I let the phone keep ringing, too stunned to end the call. For his part, Boone doesn’t bother to answer it. He knows who’s calling.

Me.

Trying to reach the same person who had called Katherine Royce.

“I can explain,” he says at the same time the call transfers to his voicemail recording, bringing two versions of Boone to my ears. They wind around each other, performing a surreal duet.

“Hi, I’m not available to take your call. Please—” “—listen to me, Casey. I know what—”

“—your name and number, and I’ll—” “—thinking, and I can assure—”

“—you back.”

I tap my phone, cutting off the recorded Boone as the real one gets up from the kitchen counter and takes a step toward me.

“Don’t,” I warn.

Boone raises his hands, palms up, in a gesture of innocence. “Please just hear me out.”

“Why were you calling her?”

“Because I was worried,” Boone says. “I’d called her the day before, not getting any answer. And when I saw you break into the house, I called one last time, hoping that we were wrong and she was there avoiding me and that you

barging in like that would force her to answer the phone and tell me she was okay.”

“Avoiding you? You told me you barely knew her. That you’d only met once or twice. You said the same thing to Wilma. That seems like a lot of concern for someone you claimed not to know very well.”

Boone sits back down at the counter, a smug look on his face. “You have no right to judge. You hardly knew Katherine.”

I can’t argue with that. Katherine and I were barely past the acquaintance stage when she disappeared.

“At least I didn’t lie about it,” I say.

“You’re right. I lied. There, I admitted it. I did know Katherine. We were friends.”

“Then why didn’t you say that? Why lie to me? To Wilma?”

“Because it was complicated,” Boone says. “Complicated how?”

I think back to the afternoon I spotted Katherine in the water. There was one thing about that moment that should have bothered me then but ended up getting lost in the shuffle of everything else that’s happened.

Why hadn’t I seen her earlier?

I was there all afternoon, sitting on the porch, facing her house and dock. Even though it was far away and I hadn’t yet hauled out the binoculars—and even though I wasn’t paying much attention to the water—I would have noticed someone on the other side of the lake coming outside, strolling down their dock, diving in, and starting to swim.

But I saw nothing. Not until Katherine was in the middle of the lake.

Which meant she’d been swimming not from her side of the lake, but from mine. Specifically, the area of the Mitchell house, where the lake bends inward, partially hiding the shore.

“She was with you, wasn’t she?” I say. “The day she almost drowned?”

Boone doesn’t blink. “Yes.”

“Why?” Jealousy seeps into my voice, unintended yet also unavoidable. “Were you two having an affair?”

“No,” Boone says. “It was all very innocent. We met the night I arrived in August. She and Tom came over to introduce themselves and told me they were here until Labor Day and that I shouldn’t be a stranger. The next day, Katherine swam across the lake to my dock and asked me if I wanted to join her.”

“Do you think she was trying to seduce you?”

“I think she was just lonely. If she did have sex in mind, I didn’t pick up on it. She’s a supermodel, for Christ’s sake. She could have any man she wanted. No way did I suspect she was interested in me.”

All this aw-shucks modesty is an act. Boone knows exactly how good-looking he is. I picture him naked on the dock, bathed in moonlight, as beguilingly beautiful as Katherine herself. Now more than ever, I’m convinced he knew I was watching that night.

“So you went swimming together,” I say.

“A few times, yeah. But nothing more. Afterwards, we’d hang out on the deck and talk. She was really unhappy, that much was clear. She never said it outright. Just strongly hinted that things were bad between her and Tom.”

Katherine had done the same with me, dropping arch comments about the state of her marriage. Like Boone, I’d assumed she was sad, lonely, and looking for a friend.

Which is why I had no reason to lie about the extent of our relationship.

“If it was all so innocent, why didn’t you come clean earlier?”

“Because it stopped being that way. Well, it almost did.” He slumps on the stool, as if telling the truth has made him exhausted. If it weren’t for his elbows on the counter propping him up, I assume he’d drop straight onto the floor. “The day after Labor Day, before she and Tom went back to New York, I kissed her.”

