I didn’t.

  I decide to text her, carefully wording my message while a strong mug of coffee zaps me to life and the charger does the same to my phone.

  I just made coffee. Come over if you want some. I think we should talk about last night.

  I hit send before I can even consider deleting it.

  While waiting for a response, I sip my coffee and think about the scream.

  If that’s what it really was.

  I’ve spent half my life on this lake. I know it could have been something else. Many animals arrive at night to prowl the lakeshore or even the water itself. Screeching owls and loud waterfowl. Once, when Marnie and I were kids, a fox somewhere along the shore, defending its turf from another animal, screamed for the better part of the night. Literally screamed. Hearing its cries echo over the water was bone-chilling, even after Eli explained to us in detail what was happening.

  But I’m used to those noises, and am able to sleep right through them. Especially after a night spent drinking. This was something different enough to startle me awake, even with most of a bottle of whiskey under my belt.

  Right now, I’m seventy-five percent sure that what I heard was a woman screaming. While that’s far from certain, it’s enough to keep concern humming through me as I check my phone again.

  Still nothing from Katherine.

  Rather than continue to wait for a return text, I decide to call her. The phone rings three times before going to voicemail.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Katherine. I’m not available to take your call right now. Or maybe I’m just ignoring you. If you leave your name and number, you’ll find out which one it is if I call you back.”

  I wait for the beep and leave a message.

  “Hey, it’s Casey.” I pause, thinking of how to phrase this. “I just wanted to see if you’re all right. I know you said you were last night, but early this morning, I thought I heard—”

  I pause again, hesitant to come right out and say what it is I think I heard. I don’t want to sound overly dramatic or, worse, downright delusional.

  “Anyway, call me back. Or feel free to just come over. It’ll be nice to chat.”

  I end the call, shove my phone back into my pocket, and go about my day.

  Vodka. Neat.

  Another vodka. Also neat.

  Shower, minus the crying but with a new, unwelcome anxiety.

  A grilled cheese sandwich for lunch.

  When the grandfather clock in the living room strikes one and Katherine still hasn’t replied, I call again, once more getting her voicemail.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Katherine.”

  I hang up without leaving a message, pour a bourbon, and carry it to the porch. The whiskey bottle from last night is still there, a mouthful of liquid still sloshing inside. I kick it out of the way, sink into a rocking chair, and check my phone ten times in three minutes.

  Still nothing.

  I pick up the binoculars and peer at the Royce house, hoping for a sign of Katherine but seeing nothing in return. It’s that hour when the sun starts glinting off the glass walls and the reflection of the sky hides what’s behind them like a pair of closed eyelids.

  While watching the house, I think about the unusual nature of what I saw last night. Something big went down inside that house. Something that’s none of my business yet, oddly, still my concern. Even though I haven’t known her very long at all, I consider Katherine a friend. Or, at the very least, someone who could become a friend. And new friends aren’t easy to come by once you hit your thirties.

  Out on the lake, a familiar boat floats in the distance. I swing the binoculars toward it and see Eli sitting at the bow, fishing rod in hand. If anyone else on the lake heard the same sound I did, it would be him. I know he likes to rise with the sun, so there’s a chance he was awake then. And if he did hear it, he might be able to clarify what it was and put my simmering worry to rest.

  I call his cell, assuming he has it on him.

  While the phone rings, I continue to watch him through the binoculars. An annoyed look crosses his face as he pats a front pocket of his fishing vest—a sign he’s definitely carrying his phone. After propping his fishing rod against the side of the boat, he looks at his phone, then at the lake house. Seeing me on the porch, my phone in hand, he gives me a wave and answers.

  “If you’re calling to see if I’ve caught anything, the answer is no.”

  “I have a different question,” I say, adding a warning. “An unusual one. Did you happen to hear a strange noise outside this morning?”

  “What time?”

  “Dawn.”

  “I wasn’t awake then,” Eli says. “Decided to sleep in a little. I’m assuming you heard something?”

  “I think so. I’m not sure. I was hoping you could back me up on that.”

  Eli doesn’t ask me why I was awake at dawn. I suspect he already knows.

  “What kind of noise are you talking about?”

  “A scream.”

  Saying it out loud, I realize how unlikely it sounds. The odds of someone, let alone Katherine Royce, screaming at the break of dawn are slim, although not impossible.

  Bad things can happen on this lake.

  I know that from experience.

  “A scream?” Eli says. “You sure it wasn’t a fox or something?”

  Am I sure? Not really. Even during this conversation, my certainty level has lowered from seventy-five percent to about fifty.

  “It sounded like a person to me,” I say.

  “Why would someone be screaming at that hour?”

  “Why does anyone scream, Eli? Because she was in danger.”

  “She? You think it was Katherine Royce you heard?”

  “I can’t think of anyone else it could have been,” I say. “Have you seen any sign of her today?”

  “No,” Eli says. “Then again, I haven’t exactly been looking. You worried something happened to her?”

