Page 105 of The House Across the Lake

I repeat the dance we just went through at the Fitzgerald place. Untie Len’s legs, force him out of the boat as it bucks on the waves, and shuffle with him up the dock as water crashes around us.

By the time we reach the house, Len has become sullen and silent. He says not a word as I march him upstairs to the porch, then inside the house itself. The only sound I hear is a disgruntled sigh when I prod him to climb another set of steps, this time to the third floor.

At the top of the stairs, I choose the first bedroom I see.

My old room.

Not only does it provide quick access to the steps if things go horribly awry and I need to escape, but the twin beds inside have brass frames similar to the one in the Fitzgeralds’ basement.

When it’s time to tie Len to this bed, I do the reverse of what I’d done at the Fitzgeralds’ house. Left ankle first, to keep him in place, followed by the left wrist.

Because the bed is pushed into a corner of the room, I’m forced to lean my entire body over his in order to secure his right wrist. Such an intimateposition. One that’s both familiar and foreign. The memory of long, lazy nights lying on top of Len collides with the reality of his new body and Katherine’s soft skin, long hair, full breasts.

I tie his wrist in a hurry, my fingers fumbling with the rope because I fear he’ll use that moment to fight me off. Instead, he stares up at me, looking as love-struck as Romeo. His lips part in a deep sigh of longing, his breath hot on my face.

It smells horrible, feels even worse.

Like an invasion.

Wincing, I finish the haphazard knot, slide off him, and move to the foot of the bed. Once his right leg is tied to the bed frame, I plop onto the opposite bed and say, “You’re going to answer some questions for me.”

Len remains mute, refusing to look my way. He chooses the ceiling instead, staring at it with exaggerated boredom.

“Tell me about Katherine,” I say.

More silence.

“You’re going to have to talk eventually.”

Still nothing from Len.

“Fine.” I stand, stretch, move to the door. “Since we’re not going anywhere until you start talking, I guess I’ll make some coffee.”

I pause in the doorway, giving Len a chance to respond. After thirty more seconds of silence, I head down to the kitchen and start the coffee maker. Leaning against the kitchen counter, listening to Mr. Coffee hiss and drip, the full weight of tonight’s events finally hits me.

Len is back.

Katherine issomewhere.

Tom is trapped in the Fitzgeralds’ basement.

And me? I’m about to be sick.

The nausea arrives in a sneak attack. One second, I’m upright. The next, I’m doubled over on the floor as the kitchen spins and spins and spins. I try to stand, but my legs are suddenly too weak to support me. I’m forced to crawl to the powder room, where I retch into the toilet.

Finished, I sit propped against the wall, weeping and hyperventilatingand screaming into a towel yanked from the rod beside me. I’ve moved from wanting to believe none of this is happening to wanting to know how to make it stop happening.

Because I won’t be able to keep it together.

Not that I’m anywhere close to composed right now.

But I know it’ll only get worse if Len doesn’t start talking. One can only take so much stress and fear and utter fucked-upness before losing it entirely.

I haven’t reached that point, although I might very soon. Until then, there’s work to be done. So I stand, somewhat surprised that I can, and splash cold water onto my face. As I dry off with the towel into which I screamed, I’m struck by a small thought of consolation.

At least the situation can’t get any worse.

Until it does.

---