I picture a scenario similar to the two of us yesterday. Boone and Katherine sitting together, closer than they should be, the heat of attraction radiating from their bodies. I imagine Boone running a finger across her lower lip, leaning in, kissing the spot he’d just touched. Another smooth move.

“Katherine freaked out, left, and went back to her glamorous life with her billionaire husband.” Boone’s voice has hardened—something I’ve never heard from him before. There’s a bitter edge to it. “I never thought I’d see her again. Then, just a few days ago, there she was, back in that house with Tom. She never told me they’d returned. Didn’t even stop by to see me. I called her a few times, just to check in. She ignored me.”

“Not entirely, remember,” I reply. “She was with you the day I pulled her from the lake.”

“She swam over, just like she did the first time,” Boone says. “When I saw her, I thought maybe things hadn’t changed and we could pick up where we left off. But Katherine made it clear that wasn’t happening. She told me she only came to demand I stop calling her. Said Tom had noticed and was asking too many questions.”

“What did you say?”

“That she was free to leave. So she did. That’s why I was surprised when she called me later that afternoon.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Boone shrugs. “I didn’t answer and deleted her message without listening.”

Suddenly, I’m transported back to that moment on the porch, watching the Royces for the first time. I can still picture Tom creeping through the dining room while Katherine, in the living room, made a phone call, waiting for someone to pick up and whispering a message. Now I know who that message was for.

“You were coming over here when she called,” I say. “Was she why you decided to introduce yourself? Since Katherine turned you down, you figured you’d try your luck with the woman next door?”

Boone flinches, hurt. “I introduced myself because I was lonely and thought you might be lonely, too. And that if we hung out a little, both of us wouldn’t feel that way. And I don’t regret that. Because I like you, Casey. You’re funny and smart and interesting. And you remind me exactly of how I used to be. I look at you, and I just want to—”

“Fix me?”

“Help you,” Boone says. “Because you need help, Casey.”

But he wanted more than that when he introduced himself that day. I remember the charm, the swagger, the flirtation I’d found both tiresome and tantalizing.

Thinking back to that afternoon prompts an unsavory realization. Boone had mentioned spending the day working on the Mitchells’ dining room floor. If he was there the whole time, within earshot of the activity on the lake,

why didn’t he do anything when Katherine was drowning and I was calling for help?

That question leads to another. One so disturbing I’m barely able to ask it.

“When Katherine came over that day, did you give her anything to drink?”

“Lemonade. Why do you—” Boone stands again, suddenly understanding. “I didn’t do what you’re thinking.” I wish I could believe him. But the facts warn me not to.

Katherine claimed to have grown suddenly weary while swimming.

It was like my entire body stopped working.

All this time, I thought Tom was the one who’d caused it. Imitating Harvey Brewer and slipping small doses of poison into his wife’s drinks. But it also could have been Boone. Angry, jealous, rejected Boone, mixing a large dose into Katherine’s lemonade.

“Casey,” he says. “You know me. You know I would never do something like that.”

But I don’t know him. I thought I did, but only because I believed everything he told me. Now I’m forced to doubt all of it.

Including, I realize, what he said about the scream the morning Katherine vanished. Because I was still drunk, I didn’t quite know where the sound had originated. Boone’s the one who concluded it had come from the other side of the lake, citing an echo I’m now not sure existed.

It’s possible he was lying. That the scream came not from across the lake, but this side.

His side.

Which means there’s also a chance Boone’s the person who caused Katherine to scream.

“Stay away from me,” I say as Boone starts to approach. The way he moves—slowly, methodically—is more intimidating than if he were in a hurry. It gives me ample time to notice how big he is, how strong, how it would take him no effort at all to overpower me.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” he says. “I didn’t do anything to Katherine.”

