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“You were on your way over here when she called,” I say. “Was she the reason you came by to introduce yourself? Since Katherine rejected you, you decided you’d try your luck with the woman next door?”
Boone flinches, hurt. “I introduced myself because I was lonely and thought you might be lonely, too. And that if we hung out a little, both of us wouldn’t feel that way. And I don’t regret that. Because Ilikeyou, Casey. You’re funny and smart and interesting. And you remind me exactly of how I used to be. I look at you, and I just want to—”
“Fix me?”
“Help you,” Boone says. “Because you need help, Casey.”
But he wanted more than that when he introduced himself that day. Iremember the charm, the swagger, the flirtation I’d found both tiresome and tantalizing.
Thinking back to that afternoon prompts an unsavory realization. Boone had mentioned spending the day working on the Mitchells’ dining room floor. If he was there the whole time, within earshot of the activity on the lake, why didn’t he do anything when Katherine was drowning and I was calling for help?
That question leads to another. One so disturbing I’m barely able to ask it.
“When Katherine came over that day, did you give her anything to drink?”
“Lemonade. Why do you—” Boone stands again, suddenly understanding. “I didn’t do what you’re thinking.”
I wish I could believe him. But the facts warn me not to. Katherine claimed to have grown suddenly weary while swimming.
It was like my entire body stopped working.
All this time, I thought Tom was the one who’d caused it. Imitating Harvey Brewer and slipping small doses of poison into his wife’s drinks. But it also could have been Boone. Angry, jealous, rejected Boone, mixing a large dose into Katherine’s lemonade.
“Casey,” he says. “You know me. You know I would never do something like that.”
But Idon’tknow him. I thought I did, but only because I believed everything he told me. Now I’m forced to doubt all of it.
Including, I realize, what he said about the scream the morning Katherine vanished. Because I was still drunk, I didn’t quite know where the sound had originated. Boone’s the one who concluded it had come from the other side of the lake, citing an echo I’m now not sure existed.
It’s possible he was lying. That the scream came not from across the lake, but this side.
Hisside.
Which means there’s also a chance Boone’s the person whocausedKatherine to scream.
“Stay away from me,” I say as Boone starts to approach. The way he moves—slowly, methodically—is more intimidating than if he were in a hurry. It gives me ample time to notice how big he is, how strong, how it would take him no effort at all to overpower me.
“You’ve got it all wrong,” he says. “I didn’t do anything to Katherine.”
He keeps walking toward me, and I look around for the nearest escape route. Right behind me are the French doors leading to the porch, still locked. I might be able to unlock them and run outside, but doing so would take up precious seconds I’m not sure I can spare.
When Boone’s almost within reach, I skirt sideways and bolt into the heart of the kitchen. Although not an escape, it at least gives me access to things with which I can defend myself. I pick one—the largest blade from the knife block on the counter—and thrust it in front of me, daring Boone to come closer.
“Leave my house,” I say. “And don’t ever come back.”
Boone’s mouth drops open, as if he’s about to make another denial—or switch to threatening me. Apparently deciding silence is the best policy, he closes his mouth, lifts his hands in defeat, and leaves the house without another word.
I move from door to door, making sure all of them are locked. The front door is secured minutes after Boone passes through it, and the doors to the porch remain locked from the night before. That leaves one more—the creaky blue door in the basement.
The last place I want to go.
I know there’s nothing physically dangerous down there. It’s nothing but junk, once frequently used, now forgotten. It’s the memories of the day Len died that I’d like to avoid. No good can come from reliving that morning. But since the basement door is how Boone got inside last night, I need to lock it to keep him from doing it again.
Even though it’s only mid-morning, I have a shot of vodka before heading down to the basement. A little liquid courage never hurts.
Nor does a second helping.
And a third.