I look out the door and across the lake, curious as to why Tom still hasn’t made a break for it. When I mention this to Boone, he says, “Because it’ll make him look guilty. And right now, he’s betting that the cops won’t be able to pin anything on him.”

  “But he can’t keep up this charade forever,” I say. “Someone else is going to realize Katherine is missing.”

  I move to the dining room and grab my phone, which shows damage from its fall from the porch. The bottom right corner has caved in, and a crack as jagged as a lightning bolt slices from one side to the other. But it still works, which is all that matters.

  I go straight to Katherine’s Instagram, which has remained unchanged since the morning she disappeared. I can’t be the only one to realize the photo of that pristine kitchen wasn’t posted by Katherine. Surely others, especially people who know her better than I do, will notice the wrong month on the calendar and Tom’s reflection in the teakettle.

  In fact, it’s possible one of them already has.

  I close Instagram and go to the photos stored on my phone. Boone watches me from the kitchen counter, his mug of coffee paused mid-sip.

  “What are you doing?”

  “When I was searching Tom and Katherine’s house, I found her phone.”

  “I know,” Boone says. “Which would be amazing evidence if not for that whole, you know, being-obtained-illegally thing.”

  I note his sarcasm but am too busy swiping through photos to care. I pass the picture of the article about Harvey Brewer, looking grainy on the laptop’s screen, and photos of Katherine’s financial records and Mixer’s quarterly data.

  “While I was there, someone called Katherine,” I say as I reach the photos taken inside the master bedroom. “I took a picture of the number that popped up on the screen.”

  “Which will help how?”

  “If we call them and it’s someone worried about Katherine—especially a family member—maybe it will be enough for Wilma and the state police to declare her missing and officially question Tom.”

  I scan the photos on my phone.

  Katherine’s rings.

  Katherine’s clothes.

  And, finally, Katherine’s phone, both blank and lit up with an incoming call.

  I stare at the screen inside my screen. A strange feeling. Like looking at a photograph of a photograph.

  There’s no name. Just a number, leading me to think it’s probably someone Katherine didn’t know well. If she even knew them at all. There’s the very real possibility it was a telemarketer or a vague acquaintance or simply a wrong number. I remember my own number appearing on the screen when I called to confirm the phone belonged to Katherine. Although those ten digits made it clear Katherine hadn’t added me to her contacts, it doesn’t make me less concerned about where she could be or what might have happened to her. It might be the same for this other caller. They could be just as worried as I am.

  I call them without a second thought, toggling between the photo and my phone’s keypad until the number is typed in completely.

  I hold my breath.

  I hit the call button.

  At the kitchen counter, Boone’s phone begins to ring.

  NOW

  What did you do with the girls after you killed them?” I say. “Are they here, in the lake?”

  He lolls his head to the side and faces the wall. At first, I think he’s giving me the silent treatment again.

  Rain slaps the window.

  Just beyond it, something snaps.

  A tree branch succumbing to the wind.

  On the bed, he speaks, his voice only one step louder than the storm raging outside.

  “Yes.”

  The answer shouldn’t be a surprise. I think about the postcard, that bird’s-eye view of Lake Greene, the four words shakily written beneath three names.

  I think they’re here.

  Nevertheless, I’m hit with a tiny tremor of shock. I inhale. A rattling half gasp prompted by the confirmation that Megan Keene, Toni Burnett, and Sue Ellen Stryker have been at the bottom of the lake all this time. More than two years, in Megan’s case. A horrible way to be buried.

  Only they weren’t buried here.

  They were dumped.

  Disposed of like pieces of trash.

  Just thinking about it makes me so sad that I instantly have another sip of bourbon. When I swallow, the alcohol burns rather than soothes.

  “Do you remember where?”

  “Yes.”

  He rolls his head my way again. As we lock eyes, I wonder what he sees in mine. I hope it’s what I’m trying to project and not my emotional reality. Steely reserve instead of fear, determination instead of unfathomable grief for three women I’ve never met. I suspect, however, that he can see right through me. He knows I act for a living.

  “Then tell me,” I say. “Tell me where they can be found.”

  He squints, curious. “Why?”

  Because then the truth will be known. Not just that he killed Megan, Toni, and Sue Ellen, but what happened to them, where they were when they died, where they now rest. Then their families and friends, who have gone too long without answers, will be able to grieve and—hopefully, eventually—be at peace.

  I don’t tell him this because I don’t think he cares. If anything, it might make him less willing to talk.

  “Is this about finding them?” he says. “Or finding out what happened to Katherine?”

  “Both.”

  “What if only one of those things is possible?”

  I slide a hand across the mattress until I’m touching the handle of the knife. “I think everything’s on the table, don’t you?”

  He responds with an eye roll and a sigh, as if bored by the idea of me actually using the knife.

  “Look at you acting all tough,” he says. “I have to admit, even this weak attempt at threatening me is a surprise. I might have underestimated you a little.”