  I tell him no, when the opposite is true. Katherine’s lack of a response to my text and calls has me feeling unnerved, even though in all likelihood there’s a perfectly good reason for it. She could still be sleeping, her phone silenced or in another room.

  “I’m sure everything’s fine,” I say, more to convince myself than Eli.

  “Do you want me to stop over there and check?”

  Because he’s the lake’s one-man neighborhood watch, I know Eli would be happy to do it. But this is my worry, not his. It’s time to pay the Royces a visit, and hopefully all my concerns will be put to rest.

  “I’ll go,” I say. “It’ll be good to get out of the house.”

  Tom Royce is on the dock by the time I reach it. Clearly, he saw me coming because he stands like a man expecting company. He’s even dressed for casual visitors. Black jeans. White sneakers. Cashmere sweater the same color as the pricey wine he brought over two nights ago. He offers an exaggeratedly friendly wave as I moor the boat and join him on the dock.

  “Howdy, neighbor. What brings you by this afternoon?”

  “I came by to see if Katherine wanted to come over for some girl talk and an afternoon cocktail on the porch.”

  I prepared the excuse on the trip from my dock to his, hoping it would make it look like I’m not overreacting. Which I suspect I totally am. Katherine’s fine and I’m just worried because of something I saw and something I heard and something that happened to my husband more than a year ago. All of which are completely unrelated.

  “I’m afraid she’s not here,” Tom says.

  “When will she be back?”

  “Probably not until next summer.”

  The answer’s as unexpected as a door slammed in my face.

  “She’s gone?”

  “She went back to our apartment in the city,” Tom says. “Left early this morning.”

  I take a few more steps closer to him, noticing a red patch on his left cheek where Katherine had punched him. Considering that, maybe her departure shouldn’t be a surprise after all. I can even picture the events leading up to her decision.

  First the fight, ending with a haymaker to Tom’s face.

  Then my phone call, likely made after she’d already decided to leave. Thinking about her brief appearance at the bedroom window, I now see that strange wave in a different light. It’s entirely possible it was a wave goodbye.

  After that there could have been some frantic packing in the darkness of their bedroom. Finally, just as she was about to leave, the fight flared up again. Both of them trying to get in their last licks. During that final showdown, Katherine screamed. It might have been from frustration. Or from rage. Or simply just a release of all the emotions she’d had pent up inside her.

  Or, I think with a shudder, maybe Tom did something that made her scream.

  “What time this morning?” I say as I eye him with suspicion.

  “Early. She called me a little while ago to say she arrived safely.”

  So far, that tracks with my theory about when Katherine left. What doesn’t track is Tom’s Bentley, which sits beneath the portico that juts from the side of the house. It’s slate gray, as sleek and shiny as a wet seal.

  “How’d she get there?”

  “Car service, of course.”

  That doesn’t explain why Katherine hasn’t called or texted me back. After last night—and after making casual plans to meet again for coffee this morning—it seems unusual she hasn’t told me herself that she went back to New York.

  “I’ve tried reaching her several times today,” I say. “She’s not answering her phone.”

  “She doesn’t check her phone when traveling. She keeps it in her purse, silenced.”

  Tom’s response, like all of them so far, makes perfect sense and, if you think about it too much, no sense at all. Six days ago, as Ricardo drove me to the lake house, sheer boredom kept me fixated on my phone. Then again, most of that time was spent Googling to see if any liquor stores in the area delivered.

  “But you just said she called you from the apartment.”

  “I think she wants to be left alone,” Tom says.

  I take that to mean he wants to be left alone. I’m not ready to do that just yet. The more he talks, the more suspicious I get. I zero in on the red mark on Tom’s cheek, picturing the exact moment he got it.

  Him jerking Katherine away from the window.

  Her lashing out, punching back.

  Was that the first time something like that happened? Or had it occurred multiple times before? If so, maybe it’s possible that Tom took it one step further just as dawn was breaking over the lake.

  “Why did Katherine leave?” I say, being purposefully nosy in the hope he’ll reveal more than he’s told me so far.

  Tom squints, scratches the back of his neck, and then folds his arms tight across his chest. “She said she didn’t want to be here when Hurricane Trish passed through. She was worried. Big house. Strong winds. All this glass.”

  That’s the opposite of what Katherine told me yesterday. According to her, it was Tom who was concerned about the storm. Still, it’s certainly possible me talking about being without power for days made her change her mind. Just like it’s also possible she’s not into roughing it as much as she claimed.

  But then why is she gone while Tom remains?

  “Why didn’t you go with her?” I ask.

  “Because I’m not worried about the storm,” Tom says. “Besides, I thought it best to stick around in case something happens to the place.”

  A rational answer. One that almost sounds like the truth. I’d be inclined to believe it if not for two things.

  Number one: Tom and Katherine fought last night. That almost certainly has something to do with why she left so suddenly.

