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I tilt the binoculars slightly upward, tracing with my vision the same path I took in person earlier.
Exercise room.
Empty.
Master bedroom.
Empty.
Office.
Empty.
A worrisome thought pokes through my inebriation: What if Tom suddenly took off? Maybe he got spooked by his conversation with Wilma Anson. Or maybe she called him right as he was about to eat his soup, saying she wanted him to come in for formal questioning, which sent him running for his keys. It’s entirely possible he’s driving away this very second, speeding for the Canadian border.
I swing the binoculars away from the second floor toward the side of the house, looking for his Bentley. It’s still there, parked beneath the portico.
As I bring my gaze back toward the house, sliding it past the back patio strewn with dead leaves and the bare trees on the lakeshore that they’ve fallen from, I notice something on the Royces’ dock.
A person.
But not just any person.
Tom.
He stands at the end of the dock, spine as straight as a steel beam. In his hands are a pair of binoculars, aimed at this side of the lake.
And at me.
I duck, trying to hide behind the porch railing, which even in my drunken state I understand to be ridiculous on so many levels. First, it’s a railing, not a brick wall. I’m still visible between the whitewashed slats. Second, Tom saw me. He knows, like Katherine did, that I’ve been watching them.
Now he’s watching me back. Even though I’ve lowered the binoculars, I can still see him, a night-shrouded figure on the edge of the dock. He stays that way another minute before turning suddenly and walking up the dock.
It’s only after Tom crosses the patio and heads back into the house that I risk bringing the binoculars to my eyes again. Inside, I see him pass through the dining room into the kitchen, where he pauses to snatch something from the counter. Then he’s on the move again, pushing back outside through the side door off the kitchen.
He slides into his Bentley. Two seconds later, the headlights spring to life—twin beams that shoot straight across the lake.
As Tom backs the car out from under the portico, I at first think he’s finally running away. He knows I’m onto him and has decided to flee, maybe for good. I yank my phone from my pocket, ready to call Wilma Anson and alert her. The phone springs like a leaping frog from my bourbon-dulled fingers. I lunge for it, miss, and watch helplessly as it hits the porch, slips under the railing, and drops to the weedy ground below.
Across the water, the Bentley has reached the end of the driveway. It turns right, onto the road that circles the lake. Seeing it brings another sobering thought. If Tom were running away, he would have turned left, toward the main road.
Instead, he’s driving in the opposite direction.
Around the lake.
Right toward me.
Still kneeling on the porch, I watch the Bentley’s headlights carve a path through the darkness, marking its progress past Eli’s house, then out of sight as it reaches the lake’s northern curve.
Finally, I start to move.
Stumbling into the house.
Slamming the French doors behind me.
Fumbling with the lock because I’m drunk and scared and I’ve never had to use it before. Most nights, there’s no reason to lock any of the doors.
Tonight, I have one.