He keeps walking toward me, and I look around for the nearest escape route. Right behind me are the French doors leading to the porch, still locked. I might be able to unlock them and run outside, but doing so would take up precious seconds I’m not sure I can spare.

When Boone’s almost within reach, I skirt sideways and bolt into the heart of the kitchen. Although not an escape, it at least gives me access to things with which I can defend myself. I pick one—the largest blade from the knife block on the counter—and thrust it in front of me, daring Boone to come closer.

“Leave my house,” I say. “And don’t ever come back.”

Boone’s mouth drops open, as if he’s about to make another denial—or switch to threatening me. Apparently deciding silence is the best policy, he closes his mouth, lifts his hands in defeat, and leaves the house without another word.

I move from door to door, making sure all of them are locked. The front door is secured minutes after Boone passes through it, and the doors to the porch remain

locked from the night before. That leaves one more—the creaky blue door in the basement.

The last place I want to go.

I know there’s nothing physically dangerous down there. It’s nothing but junk, once frequently used, now forgotten. It’s the memories of the day Len died that I’d like to avoid. No good can come from reliving that morning. But since the basement door is how Boone got inside last night, I need to lock it to keep him from doing it again.

Even though it’s only mid-morning, I have a shot of vodka before heading down to the basement. A little liquid courage never hurts.

Nor does a second helping. And a third.

I’m feeling much better when I finally start down the basement steps. I barely hesitate at the bottom one, pausing only a second before placing both feet onto the concrete floor. But the front of the basement is the easy part. Here lie the happy memories. Playing Ping-Pong with my father. Marnie and me during a Christmas vacation, putting on hats and parkas before bounding out onto the frozen lake.

The bad memories are toward the back, in the mudroom. As I enter it, I regret not having a fourth shot of

vodka.

I speed toward the door and twist the handle. It’s locked. Boone did what I’d overlooked yesterday at the Royces’. Maybe that’s the house he should have broken into instead of mine.

Knowing the blue door is also secure, I turn back to the rest of the mudroom, facing a wall paneled in flat, horizontal boards that have been painted gray. The nails keeping them in place are visible, giving off a rustic vibe that’s trendy now but was merely utilitarian when the house was built. One of the boards is missing two nails, revealing a slight gap between it and the wall. It reminds me again of how old the house is, how fragile, how easy it would be for someone to get inside even with all the doors locked.

Trying to shake away that grim but honest assessment, I push out of the mudroom, through the basement and up the stairs to the dining room, where I snatch the vodka from the liquor cabinet and have one more shot. Properly fortified, I pull my phone from my pocket, ready to call Eli and tell him everything that’s happened the past few days.

He’ll know what to do.

But when I check my phone, I see that Eli actually called me while I was still asleep. The voicemail is short and sweet and slightly unnerving.

“Just got done watching the news. This storm’s looking like it’s going to be worse than they thought. Heading out for supplies. Call me in the next half hour if you need anything.”

That was three hours ago.

I try calling Eli back anyway. When the call goes straight to voicemail, I hang up without leaving a message, grab my laptop, and carry it to the living room. There I do

something I should have done days ago: a Google search of Boone Conrad.

The first thing that comes up is an article about his wife’s death, which I expected. Completely unexpected is the nature of the article, made clear in the headline.

“Cop Probed in Wife’s Death.”

I stare wide-eyed at the headline, my nerves becoming jumpy. It only gets worse when I read the article and learn that members of Boone’s own department noticed discrepancies in his story about the day his wife died. He’d told them—as he told me—that she was still alive when he left for work that morning. What Boone neglected to mention was how the medical examiner had narrowed the time of death to a two-hour window, including a half hour in which he still could have been home.

But the suspicion didn’t stop there. It turned out Boone’s wife—Maria was her name—had gone to see a divorce attorney a week before her death. And although he swore he didn’t know Maria was considering divorce, Boone’s colleagues had no choice but to recuse themselves from the case and let the state police conduct a formal investigation.

