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Then another.
Thenallthe bottles.
My mood swings like a pendulum as I rid the house of alcohol. There’s the same fury one feels when clearing out a no-good lover’s belongings. There’s I-can’t-believe-I’m-doing-this laughter. There’s excitement, wild and chaotic, along with catharsis and desperation and pride. And there’s sadness—a surprise. I didn’t expect to be mourning a drinking life that has only brought me trouble. Yet as the contents of bottle after bottle swirl down the drain, I’m overcome with grief.
I’m losing a friend.
A horrible one, yes.
But not always.
Sometimes drinking did indeed bring me great joy, and I’ll miss it.
After an hour, the doors to the liquor cabinet sit wide open, exposing only emptiness within. Filling the counter are all the bottles it had once contained, each one now drained. Some were older than a millennial; others were bought this week.
Now only one remains, a five-thousand-dollar bottle of red on the dining room table that belonged to Tom Royce. Knowing how much it cost, I couldn’t bring myself to pour that one down the drain. Through the dining room window, I see the Royce house blazing in the October night. I’d return the wine now if it weren’t so late and I weren’t so tired.
Emptying all those bottles has left me exhausted. Or maybe that’s just a symptom of withdrawal. Already, I’m dreading the myriad side effects that are surely in store.
A new Casey is on her way.
A strange feeling. I’m me—but also not. Which, come to think of it, is probably how Katherine felt before Len completely took over.
I’m just not myself lately, she told me.I haven’t felt right for days.
The memory arrives with the force of a thunderclap. Loud. Jarring. Charged with electricity.
Because what Katherine told me that day doesn’t track with everything else. When I learned that Len had returned and was controlling her like a marionette, I assumed he was the reason she’d felt so weird, so weak.
He was partly to blame, of course. I learned that myself from the short time he was inside me.
But Len wasn’t the sole reason Katherine felt that way.
I know because when she confessed to not feeling quite herself, it was the morning we had coffee on the porch. One dayafterI pulled her out of the lake. But according to Katherine, she felt off earlier than that—beforeLen entered the picture.
It was like my entire body stopped working.
I turn away from the window and look at the bottle of wine sitting on the table.
Then I grab my phone and call Wilma Anson.
The call immediately goes to voicemail. After the beep, I don’t leave my name or number. I simply shout what I need to say and hope Wilma hears it in time.
“That piece of wineglass I made you take? Did a report come back from the lab yet? Because I think I was right, Wilma. I think Tom Royce was—is—trying to murder his wife.”
I end the call, rush out to the porch, and grab the binoculars. It takes me a second to adjust the zoom and the focus. The Royce house blurs and unblurs before becoming crystal clear.
I scan the house, checking each room.
The kitchen is empty.
So is the office directly above it and the master bedroom to the right.
I finally locate Katherine in the living room. She’s on the sofa, propped up by throw pillows and lying under a blanket. On the coffee table beside her sits a large glass of red wine.
Still holding the binoculars to my eyes with one hand, I reach for my phone with the other. It bobbles in my hand as my thumb slides along the screen, scrolling to Katherine’s number.
Across the lake, she reaches for the wine, her hand curling around the glass.