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“And?”
“I made you drink some water, put a garbage can by the bed in case you got sick, and left you alone to sleep it off.”
“Where’d you sleep?”
“Bedroom down the hall,” Boone says. “The one with the twin beds and slanted ceiling.”
My childhood bedroom, shared with Marnie, who I imagine would be both amused and mortified by my completely unromantic night with the hot ex-cop next door.
“Thank you,” I say. “You didn’t need to go to all that trouble.”
“Considering the state you were in, I kind of think I did.”
I say nothing after that, knowing it’s pointless to make excuses for getting so blitzed in such a short amount of time. I focus on finishing my breakfast, surprised when the plate is empty. When the mug of coffee is also drained, I get up and pour myself another.
“Maybe we should call Wilma and let her know what happened,” Boone says.
“Nothing happened,” I say. “Besides, it’ll require too much explanation.”
If we tell Wilma Anson about Tom coming to my door, we’ll also have to revealwhy. And I’m not too keen on admitting to a member of the state police that I’ve illegally entered a person’s home. Tom’s the one I want in jail. Not me.
“Fine,” Boone says. “But don’t think for a second I’m leaving you here by yourself while he’s still around.”
“Ishe still around?”
“His car is there,” Boone says with a nod toward the French doors and its view of the opposite shore. “Which I take to mean he’s still there, too.”
I look out the door and across the lake, curious as to why Tom still hasn’t made a break for it. When I mention this to Boone, he says, “Because it’ll make him look guilty. And right now, he’s betting that the cops won’t be able to pin anything on him.”
“But he can’t keep up this charade forever,” I say. “Someone else is going to realize Katherine is missing.”
I move to the dining room and grab my phone, which shows damage from its fall from the porch. The bottom right corner has caved in, and a crack as jagged as a lightning bolt slices from one side to the other. But it still works, which is all that matters.
I go straight to Katherine’s Instagram, which has remained unchanged since the morning she disappeared. I can’t be the only one to realize the photo of that pristine kitchen wasn’t posted by Katherine. Surely others, especially people who know her better than I do, will notice the wrong month on the calendar and Tom’s reflection in the teakettle.
In fact, it’s possible one of them already has.
I close Instagram and go to the photos stored on my phone. Boone watches me from the kitchen counter, his mug of coffee paused mid-sip.
“What are you doing?”
“When I was searching Tom and Katherine’s house, I found her phone.”
“I know,” Boone says. “Which would be amazing evidence if not for that whole, you know, being-obtained-illegally thing.”
I note his sarcasm but am too busy swiping through photos to care. Ipass the picture of the article about Harvey Brewer, looking grainy on the laptop’s screen, and photos of Katherine’s financial records and Mixer’s quarterly data.
“While I was there, someone called Katherine,” I say as I reach the photos taken inside the master bedroom. “I took a picture of the number that popped up on the screen.”
“Which will help how?”
“If we call them and it’s someone worried about Katherine—especially a family member—maybe it will be enough for Wilma and the state police to declare her missing and officially question Tom.”
I scan the photos on my phone.
Katherine’s rings.
Katherine’s clothes.