I keep searching, finding another article dated a week later, this one announcing that Boone wouldn’t be charged in Maria Conrad’s death. The article points out that there was nothing to prove Boone hadn’t killed her. There simply wasn’t any evidence to show that he had.

Included with the article are two photos. One of Boone, the other of his wife. Boone’s picture is an official police department photo. It should come as no surprise that he looks ridiculously good in uniform. The real shock is that Maria was equally as gorgeous. With bright eyes, a big

smile, and great bone structure, she looks like she could have walked the runway right alongside Katherine Royce.

Imagining the two of them on the catwalk reminds me that I’m not the only person on the lake curious about what happened to Maria Conrad. One of the Royces had also taken an interest. Boone was one of the many searches I found on Tom’s laptop.

Maybe it was Katherine.

Maybe that’s the thing that so shocked her in Tom’s office as I watched from the other side of the lake.

Maybe she confronted Boone about it the next morning. And maybe he felt the need to silence her.

While all of this is just wild conjecture, it’s important enough to tell Wilma Anson, which is why I dig out my phone and immediately give her a call.

“Anson,” she answers before the first ring is finished. “Hi, Wilma. It’s Casey Fletcher. From Lake—”

She cuts me off. “I know who you are, Casey. What’s going on? Did something happen with Tom Royce?”

Actually, something did happen, but the drama from last night feels distant after the events of this morning.

“I’m calling about Boone.” “What about him?”

“How well do you know him?”

“As well as I know my own brother,” Wilma says. “Why are you asking?”

“I was doing some investigating.”

“Which is my job,” Wilma replies without a hint of humor. “But go on.”

“And I learned—well, Boone told me, actually—that he and Katherine Royce did know each other. They were friends. Maybe more than friends.”

“I know,” Wilma says.

I pause, more confused than surprised. “You do?”

“Boone called a half hour ago and told me everything.” “So he’s now a suspect, right?”

“Why would he be?”

“Because he lied,” I say. “About a lot of things. Then there’s what happened to his wife.”

“That has nothing to do with this,” Wilma says with sudden sharpness.

“But it does. Katherine knew about it. She—at least I think it was her—Googled an article about it on Tom’s laptop.”

I realize my mistake the second the words are out. Like a car sailing over a cliff, they can’t be taken back. The only option is to wait and see how hard they land.

“How do you know that?” Wilma asks.

At first, I say nothing. When I do speak, it’s with a guilty hush. “I was inside their house.”

“Please tell me Tom let you in and that you didn’t just barge in when he wasn’t home.”

“I didn’t barge in,” I say. “I snuck in.”

The long silence from Wilma that follows feels like a lit fuse slowly snaking its way toward a pile of dynamite. Any second now, there’s going to be an explosion. When it arrives, it’s both louder and fiercer than I expect.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t come over and arrest your sorry ass right now,” Wilma says, her voice booming in my ear. “Do you know how stupid that was, Casey? You might have just fucked up my entire investigation.”

“But I found things,” I say. “I don’t want to know.”

“Important things. Incriminating things.”

Wilma’s voice gets louder. Somehow. I’d assumed she had already reached peak volume.

“Unless you found Katherine Royce herself, I don’t want to know. You understand me? The more shit you say and do means the less I’ll be able to legally present to a judge and prosecutor. That laptop you looked at is evidence. Those rooms you walked through might be a crime scene. And you just tainted all of it. Not only that, your presence in that house—and the possibility that you could have planted something incriminating inside it—gives Tom an easy way to explain away every single thing we might find in there.”

“I didn’t plant—”

“Stop talking,” Wilma commands. “Stop snooping. Stop everything.”

“I’m sorry.” It comes out as a squeak. “Really, I was just trying to help.”

“I don’t need you to be sorry and I don’t need your help,” Wilma says. “I need you to stay the fuck away from Tom Royce. And from Boone.”

“But you have to admit Boone’s suspicious, right? First his wife died, and then Katherine goes missing.”