  I wrap my fingers around the knife. “More than a little.”

  “There’s just one problem,” he says. “Some unfinished business I’m not sure you’ve thought of yet.”

  In all likelihood, he’s right. There’s a lot I haven’t thought of. None of this was planned. I’m working without a script now, improvising wildly and hoping I don’t fuck it all up.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” He moves his arms as far as they can go, the ropes binding them to the bedposts stretched taut. “And you’re clearly staying. Which leaves me curious about one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What you plan on doing with Tom Royce.”

  BEFORE

  I let the phone keep ringing, too stunned to end the call. For his part, Boone doesn’t bother to answer it. He knows who’s calling.

  Me.

  Trying to reach the same person who had called Katherine Royce.

  “I can explain,” he says at the same time the call transfers to his voicemail recording, bringing two versions of Boone to my ears. They wind around each other, performing a surreal duet.

  “Hi, I’m not available to take your call. Please—”

  “—listen to me, Casey. I know what—”

  “—your name and number, and I’ll—”

  “—thinking, and I can assure—”

  “—you back.”

  I tap my phone, cutting off the recorded Boone as the real one gets up from the kitchen counter and takes a step toward me.

  “Don’t,” I warn.

  Boone raises his hands, palms up, in a gesture of innocence. “Please just hear me out.”

  “Why were you calling her?”

  “Because I was worried,” Boone says. “I’d called her the day before, not getting any answer. And when I saw you break into the house, I called one last time, hoping that we were wrong and she was there avoiding me and that you barging in like that would force her to answer the phone and tell me she was okay.”

  “Avoiding you? You told me you barely knew her. That you’d only met once or twice. You said the same thing to Wilma. That seems like a lot of concern for someone you claimed not to know very well.”

  Boone sits back down at the counter, a smug look on his face. “You have no right to judge. You hardly knew Katherine.”

  I can’t argue with that. Katherine and I were barely past the acquaintance stage when she disappeared.

  “At least I didn’t lie about it,” I say.

  “You’re right. I lied. There, I admitted it. I did know Katherine. We were friends.”

  “Then why didn’t you say that? Why lie to me? To Wilma?”

  “Because it was complicated,” Boone says.

  “Complicated how?”

  I think back to the afternoon I spotted Katherine in the water. There was one thing about that moment that should have bothered me then but ended up getting lost in the shuffle of everything else that’s happened.

  Why hadn’t I seen her earlier?

  I was there all afternoon, sitting on the porch, facing her house and dock. Even though it was far away and I hadn’t yet hauled out the binoculars—and even though I wasn’t paying much attention to the water—I would have noticed someone on the other side of the lake coming outside, strolling down their dock, diving in, and starting to swim.

  But I saw nothing. Not until Katherine was in the middle of the lake.

  Which meant she’d been swimming not from her side of the lake, but from mine. Specifically, the area of the Mitchell house, where the lake bends inward, partially hiding the shore.

  “She was with you, wasn’t she?” I say. “The day she almost drowned?”

  Boone doesn’t blink. “Yes.”

  “Why?” Jealousy seeps into my voice, unintended yet also unavoidable. “Were you two having an affair?”

  “No,” Boone says. “It was all very innocent. We met the night I arrived in August. She and Tom came over to introduce themselves and told me they were here until Labor Day and that I shouldn’t be a stranger. The next day, Katherine swam across the lake to my dock and asked me if I wanted to join her.”

  “Do you think she was trying to seduce you?”

  “I think she was just lonely. If she did have sex in mind, I didn’t pick up on it. She’s a supermodel, for Christ’s sake. She could have any man she wanted. No way did I suspect she was interested in me.”

  All this aw-shucks modesty is an act. Boone knows exactly how good-looking he is. I picture him naked on the dock, bathed in moonlight, as beguilingly beautiful as Katherine herself. Now more than ever, I’m convinced he knew I was watching that night.

  “So you went swimming together,” I say.

  “A few times, yeah. But nothing more. Afterwards, we’d hang out on the deck and talk. She was really unhappy, that much was clear. She never said it outright. Just strongly hinted that things were bad between her and Tom.”

  Katherine had done the same with me, dropping arch comments about the state of her marriage. Like Boone, I’d assumed she was sad, lonely, and looking for a friend. Which is why I had no reason to lie about the extent of our relationship.

  “If it was all so innocent, why didn’t you come clean earlier?”

  “Because it stopped being that way. Well, it almost did.” He slumps on the stool, as if telling the truth has made him exhausted. If it weren’t for his elbows on the counter propping him up, I assume he’d drop straight onto the floor. “The day after Labor Day, before she and Tom went back to New York, I kissed her.”

  I picture a scenario similar to the two of us yesterday. Boone and Katherine sitting together, closer than they should be, the heat of attraction radiating from their bodies. I imagine Boone running a finger across her lower lip, leaning in, kissing the spot he’d just touched. Another smooth move.

