Page 69 of The House Across the Lake
I return to the other bed in the room, putting down the knife and picking up the glass of bourbon on the nightstand.
“I thought you were going to make coffee,” he says.
“Changed my mind.” I hold out the glass. “Want some?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I want to keep my mind clear.”
I take a sip. “More for me then.”
“You might also want to think about keeping a clear head,” he says. “You’ll need it during this battle of wits you seem to think we’re playing.”
“It’s not a battle.” I take one more drink, smacking my lips to let him know how much I’m enjoying it. “And we’re not playing anything. You’re going to tell me what I want to know. Eventually.”
“And what will you do if I don’t?”
I gesture toward the knife sitting next to me on the bed.
He smiles again. “You don’t have it in you.”
“You say that,” I tell him, “but I don’t think you fully believe it.”
Just like that, the smile disappears.
Good.
Outside, the wind remains at full howl as rain continues to pummel the roof. The storm is supposed to end by dawn. According to the clock between the beds, it’s not quite midnight. Even though there’s a lot of time between then and now, it might not be enough. What I plan on doing can’t be done in broad daylight, and I don’t think I can remain in this situation until tomorrow night. I might go mad by then. Even if I don’t, I suspect Wilma Anson will be coming around again first thing in the morning.
I need to get him talking now.
“Since you refuse to talk about Katherine,” I say, “tell me about the girls instead.”
“What girls?”
“The ones you murdered.”
“Ah, yes,” he says. “Them.”
The smile returns, this time so twisted and cruel that I want to grab the knife and plunge it right into his heart.
“Why—” I stop, take a deep breath, try to gain control over my emotions, which hover somewhere between rage and revulsion. “Why did you do it?”
He appears to think it over, even though there’s not a single reason he could offer that would justify what he’s done. He seems to realize this and gives up. Instead, with that twisted smile still intact, he simply says, “Because I enjoyed it.”
BEFORE
When she leaves, Wilma Anson takes the piece of broken wineglass with her. The way she carries it to her car, holding the baggie at arm’s length like there’s a moldy sandwich inside, tells me she already thinks it won’t lead to anything. I’d be annoyed if I weren’t so caught off guard by what we’ve just been told.
She thinks Tom Royce is a serial killer.
She thinks Katherine thought that, too.
And that now Katherine is dead or in hiding because of it.
Wilma was right. This is a lot bigger than Katherine’s disappearance. And I have no idea what to do now. I know what Marnie and my mother would say. They’d tell me to protect myself, stay out of the way, not make myself a target. I agree, in theory. But the reality is that I’m already a part of this, whether I want to be or not.
And I’m scared.
That’s the brutal truth of it.
