The lack of a follow-up article suggests Tom hasn’t yet been able to lure any investors with deep pockets. Maybe that’s because, as I read in a separate Forbes piece on popular apps, Mixer is reportedly losing members while most others are steadily gaining them.

  More words from Katherine nudge into my thoughts.

  All of Tom’s money is tied up in Mixer, which still hasn’t turned a profit and probably never will.

  I decide to switch gears. Instead of looking for information about Tom, I do a search of Katherine Royce’s net worth. Turns out it’s surprisingly easy. There are entire websites devoted to listing how much celebrities make. According to one of them, Katherine’s net worth is thirty-five million dollars. More than enough to meet Mixer’s needs.

  That word lodges itself in my skull.

  Need.

  Contrary to Tom’s quote, the word smacks of desperation. Want implies a desire that, if not met, won’t change things too much in the long run. Need implies something necessary to survive.

  We need a like-minded partner.

  Tom needs me too much to agree to a divorce.

  He’d kill me before letting me leave.

  Perhaps Katherine was being completely serious when she said that. She even might have been hinting.

  That Tom was planning something.

  That she knew she might be in danger.

  That she wanted someone else to know it, too. Just in case.

  I close the laptop, half sick from worry and half sick from too much bourbon downed way too quickly. When the room begins to spin, I assume either one of those things is to blame. Probably both.

  The room continues to rotate, like a carousel steadily gaining speed. I close my eyes to make it stop and collapse onto my pillow. A dark numbness envelopes me, and I’m not sure if I’m falling asleep or passing out. As I plummet into unconsciousness, I’m greeted with a dream of Katherine Royce.

  Instead of the Katherine I met in real life, Dream Katherine looks the same way she did in that Times Square billboard all those years ago.

  Begowned and bejeweled.

  Shoes kicked off.

  Running through the dewy grass, trying desperately to escape the man she was going to marry.

  Katherine is still sprinting through my dreams when I awake sometime after three a.m., slightly confused by, well, everything. All the bedroom lights are on and I’m still fully dressed, sneakers and jacket included. The laptop sits on the side of the bed that used to be Len’s, reminding me that I’d been drunk Googling earlier.

  I slide out of bed and change into pajamas before heading to the bathroom. There I pee, brush my teeth, which had grown filmy, and gargle with mouthwash to clear away my bourbon breath. Back in the bedroom, I’m switching off all the lamps I had left on when I spot something through the tall windows that overlook the lake.

  A light on the opposite shore.

  Not at the Royce house but in the copse of trees to the left of it, near the water’s edge.

  From where I’m standing, I don’t need the binoculars to know it’s the beam of a flashlight bobbing through the trees. The big unknown is who’s carrying that flashlight and why they’re roaming the lakeside at this hour.

  I rush out of the bedroom and down the hallway, passing empty bedrooms along the way, their doors open and their beds neatly made, as if waiting for others to arrive. But there’s only me, all alone in this big, dark house, now descending the stairs to the main floor and heading to the porch where I spend most of my time. Once outside, I grab the binoculars.

  It turns out I’m too late.

  The light is gone.

  Everything is dark once more.

  But as I return inside and head back upstairs, I suspect I already know who it was and why he was out so late.

  Tom Royce.

  Putting the rope, tarp, and saw he’d purchased earlier in the day to good use.

  I wake again at eight, dry-mouthed and nauseated. Nothing new there. What is new is a gut punch of unease about Katherine’s fate, summed up by the thoughts that hit me as soon as I gain consciousness.

  She’s dead.

  Tom killed her.

  And now she’s either in the ground somewhere on the other side of the lake or in the water itself, sunk so deep she may never be found.

  This leaves me so rattled my legs tremble when I go downstairs to the kitchen and my hands shake as I pour a cup of coffee. While drinking it, I use my phone to confirm that, no, Katherine hasn’t posted another photo to Instagram since yesterday and, yes, her location on Mixer remains directly across the lake from me.