  “Katherine freaked out, left, went back to her fancy life with her billionaire husband.” Boone’s voice has turned hard—a tone I’ve never heard from him before. There’s an echo of anger and bitterness in it. “I never thought I’d see her again. Then, a few days ago, there she was, back in that house with Tom. She never told me they’d returned. Never stopped by to see me. I called her a few times, just to see how she was doing. She ignored them. And me.”

  “Not completely, remember,” I say. “Since she was with you the day I rescued her from the lake.”

  “She swam over, unannounced, just like the first time she did it,” Boone says. “When I saw her, I thought that maybe nothing had changed and that we’d pick up where we left off. Katherine made it clear that wasn’t going to happen. She told me she only came over to demand that I stop calling her. She said Tom had noticed and was asking a lot of questions.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That she was free to leave. So she did. Which is why I was surprised when she called me later that afternoon.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Boone says with a shrug. “I didn’t answer and I deleted her message without listening to it.”

  I get a sudden flashback to me on the porch, spying on the Royces for the very first time. I’ll never forget the way Tom crept through the dining room as Katherine, in the living room, made a phone call, waited for someone to pick up, whispered a message. I now know who that message was for.

  “You were on your way over here when she called,” I say. “Was she the reason you came by to introduce yourself? Since Katherine rejected you, you decided you’d try your luck with the woman next door?”

  Boone flinches, hurt. “I introduced myself because I was lonely and thought you might be lonely, too. And that if we hung out a little, both of us wouldn’t feel that way. And I don’t regret that. Because I like you, Casey. You’re funny and smart and interesting. And you remind me exactly of how I used to be. I look at you, and I just want to—”

  “Fix me?”

  “Help you,” Boone says. “Because you need help, Casey.”

  But he wanted more than that when he introduced himself that day. I remember the charm, the swagger, the flirtation I’d found both tiresome and tantalizing.

  Thinking back to that afternoon prompts an unsavory realization. Boone had mentioned spending the day working on the Mitchells’ dining room floor. If he was there the whole time, within earshot of the activity on the lake, why didn’t he do anything when Katherine was drowning and I was calling for help?

  That question leads to another. One so disturbing I’m barely able to ask it.

  “When Katherine came over that day, did you give her anything to drink?”

  “Lemonade. Why do you—” Boone stands again, suddenly understanding. “I didn’t do what you’re thinking.”

  I wish I could believe him. But the facts warn me not to. Katherine claimed to have grown suddenly weary while swimming.

  It was like my entire body stopped working.

  All this time, I thought Tom was the one who’d caused it. Imitating Harvey Brewer and slipping small doses of poison into his wife’s drinks. But it also could have been Boone. Angry, jealous, rejected Boone, mixing a large dose into Katherine’s lemonade.

  “Casey,” he says. “You know me. You know I would never do something like that.”

  But I don’t know him. I thought I did, but only because I believed everything he told me. Now I’m forced to doubt all of it.

  Including, I realize, what he said about the scream the morning Katherine vanished. Because I was still drunk, I didn’t quite know where the sound had originated. Boone’s the one who concluded it had come from the other side of the lake, citing an echo I’m now not sure existed.

  It’s possible he was lying. That the scream came not from across the lake, but this side.

  His side.

  Which means there’s also a chance Boone’s the person who caused Katherine to scream.

  “Stay away from me,” I say as Boone starts to approach. The way he moves—slowly, methodically—is more intimidating than if he were in a hurry. It gives me ample time to notice how big he is, how strong, how it would take him no effort at all to overpower me.

  “You’ve got it all wrong,” he says. “I didn’t do anything to Katherine.”

  He keeps walking toward me, and I look around for the nearest escape route. Right behind me are the French doors leading to the porch, still locked. I might be able to unlock them and run outside, but doing so would take up precious seconds I’m not sure I can spare.

  When Boone’s almost within reach, I skirt sideways and bolt into the heart of the kitchen. Although not an escape, it at least gives me access to things with which I can defend myself. I pick one—the largest blade from the knife block on the counter—and thrust it in front of me, daring Boone to come closer.

  “Leave my house,” I say. “And don’t ever come back.”

  Boone’s mouth drops open, as if he’s about to make another denial—or switch to threatening me. Apparently deciding silence is the best policy, he closes his mouth, lifts his hands in defeat, and leaves the house without another word.

  I move from door to door, making sure all of them are locked. The front door is secured minutes after Boone passes through it, and the doors to the porch remain locked from the night before. That leaves one more—the creaky blue door in the basement.

  The last place I want to go.

  I know there’s nothing physically dangerous down there. It’s nothing but junk, once frequently used, now forgotten. It’s the memories of the day Len died that I’d like to avoid. No good can come from reliving that morning. But since the basement door is how Boone got inside last night, I need to lock it to keep him from doing it again.

  Even though it’s only mid-morning, I have a shot of vodka before heading down to the basement. A little liquid courage never hurts.