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What the fuck am I doing?
The answer is simple: I don’t know. I wasn’t prepared for any of this.How could I have been? Now that it’s happening—truly, legitimately, holy shithappening—I’m just going on gut instinct, fueled by both the desire to locate the women Len killed and the fear that Tom will learn I’m guilty of exactly what I accused him of doing. Right now, separating them seems like the best course of action.
So I run up behind Len, give him a shove, and try to propel him up the stairs before Tom can catch us. Which he almost does. We’re halfway up the steps when he come barreling after us, forcing me to swing the broken table leg at him like it’s a Louisville Slugger. The wood slams against one wall of the stairwell before ricocheting into the other.
Tom staggers out of the way, trips, drops onto all fours. The whole time, he shouts at me. “Casey, stop!Pleasedon’t do this!”
I keep moving, catching up to Len at the top of the stairs and shoving him through the door. When both of us are out of the stairwell, I turn around and see Tom scrambling up the steps, calling out, “No! Wait!”
I slam the door, reach for the chain, slide it into place just as Tom bangs against it. The door lurches open a crack before being stopped by the chain. Tom’s face fills the two-inch gap between door and frame.
“Listen to me, Casey!” he hisses. “Do not trust her!”
I push against the door, trying to shut it again as, next to me, Len starts shoving the nearby hutch. It barely moves. He grunts and pushes, forgetting he’s now in the body of someone with half his former size and strength. Forced to join in, I let go of the door and start pulling the hutch. Together, we’re able to nudge it an inch in front of the door before Tom rears back, ready to make another escape attempt.
He smash-kicks the door.
The chain snaps.
The door flies open a crack before bouncing off the back of the hutch.
Straining and heaving, Len and I shove the hutch against the door, forcing it shut and trapping Tom on the other side. He pounds and kicks and begs me to let him out.
I intend to.
Eventually.
Right now, though, I need to get Len to the lake house, where I can question him in peace.
We exit through the kitchen door, Tom’s thumps and calls eclipsed by the storm outside. The wind roars, bending the surrounding trees so hard I’m surprised they haven’t snapped. Rain falls in blinding sheets and thunder cracks overhead. There’s a flash of lightning, in which I see Len start to run.
Before he can get away, I grab the ropes still around his ankles and tug them like reins. Len flops to the ground. Not knowing what else to do, I leap on top of him, holding him in place as the rain pummels us both.
Beneath me, Len grumbles, “I thought you were setting me free.”
“Not even close.” I slide off of him. “Get up.”
He does—not an easy task with his arms still bound behind his back and me gripping the ropes around his ankles like he’s an unruly dog on a leash. When he’s finally on his feet, I nudge him forward.
“Head toward the dock. Slowly. The boat’s there.”
“Ah, the boat,” Len says as he shuffles in the direction of the water. “Thatbrings back memories.”
Moving through the storm, I wonder just how much he remembers about the night he died. Judging by his sarcasm, I assume most of it. It makes me curious if he has any knowledge about the fourteen months between then and now. It’s hard to imagine him being aware of time’s passage as his spirit floated in the water. Then again, I also never imagined him shuffling down a dock in the body of a former supermodel, yet here we are.
Once again, I think:This isn’t happening. This is a nightmare. This can’t be real.
Unfortunately, it feels all too real, including the wind, the rain, the waves rising from the wind-whipped lake and crashing over the dock. If this was a dream, I wouldn’t be soaking wet. Or so fucking scared. Or nervous that the lake water sloshing around my ankles might send me sliding off the dock.
Ahead of me, Lendoesslip, and I fear he’s about to fall into the water.With his hands bound behind his back, he’d surely drown. I’m not concerned about the drowning part. Clearly. It’s him drowningbeforetelling me where he put his victims’ bodies that worries me.
Len manages to keep his balance and drop into the boat just as it crests a wave at the end of the dock. I scramble in behind him and quickly start to knot the ropes around his ankles to the legs of his seat, which is bolted to the floor.
“This is all so unnecessary,” he says as I finish knotting the ropes around the seat’s legs.
“I beg to differ.”
With Len secured, I climb to the back of the boat and start the motor. Rowing isn’t possible in water this rough. It’s tough going even with the outboard motor running at full throttle. A trip that’s normally two minutes ends up being closer to fifteen. When we do reach the other side of the lake, it takes three tries and two jarring slams against the dock before I’m able to tie up the boat.