I glance at the laptop, still open to the article about Boone not being charged in Maria’s death. I scan it, hoping to find a snippet that supports my argument. Instead, I see a quote at the tail end of the article.

“As far as the state police are concerned, Officer Conrad is completely innocent and all accusations against him are completely baseless.”

I go cold when I see who provided the quote. Detective Wilma Anson.

“I told you—”

I end the call, cutting off Wilma mid-sentence. When she calls me back seconds later, I let the phone ring. When she

tries again, I silence the phone. There’s no point in answering. It’s clear she thinks Boone is capable of doing no wrong. Nothing I say is going to change that.

I can no longer trust Wilma.

And I certainly can’t trust Boone.

I am, I realize, completely on my own.

I don’t step outside of the house until night has fallen, and even then I only go as far as the porch. There’s a heaviness to the air that’s unnerving. Thick with

humidity and turmoil. Last night’s wind is gone, replaced by eerie stillness.

The calm immediately before the storm.

Slouched in a rocking chair, I take a drink of bourbon. My fourth or fifth or sixth.

It’s impossible to keep count when I’m drinking straight from the bottle.

During the afternoon and early evening, I was either in bed, trying in vain to get some rest; in the kitchen, chowing down on whatever food took the least time to prepare; or roaming the rest of the house like a bird trapped in a cage. As I walked—from library to den to living room—I thought about what, if anything, I can do now.

It didn’t take long to suss out the answer. Nothing.

That’s what Wilma wants, after all.

So I picked up my old friend bourbon—the only thing I can trust at the moment. Now I’m buzzed and careening toward drunkenness. All it will take to push me over the edge is one or two more swigs from the bottle.

A tantalizing option.

Because I want everything to go away.

My concern about Katherine, my suspicion of both Tom and Boone, my loneliness and guilt and grief. I want all of it

gone, never to return. And if that requires drinking myself into oblivion, so be it.

Gripping the bottle’s neck, I tip it back, ready to empty the damn thing.

Before I can do that, though, I notice a light brightening the kitchen window of the Royce house. Like a moth, I’m drawn to it. I can’t help it. I put down the bottle and pick up the binoculars, telling myself that it’s fine if I watch the house one last time. According to Wilma, I’ve already ruined everything. Spying on Tom now isn’t going to make things any worse.

He’s at the stove again, heating up another can of soup. When he gives a disinterested glance out the window, I don’t fear that he’ll again catch me watching. The porch, like the rest of the house, is pitch-black. As are the lake and the surrounding shore.

Other than the kitchen at the Royce house, the only other light around is a large rectangular glow on the lake’s rippling surface to my right. The Mitchell place. Although I can’t get a good look at the house from where I’m sitting, the bright patch tells me everything I need to know.

Boone is home.

I’ve got a possible wife-killer on one side of me and another possible wife-killer directly across the lake.

Not a comforting thought.

I swing the binoculars toward Eli’s house. It’s completely dark. Of course the sole person on this lake I can trust is the only one not home. I call his cell, hoping he’ll answer, say he’s on his way back from gathering supplies and will swing by before heading to his house. Instead, the call again goes instantly to his voicemail.

I leave a message, straining to sound both sober and nonchalant. I fail at both.

“Eli, hi. It’s Casey. I, um, I hope you’re coming home soon. Like, right now. There have been things going on around the lake that you don’t know about. Dangerous things. And, well, I’m scared. And I could really use a friend right now. So if you’re around, please come over.”

I’m crying by the time I end the call. The tears are a surprise, and as much as I’d like to chalk them up to stress and bourbon, I know it goes deeper than that. I’m crying because the fourteen months since Len died have been hard as hell. Yes, I had Marnie, my mother, and plenty of others willing to offer comfort. None of them—not even Beloved Lolly Fletcher—could truly understand how I felt.

So I drank.

It was easier that way. Alcohol doesn’t judge.

And it never, ever disappoints.

