Page 75 of The House Across the Lake

Those thoughts continue to churn through my mind long after the car and the store it’s parked behind recede in the side mirror, leaving me to wish I was like Eli and didn’t know anything about what’s going on.

But it’s too late for that.

Now I’m afraid I know far too much.

Instead of taking the spur of the road leading to our respective houses, Boone drives a little bit farther to the one that accesses the other side of the lake. He doesn’t explain why, nor does he need to. I know that circling the entire lake will bring us past the Royce house so we can see if Tom’s still there.

It turns out that he is.

And he’s not alone.

When the Royce driveway comes into view, we see Wilma Anson’s car parked close to the portico on the side of the house, effectively blocking Tom’s Bentley. The two of them are outside, having what appears to be a friendly conversation.

Well, as friendly as Detective Anson can get. She doesn’t smile as she talks, but she also doesn’t look too concerned to be conversing with a man she suspects is a serial killer.

Tom, on the other hand, is all charm. Standing at ease in the front yard, he chuckles at something Wilma just said. His eyes sparkle and his teeth shine a bright white behind parted lips.

It’s all an act.

I know because when Boone and I drive by in the truck, Tom gives me a look so cold it could refreeze the popsicle I’d only recently dropped into a parking lot trash can. I try to look away—to Boone, to the road ahead, tothe slice of lake glimpsed through the trees—but can’t. Pinned down by Tom’s stare, I can only endure it as it follows me in the passing truck.

His head slowly turning.

His eyes locked on mine.

The smile that had been there only seconds before now completely gone.

When Boone drops me off at the lake house, there’s an awkward few seconds of silence as he waits for me to invite him in and I debate whether that’s something I want. Every conversation or bit of contact brings us slightly closer, like two shy teenagers sitting on the same bench, sliding inexorably together. And right now, that might not be the best thing for either of us.

I experienced no such hesitation with Morris, the drinking-buddy-turned-fuck-buddy stagehand fromShred of Doubt. He and I had the same idea: get drunk and screw.

But Boone isn’t Morris. He’s sober, for one thing. And just as damaged as I am. As for what he wants, I assume—and hope—it involves his naked body entwined with mine. But to what end? That’s the question that sticks in my head like a Taylor Swift song. Not knowing his end game makes me unwilling to play at all.

Also, I really need a drink.

That thirst I immediately got when reminded I haven’t had one all day hasn’t left me. Sure, it faded a bit when Boone swiped a finger across my bottom lip and when Tom stared at me as we passed his house. Now, though, it’s an itch that needs to be scratched.

One I can’t touch while Boone is around.

“Good night,” I say, talking louder than usual to be heard over the truck’s idling engine. “Thanks for the ice cream.”

Boone responds with a meme-worthy blink, as if he’s surprised to be rejected. Looking the way he does, I suspect it doesn’t happen often.

“No problem,” he says. “Have a good night, I guess.”

I get out of the truck and go inside. Dusk has descended over the valley, turning the interior of the lake house gloomy and gray. I go from room to room, switching on lights and chasing away the shadows. When I reach the dining room, I head straight for the liquor cabinet and grab the closest bottle within reach.

Bourbon.

But after opening the bottle, something Boone said earlier stops me from bringing it to my lips.

I was hurting others and not just myself.

AmIhurting others with my drinking?

Yes. There’s no doubt about that. I’m hurting Marnie. I’m hurting my friends and colleagues. I cringe thinking about how fucking rude I was toward the cast and crew ofShred of Doubt. Showing up drunk was the ultimate sign of disrespect for their hard work and preparation. Not a single one of them came to my defense after I was fired, and I can’t blame them.

As for my mother, I am absolutely drinking to hurt her, even though she’d insist I’m only punishing myself. Not true. If I truly wanted to be punished, I’d deny myself one of the few things that bring me pleasure.

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