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I’m crying by the time I end the call. The tears are a surprise, and as much as I’d like to chalk them up to stress and bourbon, I know it goes deeper than that. I’m crying because the fourteen months since Len died have been hard as hell. Yes, I had Marnie, my mother, and plenty of others willing to offer comfort. None of them—not even Beloved Lolly Fletcher—could truly understand how I felt.
So I drank.
It was easier that way.
Alcohol doesn’t judge.
And it never, ever disappoints.
But if you drink too much, for too long, all those well-meaning people in your life who try to understand but can’t eventually give up and drift away.
That’s the realization that came over me as I rambled on the phone even though no one was listening. The story of my life. Right now, I have nothing and no one. Eli’s gone, Boone can’t be trusted, and Marnie wants nothing to do with this. I am completely alone, and it makes me utterly, unbearably sad.
I wipe my eyes, sigh, pick up the binoculars again because, hey, I have literally nothing else to do. I zero in on the Royces’ kitchen, where Tom has finished reheating the soup. Instead of a bowl, he pours it into a large thermos and screws on the lid.
Curious.
Thermos in hand, he opens a drawer and pulls out a flashlight.
Curiouser.
Soon he’s outside, the flashlight’s beam slicing through the darkness. Seeing it brings back a memory of the other night, when I noticed Tom do the same thing from the bedroom window. Although I couldn’t tell where he was going to or coming from then, I certainly do now.
The Fitzgeralds’ house.
In an instant, I go from buzzed to hyperalert, suddenly aware of everything. The clouds scudding in front of the moon. A loon hooting a lonely call in an unseen nook of the lake. The flashlight moving through the trees, bobbing and winking like a giant firefly. Another memory returns, pried loose by the sight.
Me against the door, Tom on the other side, shouting things I’d been too drunk and scared to comprehend.
You have no idea what’s going on, he said.Just leave us the fuck alone.
Us.
Meaning not just him.
Meaning someone else is a part of all this.
My chest expands. A bubble of hope, pushing against my rib cage.
Katherine could still be alive.
I wait to make my move until Tom completes the return trip to his house. It happens fifteen minutes later, the flashlight’s beam appearing outside the Fitzgerald place and moving in the opposite direction of its earlier path. I follow it with the binoculars all the way to the Royce house, where Tom turns off the flashlight just before going inside.
I put down the binoculars and spring into action.
Down the porch steps.
Across the yard.
Onto the dock.
It’s started to rain—fat drops that land hard on my face, my hair, the planks of the dock as I make my way to the boat moored to its end.
The wind has picked up, too, turning the lake choppy. The boat bobs and sways, making it difficult to step into and forcing me to do an awkward half leap from the dock. Once inside, I instantly regret the drinks I’ve had as the boat rides the ever-growing swells of the water.
I close my eyes, lift my face to the wind, and let the rain spatter my skin. It’s definitely not a cure-all. My stomach keeps churning and my head continues to ache. But the rain is cold enough to sober me up and painful enough to make me focus on what I need to do next.
Get across the lake.