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By the time Tom’s Bentley vanishes from view, the phone is stuffed back in my pocket, the binoculars are taking my place in the rocking chair, and I’m marching off the porch.
While he’s away, I plan on doing more than just watch the Royces’ house.
I’m going to search the place.
Rather than take the boat across the lake—the quickest and easiest option—I choose to walk the gravel road that circles Lake Greene. It’s completely quiet and less conspicuous than the boat, which could be seen and heard by Tom if, God forbid, he returns while I’m still there and I have to make a quick getaway.
Also, walking gives me a chance to clear my head, gather my thoughts, and, if I’m being completely honest, change my mind. The road, so narrow and tree-lined in spots that it could pass for a path, invites contemplation. And as I walk, the lake glistening through the trees on my left and the thick forest rising to my right, what I’m thinking is that breaking into the Royce house is a bad idea.
Very bad.
The worst.
I pause when I reach the northernmost corner of the lake, smack in the middle of the horseshoe curve separating Eli’s house from the Mitchells’, where Boone is staying. I wonder what both men would say if they knew what I’m planning. That it’s illegal, probably. That breaking and entering is a crime, even if my intentions are pure. Boone, ex-cop that he is, would likely list more than a dozen ways in which I’ll be charged if I get caught. And Eli wouldn’t hesitate to mention that what I’m about to attempt is also dangerous. Tom Roycewillcome back at some point.
Far across the water, all the way at the lake’s southern tip, I can spot the rocky bluff where Len and I had our afternoon picnic a week before he died. In the water below, Old Stubborn pokes from the surface. Because of the way it’s situated, the ancient tree can’t be seen from any of the houses on Lake Greene, which is probably why it’s attained such mythical status.
The guardian of the lake, according to Eli.
Even if he’s right and Old Stubborniskeeping watch over Lake Greene, there are limits to what it can do. It can’t, for instance, break into the Royce house and search for clues.
That leaves me to do the job.
Not because I want to.
Because I have to.
Especially if finding something incriminating inside is the only way I’m going to convince Wilma that Tom is lying about Katherine.
I resume walking, faster than before, not slowing until I’ve passed Eli’s place and the Royces’ house comes into view. The front is far different from the back. No floor-to-ceiling glass here. Just a modern block of steel and stone with narrow slats for windows on both the upper and lower floors.
The front door, made of oak and big enough for a castle, is locked, forcing me to go around the side of the house and try the patio door in the back. I had wanted to avoid the possibility of being seen from my side of the lake. Hopefully Boone is busy working inside the Mitchells’ house and not sitting on the dock, watching this place as fervently as I’ve been.
I cross the patio quickly, making a beeline to the sliding door that leads into the house. I give it a tug and the unlocked door opens just a crack.
Seeing that two-inch gap between the door and its frame gives me pause. While I’m not up to speed on Vermont’s penal code, I don’t need Boone to tell me what I’m about to do is against the law. It’s not quite breaking and entering, thanks to the unlocked door. And I’m certainly not intending to steal anything, so it’s not burglary. But itistrespassing, which will result in at least a fine and some more horrible headlines if I’m caught.
But then I think about Katherine. And how Tom has lied—blatantlylied—about her whereabouts. And how if I don’t do anything about it now, no one will. Not until it’s too late. If it isn’t too late already.
So I pull the door open a little wider, slip inside, and quickly close it behind me.
Inside the Royce house, the first thing that catches my eye is the view from the wall-sized windows overlooking the lake. Specifically the way my family’s charmingly ramshackle lake house appears from here. It’s so small, so distant. Thanks to the shadows of the trees surrounding it, I can barely make out the row of windows at the master bedroom or anything on the back porch beyond the railing. No rocking chairs. No table between them. Certainly no binoculars. Someone could be sitting there right now, watching me from across the lake, and I’d have no idea.
Yet Katherine knew I was watching. The last night I saw her, right before Tom jerked her away from this very spot, she looked directly at that porch, knowing I was there, watching the whole thing happen. My hope is that it comforted her. My fear is that it left her as unnerved as I feel right now. Like I’m in a fishbowl, my every move exposed. It brings a sense of vulnerability I neither expected nor enjoy.
And guilt. A whole lot of that.
Because today isn’t the first time I’ve entered the Royces’ house.
With my near-constant spying, in a way I’ve been doing it for days.
And although I’m certain, down to my core, that no one would have known Katherine was in trouble without me watching them, shame warms my cheeks harder than the sun slanting through the windows.
My face continues to burn as I decide where to search first. Thanks to that long-ago visit and my recent hours of spying, I’m well acquainted with the layout of the house. The open-plan living room takes up one whole side of the first floor, from front to back. Since it strikes me as the least likely place to find anything incriminating, I cross the dining room and head into the kitchen.
Like the rest of the house, it’s got a mid-century modern/Scandinavian-sparse vibe that’s all the rage on the HGTV shows I sometimes watch whenI’m drunk and can’t sleep in the middle of the night. Stainless steel appliances. White everywhere else. Subway tile out the ass.
Unlike on those design shows, the Royce kitchen shows signs of frequent, messy use. Multicolored drops of food spatter the countertops. A tray on the center island holds a bowl and spoon crusted with dried oatmeal. On the stovetop is a pot with soup dregs at the bottom. From the milky film coating it, my guess is cream of mushroom, reheated last night. I assume Katherine was the cook of the marriage and Tom has been reduced to eating like a frat boy. I can’t help but judge him as I peek into the trash can and see boxes that once held microwave Mexican and Lean Cuisines. Even at my drunkest and laziest, I would never resort to frozen burritos.