Page 90 of The House Across the Lake

I untie the boat from the dock, not daring to use the motor. I know howsound travels on this lake, even in a storm, and don’t want to risk getting caught. Instead, I paddle, using slow, measured strokes to counteract the roughness of the water. It’s exhausting—far more taxing than I expected—and I need to pause in the center of the lake to catch my breath.

As the boat continues to rise and fall, I swivel in my seat and look at every house on Lake Greene’s shore. My family’s house and the Fitzgerald place are so dark they almost blend in with the night. The same goes for Eli’s house, telling me he still hasn’t returned.

In contrast, the entire first floor of the Mitchells’ house is aglow, making me picture Boone pacing from room to room, angry at me. Then there’s the Royce place, dark on the first floor and only the window of the master bedroom lit on the second. Maybe Tom, finished with whatever needed to be done at the house next door, is going to bed, even though it’s only eight o’clock.

To the west, a rolling wall of pitch-black clouds blocks out the stars, the moon, most of the sky itself. It looks like a wave. One about to crash onto the valley and drown everything in its path.

The storm has arrived.

I resume rowing, now more worried about being out on the lake in worsening conditions than facing what awaits me on the other side. Already, the rain is falling harder, the wind is blowing stronger, and the water is churning faster. It takes three strokes of the paddle to go the distance of one in normal conditions. When I do eventually reach the other side of the lake, my shoulders are tight and aching, and my arms feel like jelly. I barely have the strength to moor the boat as it bucks in the wind, its side continually slamming against the Fitzgeralds’ dock.

Getting out of the boat requires another precarious leap, this time onto the dock. I then hurry to land, exhausted, nervous, and soaked to the bone. Overhead, thunder begins to rumble across the sky. Flashes of lightning illuminate the ground ahead as I swish across the yard to the French doors at the back of the Fitzgerald house.

Locked.

Of course.

It’s the same with both the front door and the side one that leads to the kitchen. Standing in the downpour and jiggling the handle, I realize that Tom is able to get inside because the Fitzgeralds likely gave him a set of keys in case something was wrong with the house. It’s common among the homeowners here on the lake. The Fitzgeralds have keys to my family’s house, as does Eli. And somewhere in the lake house is probably a key that would grant me entry to this very door.

Out of door-shaped options, I try the windows, striking gold on my third try. The sitting room window. Even better, it’s on the side of the house that doesn’t face the Royces’, giving me ample time and cover to lift the window, pop out the screen, climb through.

I tumble inside and shut the window to keep rain from blowing in. The silence of the house is a jarring contrast with the storm outside, making it seem extra quiet.

And extra unnerving.

I have no idea what—or who—waits for me here, a fact that makes my heart rumble as hard as the thunder echoing through the sky outside. The stillness and silence are so heavy it makes me want to turn around and crawl right back out the window. But Tom came here for a reason. The urge to learn what that reason is keeps me moving, even though I can barely see. I make it two steps before slamming into a sideboard crowded with framed photos and a Tiffany lamp.

Damn Mrs. Fitzgerald and her antiques.

The house is stuffed to the gills with them. Ornate chests, love seats draped with tapestries, rococo floor lamps with crystals dangling from their shades. Each one is an obstacle I have to sidestep around as I move through the gloom.

“Hello?” I say in a voice that’s more whisper than word. “Katherine? Are you in here?”

I stop between the kitchen and the dining room, listening for any sound that might suggest she is. At first, I hear nothing but the steadily increasing rain on the roof and more bursts of thunder. But soon a noise—distant and muted—reaches my ears.

A creak.

I hear it a second time, rising from below, as wispy as smoke.

The basement.

I move to a door in a short hall just off the kitchen, secured by an old-fashioned chain lock that’s currently slid into place. Because a large hutch sits next to it, I’d normally think the door would lead to a pantry or a broom closet. The chain says otherwise, especially when I look closer. It’s screwed into two short chunks of wood that have been nailed to both the door and the wall next to it, as if it’s just a temporary fix. A recent one. The wood gives off a fresh-cut scent, making me think of the hacksaw Tom Royce recently bought.

This is his handiwork.

And inside is something—or someone—he doesn’t want anyone else to know about.

My hand shakes as I fumble with the chain, sliding it free of the lock. Holding my breath, I pull the door open to reveal a set of steps leading down into a pool of blackness.

“Hello?” I call, alarmed by how the gloom consumes my voice, snuffing it out like a candle. But coming from within that darkness is another creak, beckoning me to venture down those stairs.

A light switch sits just beyond the door. I flip it, and a dull orange glow appears far below, bringing with it another creak and, I think, a murmur.

The sound pulls me forward, onto the top step, where I pause and listen closely.

There’s nothing.

If there’s someone down there, they’ve gone completely silent.

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