  Neither of those is a good sign.

  Later, after forcing down a bowl of oatmeal and taking a shower, I’m back on the porch with my phone, in case Wilma Anson calls, and the binoculars, in case Tom Royce makes an appearance. For an hour, both go unused. When my phone does eventually ring, I’m disappointed to hear not Wilma’s voice, but my mother’s.

  “I talked to Marnie and I’m concerned,” she says, cutting right to the chase.

  “Concerned that I talk to her more than I talk to you?”

  “Concerned that you’ve been spying on your neighbors and now seem to think your new model friend was murdered by her husband.”

  Goddamn Marnie. Her betrayal feels as pointed and painful as a bee sting. What’s worse is knowing it’ll get even more irritating now that my mother is involved.

  “This has nothing to do with you,” I tell her. “Or Marnie, for that matter. Please just leave me alone.”

  My mother gives a haughty sniff. “Since you haven’t denied it yet, I assume it’s true.”

  There are two ways to play this. One is to issue the denial my mother so desperately craves. Just like my drinking, she’ll be doubtful but will eventually fool herself into thinking it’s true because it’s easier that way. The other is to simply admit it in the hope she gets as exasperated as Marnie did and leaves me alone.

  I go with the latter.

  “Yes, I’m worried the man across the lake murdered his wife.”

  “Jesus, Casey. What has gotten into you?”

  She shouldn’t sound so scandalized. Banishing me to the lake house was her idea. Of all people, my own mother should have realized I’d get up to no good after being left alone here to my own devices. Though in my mind, finding out what happened to Katherine is a good thing.

  “She’s missing and I want to help her.”

  “I’m sure everything’s fine.”

  “It’s not,” I snap. “Something very wrong is going on here.”

  “If this is about Len—”

  “He has nothing to do with this,” I say, even though this has everything to do with Len. What happened to him is the sole reason I’m willing to believe something bad also could have befallen Katherine. If it happened once, it could easily happen again.

  “Even so,” my mother says, “it’s best if you stay out of it.”

  “That’s no longer an option. A guy staying at the Mitchells’ place thinks the same way I do. We already told a detective friend of his.”

  “You got the police involved?” My mother sounds like she’s about to get the vapors or drop the phone or pass out from shock. Maybe all three. “This—this isn’t good, Casey. I sent you there so you’d be out of the public eye.”

  “Which I am.”

  “Not when there are cops around.” My mother’s voice lowers to a whispered plea. “Please don’t get involved any further. Just walk away.”

  But I can’t do that, even if I wanted to. Because as my mother talks, something catches my eye on the other side of the lake.

  Tom Royce.

  As he crosses the patio on the way to his Bentley, I raise the binoculars and my mother’s voice fades into background noise. I focus solely on Tom, searching for ways in which he could seem suspicious. Is his slow, easygoing walk to the car all an act because he knows he’s being watched? Is that grim look on his face because his wife left him? Or is it because he’s thinking about how he refused to let her leave?

  My mother keeps talking, sounding like she’s a thousand miles away. “Casey? Are you listening to me?”

  I continue to stare across the water as Tom slides behind the wheel of the Bentley and backs it out from under the portico. When the car turns left, heading toward town, I say, “Mom, I need to go.”

  “Casey, wait—”

  I hang up before she can finish. Staring at the now-empty Royce house, I think about the last birthday I celebrated with Len. The Big Three-Five. To celebrate, he rented an entire movie theater so I could finally fulfill my dream of watching Rear Window on the big screen.

  If my mother were still on the line, she’d tell me what I’m doing is playing pretend. Role-playing Jimmy Stewart in his wheelchair because I have nothing else going on in my sad little life. While that’s probably truer than I’d care to admit, this isn’t just playacting.

  It’s real. It’s happening. And I’m a part of it.

  That doesn’t mean I can’t take a cue from good old Jimmy. In the movie, he had Grace Kelly search his suspicious neighbor’s apartment, finding the wedding ring that proved he had murdered his wife. While times have changed and I don’t know if Katherine’s wedding ring will be enough proof for Wilma Anson, maybe something else in that house will do the trick.

