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Him insisting on pouring the wine, doing it with his back to us, so we couldn’t see what he was doing.
Him carefully handing each of us our own glass, as if they’d been specifically assigned.
Katherine downing hers in a mighty gulp, getting a refill from her husband.
For a second, I’m dumb struck. The realization is like an old-timey flashbulb going off in my face. White-hot and blinding. Dizzy from the shock of it all, I close my eyes and wonder if what happened to Ruth Brewer also happened to Katherine.
It makes sense in the same way a jigsaw puzzle does once all the pieces have been snapped into place. Tom sawShred of Doubtand, like Harvey, got to thinking. Or maybe he stumbled upon Harvey Brewer’s crime first and decided to see the play for himself. There’s no way to know the how, the why, or the when. Not that it matters. Tom decided to imitate both Harvey and the play, slipping Katherine tiny doses of poison when he could, weakening her until, one day, everything just stopped.
And Katherine found out, most likely by doing what I’m doing now and simply seeing it in her husband’s browsing history.
That’swhat she saw the night before she vanished.
That’swhy she looked simultaneously shocked and curious as I watched her from the porch. Sitting in this very chair. Staring at this very laptop. As stunned as I am now.
And it’s why she and Tom fought later that night. She told him she knew what he was doing. He denied it, maybe demanded to know where such an idea came from.How? Who?
By dawn, Katherine was gone. Tom either killed her or she ran, leaving everything behind. Now she could be buried in the woods or resting at the bottom of the lake or in hiding. Those are the only options I can think of.
I need to find out which one it is.
And convince Detective Wilma Anson to help me do it.
I grab my phone again and take a picture of the laptop screen, the article about Harvey Brewer unreadable but the headline crystal clear. I’m about to take another when I hear an unwelcome sound arrive outside the house.
Tires crunching gravel.
To my right is a window that provides a view from the southwestern side of the house. I go to it and see Tom Royce’s Bentley vanishing under the portico.
Shit.
I run out of the office, only to stop and turn back around when I realize the laptop is still open. I rush back to the desk, slam the laptop shut, speed out of the office again. I pause in the second-floor hall, unsure where to go next. Within seconds, Tom will be inside. If I run down the stairs now, it’s likely he’ll spot me. It might be wiser to stay on this floor and hide in a place he probably won’t enter. The guest room seems to be the best bet. I could crawl under the bed and wait until I’m certain I can escape unseen.
Which could be hours.
Meanwhile, Tom still hasn’t come into the house. Maybe he’s doing something outside. Maybe thereisenough time for me to fly down the stairs and zoom out the front door.
I decide to risk it, mostly because hiding here—possibly for a long time—is no guarantee Tom won’t find me anyway. The safest thing to do is leave the house.
Right now.
With no thoughts in my head other than getting out of here as fast as possible, I sprint for the stairs.
Then down the stairs.
Then toward the front door.
I grab the handle and pull.
The door is locked, which I already knew but had forgotten because, one, there are other things on my mind and, two, I’ve never done this before.
As I reach for the lock, I hear another door being pushed open.
The sliding glass door in back of the house.
Tom is coming inside—and I’m a second away from being caught. The front door is just off the living room. If he goes anywhere but the dining room or kitchen, I’ll be spotted. Even if he doesn’t, the click of the lock and sound of the door opening will alert him to my presence.
I spin around, ready to face him, my mind whirling to come up with a vaguely logical excuse as to why I’m inside his house. I can’t. My brain is blank with panic.