion icon Katherine Royce but was stopped by Troubled Casey Fletcher, who had just learned her dead husband was a serial killer.

Talk about a headline.

It was madness at Lake Greene for more than a week. So many press vehicles rolled down the gravel road circling the lake that police had to put up barricades to keep them away. That’s when the helicopters arrived, hovering just above the water, photographers leaning out the sides like they were Navy SEALs about to leap into battle. One reporter even hiked two miles in heels to ring the doorbell and ask some questions. Eli gave her a bag of ice for her sore feet and sent her packing.

Since then, I’ve rarely left the lake house. Unlike the Casey of old, who thought nothing of drunkenly toasting the paparazzi camped outside a bar, I know any appearance I make will only fan the media flames. Although I engendered a lot of goodwill for saving Katherine’s life, Wilma Anson was right that I would be judged for Len’s crimes. While most people don’t think I helped him murder three young women, everyone blames me for not realizing it while he was alive. I’m okay with that for two reasons.

One, I know the truth.

Two, I also still blame myself.

When I do go out, it’s incognito. I attended the funerals of all three of Len’s victims—an anonymous woman in oversized sunglasses and a floppy hat sitting in the back of sparsely attended churches. Katherine wanted to go along, but I discouraged it by telling her she’d stick out too much. In truth, I wanted to be alone so that I could whisper a prayer to Megan, Toni, and Sue Ellen.

I apologized for not helping to find them sooner and I prayed that they would forgive me.

I desperately hope they heard it.

“Breakfast will be ready in five minutes,” Marnie says. “Go fetch Katherine. She’s out on the porch.”

I grab one of the many parkas now hanging in the foyer and head to the back porch. Katherine’s in one of the rocking chairs, nursing a cup of coffee and wearing a designer coat that makes it look like she just flew in from St. Moritz.

“Happy New Year,” she says, beaming up at me from beneath a hood lined with fake fur.

“Likewise.”

Katherine put her glass castle on the market and moved into my family’s lake house the moment both of us left the hospital. Unlike mine, her reputation has only improved since the events of October. That sort of thing happens when your husband tries to kill you—and the police have a broken wineglass tainted with poison to prove it.

Also unlike me, Katherine’s been out and about on a full publicity gauntlet. She landed on the cover of People, told her story on Good Morning America, wrote a personal essay for Vanity Fair. In all of them, she took great pains to mention how good of a friend I’ve been and how I went through just as much trauma as she did. Because of this—and because those daredevil photographers caught Katherine and me laughing on the porch—the media has dubbed us the Merry Widows.

I’m not going to lie. I kind of like it.

“Was it weird not to be drinking champagne at midnight?” Katherine says.

It’s been ten weeks since my last real drink. Ten long, slow, white-knuckle weeks. But I’m doing better than I did last week, which was better than the week before. My urge to drink has lessened in that time. That encourages me, even though I know the urge won’t permanently leave me. That thirst will haunt me like a phantom limb—missing yet keenly felt.

But I can manage.

The meetings help.

So does having a support system that now fills every bedroom of this once-empty house.

“Honestly, it was a refreshing change of pace,” I say.

“Cheers to that.”

We clink mugs and look out at the lake. It froze over in mid-November, and will likely remain that way until March. The valley got a foot of snow two days before Christmas, turning everything into a gleaming white oasis right out of Currier and Ives. The other day, Marnie and I slipped our feet into too-tight ice skates and slid around the lake just like we did when we were kids.