Page 250 of It Happened on the Lake

Closer to the swim park, lights were on at the Sievers’ home. She saw people moving in and out of the kitchen in the back, but as time passed, most of the lights were turned off, although a TV with its shifting images was partially visible.

As usual, the house at the other end of the street, the Musgraves’ cabin, was completely dark.

Not so the Alexanders’ house, which was the one that held her interest tonight.

There was activity there, people moving about, so she took the time to reheat a cup of coffee and lace it with bourbon. Then she returned to the tower room and kept the lights off to ensure she wasn’t backlit and couldn’t be seen.

Propping herself up with pillows, she sipped her drink and kept her binoculars trained on the Alexanders’ house.

As she sipped, Harper observed Beth, curly hair piled onto her head, dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and leggings. She moved about her kitchen making microwave popcorn and pouring a glass of white wine. After dumping the popcorn from its bag into a big bowl, she balanced the bowl and glass on her way to the living room. Then she put the popcorn on the table and plopped onto the couch to sip wine.

“Cheers,” Harper said, holding up her cup in a toast where they would clink the rims of their drinks. As if Beth could hear her. As if Beth had any idea Harper was playing the part of the voyeur. On her best friend’s family.

Harper did feel a little bad about spying but didn’t stop. Not when she was certain Beth’s husband, and possibly Beth herself, were involved in plotting to terrorize her.

So Harper kept watching as Beth picked up the TV remote to channel surf, eventually landing on MTV, where a black and white Guns N’ Roses music video was playing.

Harper watched, found herself humming to the tune of “Sweet Child o’ Mine,” and kept drinking. She spied Max in the house, appearing from a hallway, their big dog tagging after him.

In pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, wearing headphones attached to his Walkman, Max went into the kitchen for a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey and bottle of Gatorade. He grabbed a spoon, took a couple of bites right out of the container, then wandered into the living room. Eyes on the television, he stopped by the couch to say a few words to his mom, then ambled off, disappearing into the hall. A minute later lamplight glowed in his room. His shades were drawn, she couldn’t see what he was doing and didn’t care.

How much of a creepy voyeur could she be?

Max was a kid.

And Harper’s interest lay with Craig.

She found him in his office/workout room in the basement, shuffling papers, taking phone calls, so she sipped slowly, wondering about him. About Beth.

At eleven Harper reheated the last of the coffee, added a final shot of liquor, then returned to her post.

Max’s room was dark.

Fifteen minutes later Beth retreated to her bedroom and shut off the lights.

But Craig was still up. He stood in front of the stationary bike and was throwing darts at his dartboard, three of which landed near the bull’s-eye.

He was taking aim again, then stopped suddenly, turned, and walked to his desk. He answered the phone, cradling it next to his ear and pausing his game, as his attention was riveted to whatever the person on the other end of the line was saying.

She watched as his entire body grew tenser, muscles in his jaw bulging, his face becoming a deep red. His side of the conversation came in short answers, and Harper had no experience reading lips. But his body language indicated that he was angry as hell as he slammed down the receiver. He threw the darts he was still holding at the board, one at a time in rapid succession.

Zing!

The first dart went wild. Barely hit the board.

Zing!

The second was a better shot, sticking closer to the center of the board.

Zing!

The third dart was right on the money. A bull’s-eye.

Visually calmer, he snatched all six darts from the board and pocketed them, then strode through the door to the hallway to the bottom of the staircase that led upward.

A few seconds later the kitchen was flooded with light and Craig appeared, his features hard and set but his face no longer flushed. As if his anger had given way to gritty determination. He beelined to the fridge, yanked out a bottle of beer, and twisted off the top. Taking a long swallow, he walked through the slider to the deck. He set his bottle down on the top rail and lit a cigarette, the flame of his lighter illuminating his grim face for a second.

He drew deep, then exhaled and didn’t seem to notice that his dog had wandered through the open door and made his way down the exterior steps.