  By the time Tom’s Bentley vanishes from view, the phone is stuffed back in my pocket, the binoculars are taking my place in the rocking chair, and I’m marching off the porch.

  While he’s away, I plan on doing more than just watch the Royces’ house.

  I’m going to search the place.

  Rather than take the boat across the lake—the quickest and easiest option—I choose to walk the gravel road that circles Lake Greene. It’s completely quiet and less conspicuous than the boat, which could be seen and heard by Tom if, God forbid, he returns while I’m still there and I have to make a quick getaway.

  Also, walking gives me a chance to clear my head, gather my thoughts, and, if I’m being completely honest, change my mind. The road, so narrow and tree-lined in spots that it could pass for a path, invites contemplation. And as I walk, the lake glistening through the trees on my left and the thick forest rising to my right, what I’m thinking is that breaking into the Royce house is a bad idea.

  Very bad.

  The worst.

  I pause when I reach the northernmost corner of the lake, smack in the middle of the horseshoe curve separating Eli’s house from the Mitchells’, where Boone is staying. I wonder what both men would say if they knew what I’m planning. That it’s illegal, probably. That breaking and entering is a crime, even if my intentions are pure. Boone, ex-cop that he is, would likely list more than a dozen ways in which I’ll be charged if I get caught. And Eli wouldn’t hesitate to mention that what I’m about to attempt is also dangerous. Tom Royce will come back at some point.

  Far across the water, all the way at the lake’s southern tip, I can spot the rocky bluff where Len and I had our afternoon picnic a week before he died. In the water below, Old Stubborn pokes from the surface. Because of the way it’s situated, the ancient tree can’t be seen from any of the houses on Lake Greene, which is probably why it’s attained such mythical status.

  The guardian of the lake, according to Eli.

  Even if he’s right and Old Stubborn is keeping watch over Lake Greene, there are limits to what it can do. It can’t, for instance, break into the Royce house and search for clues.

  That leaves me to do the job.

  Not because I want to.

  Because I have to.

  Especially if finding something incriminating inside is the only way I’m going to convince Wilma that Tom is lying about Katherine.

  I resume walking, faster than before, not slowing until I’ve passed Eli’s place and the Royces’ house comes into view. The front is far different from the back. No floor-to-ceiling glass here. Just a modern block of steel and stone with narrow slats for windows on both the upper and lower floors.

  The front door, made of oak and big enough for a castle, is locked, forcing me to go around the side of the house and try the patio door in the back. I had wanted to avoid the possibility of being seen from my side of the lake. Hopefully Boone is busy working inside the Mitchells’ house and not sitting on the dock, watching this place as fervently as I’ve been.

  I cross the patio quickly, making a beeline to the sliding door that leads into the house. I give it a tug and the unlocked door opens just a crack.

  Seeing that two-inch gap between the door and its frame gives me pause. While I’m not up to speed on Vermont’s penal code, I don’t need Boone to tell me what I’m about to do is against the law. It’s not quite breaking and entering, thanks to the unlocked door. And I’m certainly not intending to steal anything, so it’s not burglary. But it is trespassing, which will result in at least a fine and some more horrible headlines if I’m caught.

  But then I think about Katherine. And how Tom has lied—blatantly lied—about her whereabouts. And how if I don’t do anything about it now, no one will. Not until it’s too late. If it isn’t too late already.

  So I pull the door open a little wider, slip inside, and quickly close it behind me.

  Inside the Royce house, the first thing that catches my eye is the view from the wall-sized windows overlooking the lake. Specifically the way my family’s charmingly ramshackle lake house appears from here. It’s so small, so distant. Thanks to the shadows of the trees surrounding it, I can barely make out the row of windows at the master bedroom or anything on the back porch beyond the railing. No rocking chairs. No table between them. Certainly no binoculars. Someone could be sitting there right now, watching me from across the lake, and I’d have no idea.