  Number two: It doesn’t explain what I heard this morning. And since Tom isn’t going to mention it, it’s up to me.

  “I thought I heard a noise this morning,” I say. “Coming from this side of the lake.”

  “A noise?”

  “Yes. A scream.”

  I pause, waiting to see how Tom reacts. He doesn’t. His face remains still as a mask until he says, “What time?”

  “Just before dawn.”

  “I was asleep long past dawn,” Tom says.

  “But I thought that’s when Katherine left?”

  He stands frozen for a second, and at first I think I’ve caught him in a lie. But he recovers quickly, saying, “I said she left early. Not at dawn. And I don’t appreciate you insinuating that I’m lying.”

  “And I wouldn’t need to insinuate that if you just told me a time.”

  “Eight.”

  Even though Tom throws out the number like he’s just thought of it, the timeline fits. It takes a little under five hours to get from here to Manhattan, making it more than conceivable that Katherine would be there by now, even with a lengthy pit stop.

  Tom lifts a hand to his cheek, rubbing the spot where it connected with his wife’s fist. “I don’t understand why you’re so curious about Katherine. I didn’t know the two of you were friends.”

  “We were friendly,” I say.

  “I’m friendly with lots of people. That doesn’t make it okay to interrogate their spouses if they went somewhere without telling me.”

  Ah, the old minimize-a-woman’s-concern-by-making-her-think-she’s-obsessed-and-slightly-hysterical bit. I expected something more original from Tom.

  “I’m simply concerned,” I say.

  Realizing he’s still rubbing his cheek, Tom drops his hand and says, “You shouldn’t be. Because Katherine’s not concerned about you. That’s the thing you need to understand about my wife. She gets bored very easily. One minute, she wants to leave the city and drive up here to the lake for two weeks. A couple of days after that, she decides she wants to go back to the city. It’s the same with people. They’re like clothes to her. Something she can try on and wear for a while before moving on to the newest look.”

  Katherine never gave off that vibe. She—and the brief connection we had—seemed genuine, which makes me think even more that Tom is lying.

  Not just about this.

  About everything.

  And I decide to call his bluff.

  “I talked to Katherine last night,” I say. “It was after one in the morning. She told me you two had a fight.”

  A lie of my own. A little one. But Tom doesn’t need to know that. At first, I think he’s going to tell another lie in response. There’s something at work behind his eyes. Wheels turning, seeking an excuse. Finding none, he finally says, “Yes, we fought. It got heated. Both of us did and said things we shouldn’t have. When I woke up this morning, Katherine was gone. That’s why I was being vague about everything. Happy now? Or are there even more personal questions about our marriage you’d like to ask?”

  At last, Tom seems to be telling the truth. Of course that’s likely what happened. They had a fight, Katherine left, and she’s now in New York, probably calling the most expensive divorce lawyer money can buy.

  It’s also none of my business, a fact I never seriously considered until this moment. Now that I have, I find myself caught between vindication and shame. Tom was wrong to imply I was being obsessive and hysterical. I was worse: a nosy neighbor. A part I’ve never played before, either on-stage or onscreen. In real life, it’s not a good fit. In fact, it’s downright hypocritical. I, of all people, know what it feels like to have private problems dragged out for public scrutiny. Just because it had been done to me doesn’t mean it’s okay for me to do it to Tom Royce.

  “No,” I say. “I’m really sorry to have bothered you.”

  I slink back down the dock and step into the boat, already making a to-do list for when I get back to the lake house.

  First, toss Len’s binoculars into the trash.

  Second, find a way to occupy myself that doesn’t involve spying on the neighbors.

  Third, leave Tom alone and forget about Katherine Royce.

  That turns out to be easier planned than done. Because as I push the boat away from the dock, I catch a glimpse of Tom watching me leave. He stands in a slash of sunlight that makes the mark on his face stand out even more. He touches it again, his fingers moving in a circle over the angry red reminder that Katherine had once been here but is now gone.

  Seeing it prompts a memory of something Katherine said about him yesterday.

  Tom needs me too much to agree to a divorce. He’d kill me before letting me leave.

  I text Katherine again as soon as I get back to the lake house.

  Heard you’re back in the Big Apple. Had I known you were plotting an escape, I would have hitched a ride.

  I then plant myself on the porch and stare at my phone, as if doing it long enough will conjure up a response. So far, it’s not working. The only call I receive is my mother’s daily check-in, which I let go straight to voicemail before heading inside to pour a glass of bourbon.

  My second of the day.

  Maybe third.

  I take a hearty sip, return to the porch, and check the previous texts I sent Katherine. None of them have been read.

  Worrisome.

  If Katherine called Tom after arriving home in New York, then she certainly would have seen that I had called and texted.

  Unless Tom was indeed lying about that.

  Yes, he told the truth about their fight, but only after I prodded. And on another matter—the scream I’m still fifty percent sure I heard—he remained frustratingly vague. Tom only said he was asleep past dawn. He never actually denied hearing a scream.