Page 123 of The House Across the Lake
Before today, I would have downed several drinks before calling Wilma Anson. Now, though, I don’t hesitate, even when I know I’m about to be hit with major anger from her and a likely murder charge from her colleagues.
I’ve avoided it long enough.
It’s well past time to come clean.
Wilma is clearly not a fan of the life vest I forced her to put on before leaving the dock. She tugs at it the way a toddler strains at a car seat, unhappy and constricted.
“This really isn’t necessary,” she says. “I damn well know how to swim.”
“Safety first,” I say from the back of the boat, where I man the motor in a matching life vest.
I refuse to allow a repeat of what happened to Katherine Royce. Lake Greene might look harmless, especially now as the reflection of sunset makes the water sparkle like pink champagne, but I know it’s not.
Len is still down there.
I’m sure of it.
He left me and returned to the water. Now he lurks just beneath the surface, biding his time, waiting for someone else to come along.
Not on my watch.
Wilma also casts a wary glance at the water, although for a completely different reason. The western side of the lake, out of reach from the setting sun, has grown dark. Shadows gather on the shoreline and creep across Lake Greene’s surface.
“Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” she says.
“Afraid not.”
I get why she’s tired. It’s been a long, trying day. After I called to tellher Katherine had been found, Wilma spent the afternoon interviewing all of us. Katherine and Tom went first, giving their scripted version of events. Katherine swore she got lost on a hike. Tom swore he thought she’d left him. As for where he was last night when Wilma stopped by, he told her he had been worried about the severity of the storm and decided to ride it out in the Fitzgeralds’ basement.
I learned all of this from Wilma herself, when she came over to get my statement. I went through my side of the story, which lined up completely with the Royces’. If she still harbored suspicion about any of us, Wilma didn’t show it. No surprise there.
“There’s something else I need to tell you,” I said. “But not here. On the lake.”
Now we’re here, the lake’s surface split into two distinct halves. To the left, heavenly pink. To the right, shimmering black. I steer the boat down the middle, the wake from the motor stirring the light and the dark together.
“I talked to Boone,” I say as we glide over the water. “He told me the truth about what happened to his wife.”
“Oh.” Wilma sounds unsurprised. I suspect she already knows. “Does it change your opinion of him?”
“Yes. And of you. I thought you were a by-the-book kind of gal.”
“I am,” Wilma says. “But I’m also willing to make an exception now and again. As for Boone, he’s one of the good guys, Casey. Trust me on that.”
We’ve reached Old Stubborn, which sits on the shadow side of the lake. I cut the motor, remove the handkerchief from my pocket, and hand it to Wilma. She unfolds it, and her eyes go wide with shock.
Finally, an unambiguous reaction.
“I found them in the basement,” I say. “Mybasement.”
Wilma doesn’t take her eyes off the licenses and locks of hair. She knows what it all means.
“All three women are in the lake.” I point to Old Stubborn, now a silhouette in the quickening dusk. “Right there.”
“How do you know?”
“Because there’s no other place my husband would have put them.”
I can’t tell her the truth, for oh so many reasons, the chief one being that she wouldn’t believe me. My hope is that this—one wife confiding to another—might be enough to convince her.
