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Leaving the den, I go to the kitchen and pour myself a bourbon. A double, to make up for what I missed while Boone was here. I take it out to the porch, where I rock and drink and watch the house on the other side of the water like I’m Jay Gatsby pining for Daisy Buchanan. In my case, there’s no green light at the end of the dock. There’s no light at all, in fact. The windows were dark by the time I returned to the porch, although a quick look through the binoculars at Tom’s Bentley tells me he’s still there.
I keep watching, hoping he’ll turn on a light somewhere and provide a clearer idea of what he might be up to. That’s what Wilma wants, after all. Something solid onto which we can pin our suspicions. Even though I want that, too, I get queasy thinking about what, exactly, that something solid would be. Blood dripping from Tom’s newly purchased hacksaw? Katherine’s body washed ashore like Len’s?
There I go again, thinking Katherine is dead. I hate that my mind keeps veering in that direction. I’d prefer to be like Wilma, certain there’s a logical explanation behind all of it and that everything will turn out right inthe end. My brain just doesn’t work that way. Because if what happened with Len has taught me anything, it’s to expect the worst.
I take another sip of bourbon and bring the binoculars to my eyes. Instead of focusing on the still frustratingly dark Royce house, I scan the area in general, taking in the dense forests, the rocky slope of mountain behind them, the jagged shore on the far edges of the lake.
So many places to bury unwanted things.
So many places to disappear.
And don’t even get me started on the lake. When we were kids, Marnie would tease me about Lake Greene’s depth, usually when both of us were neck-deep in the water, my toes stretched as much as possible to retain the faintest bit of contact with the lake bed.
“The lake is darker than a coffin with the lid shut,” she’d say. “And as deep as the ocean. If you sink under, you’ll never come back up again. You’ll be trapped forever.”
While that’s not technically true—Len’s fate proved that—it’s easy to imagine parts of Lake Greene so deep that something could be forever lost there.
Even a person.
That thought takes more than a gulp of bourbon to chase from my brain. It takes the whole damn glass, downed in a few heavy swallows. I get up and wobble into the kitchen, where I pour another double before returning to my post on the porch. Even though I’ve now got a hearty buzz going, I can’t stop wondering, if Katherine really is dead, why Tom would do such a thing.
Money is my guess.
That was the motive inShred of Doubt. The character I played had inherited a fortune, her husband had grown up dirt poor—and he wanted what she had. Snippets of things Katherine said to me float through my bourbon-soaked brain.
I pay for everything.
Tom needs me too much to agree to a divorce.
He’d kill me before letting me leave.
I head inside, grab my laptop from the charging station in the den, say hi to the moose head, and go upstairs. Snuggled in bed under a quilt, I fire up the laptop and Google Tom Royce, hoping it’ll bring up information incriminating enough to persuade Wilma that something is amiss.
One of the first things I see is aBloomberg Businessweekarticle from last month reporting that Mixer has been courting venture capital firms, seeking a cash influx of thirty million dollars to keep things afloat. Based on what Katherine told me about the app’s lack of profitability, I’m not surprised.
“We’re not desperate,” the article quotes Tom as saying. “Mixer continues to perform above even our loftiest expectations. To take it to the next level as quickly and as efficiently as possible, we need a like-minded partner.”
Translation: He’s absolutely desperate.
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 separateForbespiece 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.Wantimplies a desire that, if not met, won’t change things too much in the long run.Needimplies 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.