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Her most recent photo is a view of a pristine, all-white kitchen with a stainless steel teakettle on the stove, a Piet Mondrian calendar on the wall, and lilies in a vase by the window. Outside, Central Park spreads out below in all its pastoral splendor. The caption is short and sweet:There’s no place like home.
I check when it was posted.
An hour ago.
So Tom wasn’t lying after all. Katherine did indeed return to their apartment, a fact that seems to have surprised her famous friends who’ve left comments.
Ur back in the city?! YAY!!one of them wrote.
Another replied,That was quick!
Tom himself even weighed in:Keep the home fires burning, babe!
I exhale, breathing out all the tension I didn’t know I was holding in.
Katherine is fine.
Good.
Yet my relief is tempered by a slight stab of rejection. Maybe that was another of Tom’s truths—that Katherine gets bored quickly. Now that I know with certainty that she’s been on her phone, it’s clear Katherine didn’t miss my calls or texts. She’s avoiding me, just like I’m avoiding my mother. I realize I’m the kind of person Katherine gently chided in her voicemail message. The ones who are being ignored.
After last night, I can’t really blame her. She knows I’ve been watching her house. Marnie was right when she said that’s not healthy behavior. In fact, it’s downright unnerving. Who spends so much time spying on their neighbors? Losers, that’s who. Lonely losers who drink too much and have nothing better to do.
Okay, maybe Marnie’s correct and Iama little obsessed with Katherine. Yes, some of that obsession is valid. Since I saved Katherine’s life, it’s only natural to be concerned with her well-being. But the truth is harsher than that. I became fixated on Katherine to avoid facing my own problems, of which there are many.
Annoyed—at Katherine, at Marnie, at myself—I grab the binoculars, carry them inside, and drop them into the trash. Something I should have done days ago.
I return to the porch and my go-to security blanket of bourbon, which I sip until Marnie calls back a half hour later, the familiar sounds of Manhattan traffic honking in the background.
“I already know what you’re going to say,” I tell her. “Katherine’s there. You were right and I was stupid.”
“That’s not what their doorman just told me,” Marnie says.
“You talked to him?”
“I told him I was an old friend of Katherine’s who just happened to be in the neighborhood and wondered if she wanted to grab lunch. I don’t think he believed me, but it doesn’t matter because he still told me that the Royces are currently at their vacation home in Vermont.”
“And those were his exact words?” I say. “The Royces. Not just Mr. Royce.”
“Plural. I even did the whole oh-I-thought-I-saw-Katherine-across-the-street-yesterday routine. He told me I was mistaken and that Mrs. Royce hasn’t been at the apartment for several days.”
A fierce chill grips me. It feels like I’ve just been thrown into the lake and am now lost in the water’s frigid darkness.
I was right.
Tomwaslying.
“Now I’m really worried,” I say. “Why would Tom lie to me like that?”
“Because whatever’s going on is none of your business,” Marnie says. “You said yourself that Katherine seemed unhappy. Maybe she is. And so she left him. For all you know, there’s a Dear John letter sitting on the kitchen counter right now.”
“It still doesn’t add up. I did what you suggested and looked at her Instagram. She just posted a picture from inside her apartment.”
Marnie chews on that a minute. “How do you know it’s her apartment?”
“I don’t,” I say. I only assumed it was because Katherine said so in the caption and because it had a view of Central Park and looked to be roughly where the Royces’ apartment is located.
“See?” Marnie says. “Maybe Katherine told Tom she was going to the apartment but really went to stay with a friend or a family member. He might not have any clue where she is and was too embarrassed to admit that.”