  Yet Katherine knew I was watching. The last night I saw her, right before Tom jerked her away from this very spot, she looked directly at that porch, knowing I was there, watching the whole thing happen. My hope is that it comforted her. My fear is that it left her as unnerved as I feel right now. Like I’m in a fishbowl, my every move exposed. It brings a sense of vulnerability I neither expected nor enjoy.

  And guilt. A whole lot of that.

  Because today isn’t the first time I’ve entered the Royces’ house.

  With my near-constant spying, in a way I’ve been doing it for days.

  And although I’m certain, down to my core, that no one would have known Katherine was in trouble without me watching them, shame warms my cheeks harder than the sun slanting through the windows.

  My face continues to burn as I decide where to search first. Thanks to that long-ago visit and my recent hours of spying, I’m well acquainted with the layout of the house. The open-plan living room takes up one whole side of the first floor, from front to back. Since it strikes me as the least likely place to find anything incriminating, I cross the dining room and head into the kitchen.

  Like the rest of the house, it’s got a mid-century modern/Scandinavian-sparse vibe that’s all the rage on the HGTV shows I sometimes watch when I’m drunk and can’t sleep in the middle of the night. Stainless steel appliances. White everywhere else. Subway tile out the ass.

  Unlike on those design shows, the Royce kitchen shows signs of frequent, messy use. Multicolored drops of food spatter the countertops. A tray on the center island holds a bowl and spoon crusted with dried oatmeal. On the stovetop is a pot with soup dregs at the bottom. From the milky film coating it, my guess is cream of mushroom, reheated last night. I assume Katherine was the cook of the marriage and Tom has been reduced to eating like a frat boy. I can’t help but judge him as I peek into the trash can and see boxes that once held microwave Mexican and Lean Cuisines. Even at my drunkest and laziest, I would never resort to frozen burritos.

  What I don’t see—in the trash or anywhere else in the kitchen—are signs something bad happened here. No drops of blood among the food spatter. No sharp knife or hacksaw or weapon of any kind drying in the dishwasher. There’s not even a Dear John letter from Katherine, which is what Marnie had predicted.

  Satisfied there’s nothing else to see here, I do a quick tour of the rest of the first floor—tasteful sun-room off the kitchen, guest powder room that smells like lavender, entrance foyer—before heading upstairs.

  My first stop on the second floor is the only room not visible through the expansive windows at the back of the house—a guest room. It’s luxurious, boasting a king bed, sitting area, and en suite bathroom that looks like something out of a spa. It’s all crisp, clean, and completely boring.

  The same goes for the exercise room, although I do examine the rack of free weights for dried blood in case any of them had been used as a weapon. They’re clean, which makes me feel both relieved and slightly troubled that I’d thought to check them in the first place.

  After that, it’s on to the master bedroom, where the sight of my own house through the massive windows brings another guilt-inducing reminder that I watched Katherine and Tom in this most private of spaces. It’s made worse by the fact that I’m now inside their inner sanctum, casing it the way a burglar would.

  I see nothing immediately amiss in the bedroom itself, other than an unmade bed, a pair of Tom’s boxer shorts discarded on the floor, and an empty rocks glass on his nightstand. I can’t decide which is worse—that my spying has already taught me which side of the bed is Tom’s or that a single sniff of the rocks glass instantly tells me he was drinking whiskey.

  When I round the bed and check Katherine’s nightstand, I encounter the first sign of something suspicious. A small bowl the color of a Tiffany’s box sits next to her bedside lamp. Resting at its bottom are two pieces of jewelry.

  An engagement ring and a wedding band.

  It immediately reminds me of Rear Window and Grace Kelly as seen through Jimmy Stewart’s telephoto lens, flashing dead Mrs. Thorwald’s wedding ring. In 1954, that was proof of guilt. Today, however, it proves nothing. That’s what Wilma Anson would tell me.