Page 82 of The House Across the Lake

And, finally, Katherine’s phone, both blank and lit up with an incoming call.

I stare at the screen inside my screen. A strange feeling. Like looking at a photograph of a photograph.

There’s no name. Just a number, leading me to think it’s probably someone Katherine didn’t know well. If she even knew them at all. There’s the very real possibility it was a telemarketer or a vague acquaintance or simply a wrong number. I remember my own number appearing on the screen when I called to confirm the phone belonged to Katherine. Although those ten digits made it clear Katherine hadn’t added me to her contacts, it doesn’t make me less concerned about where she could be or what might have happened to her. It might be the same for this other caller. They could be just as worried as I am.

I call them without a second thought, toggling between the photo and my phone’s keypad until the number is typed in completely.

I hold my breath.

I hit the call button.

At the kitchen counter, Boone’s phone begins to ring.

NOW

What did you do with the girls after you killed them?” I say. “Are they here, in the lake?”

He lolls his head to the side and faces the wall. At first, I think he’s giving me the silent treatment again.

Rain slaps the window.

Just beyond it, something snaps.

A tree branch succumbing to the wind.

On the bed, he speaks, his voice only one step louder than the storm raging outside.

“Yes.”

The answer shouldn’t be a surprise. I think about the postcard, that bird’s-eye view of Lake Greene, the four words shakily written beneath three names.

I think they’re here.

Nevertheless, I’m hit with a tiny tremor of shock. I inhale. A rattling half gasp prompted by the confirmation that Megan Keene, Toni Burnett, and Sue Ellen Stryker have been at the bottom of the lake all this time. More than two years, in Megan’s case. A horrible way to be buried.

Only they weren’t buried here.

They were dumped.

Disposed of like pieces of trash.

Just thinking about it makes me so sad that I instantly have another sip of bourbon. When I swallow, the alcohol burns rather than soothes.

“Do you remember where?”

“Yes.”

He rolls his head my way again. As we lock eyes, I wonder what he sees in mine. I hope it’s what I’m trying to project and not my emotional reality. Steely reserve instead of fear, determination instead of unfathomable grief for three women I’ve never met. I suspect, however, that he can see right through me. He knows I act for a living.

“Then tell me,” I say. “Tell me where they can be found.”

He squints, curious. “Why?”

Because then the truth will be known. Not just that he killed Megan, Toni, and Sue Ellen, but what happened to them, where they were when they died, where they now rest. Then their families and friends, who have gone too long without answers, will be able to grieve and—hopefully, eventually—be at peace.

I don’t tell him this because I don’t think he cares. If anything, it might make him less willing to talk.

“Is this about finding them?” he says. “Or finding out what happened to Katherine?”

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