Page 65 of The House Across the Lake

“I agree with you,” he says. “But that’s how the law works. You can’t prove someone committed a crime by committing another crime. In order to really nail him, we need some kind of evidence—notgained illegally—that could point to foul play.”

What he doesn’t say—but what I infer anyway—is that, so far, Tom Royce has been very good at covering his tracks. That Instagram photo heposted on Katherine’s account is proof of that. Therefore it’s unlikely he left some damning piece of evidence within legal reach.

I stop again, this time stilled by the realization that thereisa piece of evidence in my possession.

But it wasn’t left by Tom.

This was all Katherine’s doing.

I start off down the road again, the motion as abrupt as when I’d stopped. Rather than walk, I return to running, trotting far ahead of Boone on the way to the lake house.

“What are you doing?” he calls.

I don’t slow as I shout my reply. “Getting evidence. Legally!”

Back at the house, I head straight for the kitchen and the trash can that should have been emptied a day ago but thankfully wasn’t. A rare win for laziness. I sort through the garbage, my fingers squishing into soggy paper towels and clammy wads of oatmeal. By the time Boone reaches me, I’ve overturned the can and dumped its contents onto the floor. After another minute of searching, I find what I’m looking for.

A piece of broken wineglass.

Triumphantly, I hold it to the light. The glass is dirtier now than when I found it glinting in the yard. Crumbs dust the surface, and there’s a white splotch that might be salad dressing. Hopefully that won’t matter because the saltlike film I’d seen the other day remains.

If Tom Royce really did slip something into Katherine’s wine that night, hopefully this piece of glass will be able to prove it.

When Wilma Anson arrives, the glass shard has been safely tucked inside a Ziploc bag. She studies it through the clear plastic, the tilt of her head signaling either curiosity or exasperation. With her, it’s hard to tell.

“Where’d you get this again?”

“The yard,” I say. “The glass broke when Katherine passed out in the grass while holding it.”

“Because she’d allegedly been drugged?” Wilma says.

“Poisoned,” I say, correcting her.

“The lab results might say otherwise.”

Boone and I agreed it wasn’t a good idea to tell Wilma just how, exactly, I came to suspect Tom of trying to poison his wife. Instead, we told her I had suddenly remembered Katherine mentioning the name Harvey Brewer, which led me to the internet and my theory that Tom might have tried the same thing Brewer had done to his wife. It was enough to get Wilma to come over. Now that she’s here, the big question is if she’ll do anything about it.

“That means you’re going to test it, right?” I say.

“Yes,” Wilma says, the word melting into a sigh. “Although it’ll take a few days to get the results back.”

“But Tom could be gone by then,” I say. “Can’t you at least question him?”

“I plan to.”

“When?”

“When the time is right.”

“Isn’tnowthe right time?” I start to sway back and forth, put into motion by the impatience fizzing inside me. All the things I want to tell Wilma are the same things Ican’ttell her. Revealing that I know Katherine’s phone, clothes, and rings remain in her bedroom would also be admitting that I broke into the Royces’ house. So I keep it in, feeling like a shaken champagne bottle, hoping I don’t explode under the pressure. “Don’t you believe us?”

“I think it’s a valid theory,” Wilma says. “One of several.”

“Then investigate it,” I say. “Go over there and question him.”

“And ask him if he killed his wife?”

“Yes, for starters.”

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