But if you drink too much, for too long, all those well- meaning people in your life who try to understand but can’t eventually give up and drift away.

That’s the realization that came over me as I rambled on the phone even though no one was listening. The story of my life. Right now, I have nothing and no one. Eli’s gone, Boone can’t be trusted, and Marnie wants nothing to do with this. I am completely alone, and it makes me utterly, unbearably sad.

I wipe my eyes, sigh, pick up the binoculars again because, hey, I have literally nothing else to do. I zero in on the Royces’ kitchen, where Tom has finished reheating the soup. Instead of a bowl, he pours it into a large thermos and screws on the lid.

Curious.

Thermos in hand, he opens a drawer and pulls out a flashlight.

Curiouser.

Soon he’s outside, the flashlight’s beam slicing through the darkness. Seeing it brings back a memory of the other night, when I noticed Tom do the same thing from the bedroom window. Although I couldn’t tell where he was going to or coming from then, I certainly do now.

The Fitzgeralds’ house.

In an instant, I go from buzzed to hyperalert, suddenly aware of everything. The clouds scudding in front of the moon. A loon hooting a lonely call in an unseen nook of the lake. The flashlight moving through the trees, bobbing and winking like a giant firefly. Another memory returns, pried loose by the sight.

Me against the door, Tom on the other side, shouting things I’d been too drunk and scared to comprehend.

You have no idea what’s going on, he said. Just leave us the fuck alone.

Us.

Meaning not just him.

Meaning someone else is a part of all this.

My chest expands. A bubble of hope, pushing against my rib cage.

Katherine could still be alive.

I wait to make my move until Tom completes the return trip to his house. It happens fifteen minutes later, the flashlight’s beam appearing outside the Fitzgerald

place and moving in the opposite direction of its earlier path. I follow it with the binoculars all the way to the Royce house, where Tom turns off the flashlight just before going inside.

I put down the binoculars and spring into action. Down the porch steps.

Across the yard. Onto the dock.

It’s started to rain—fat drops that land hard on my face, my hair, the planks of the dock as I make my way to the boat moored to its end.

The wind has picked up, too, turning the lake choppy. The boat bobs and sways, making it difficult to step into and forcing me to do an awkward half leap from the dock. Once inside, I instantly regret the drinks I’ve had as the boat rides the ever-growing swells of the water.

I close my eyes, lift my face to the wind, and let the rain spatter my skin. It’s definitely not a cure-all. My stomach keeps churning and my head continues to ache. But the rain is cold enough to sober me up and painful enough to make me focus on what I need to do next.

Get across the lake.

I untie the boat from the dock, not daring to use the motor. I know how sound 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.

I take another step.

Then another, which creaks under my weight, the sound startling me.

It’s followed by another creak. Not from me.

From somewhere deeper in the basement.

I hurry down the remaining steps, into the basement, which is lit by a single exposed bulb dangling from the ceiling. The basement is bare-bones. Cement floor. Concrete walls. The steps I’d just descended nothing more than a skeleton of wood.

I take another step, my field of vision expanding, revealing junk crowded at the edges of the basement. Castoffs from Mrs. Fitzgerald’s antique business. Chipped dressers and chairs missing legs and boxes stacked upon boxes.

Pushed against the wall is an old-fashioned brass bed that has something on top of it.

No.

Not something.

Someone.

I creep closer and see— Oh, God.

Katherine.

Her clothes are the same ones I saw her wearing the night she vanished. Jeans and a white sweater, now stained in spots. Her shoes are gone, revealing bare feet made dirty by the trek from her house to this one. A line of soup, still wet, drips from a corner of her mouth onto her neck.

But it’s her arms that unnerve me the most.

They’ve been lifted above her and connected to the brass bed’s corners by rope knotted around her wrists. I see more rope at her ankles, keeping her spread-eagled atop a plastic tarp that’s been laid over the mattress.

I choke out a gasp.

Katherine hears it and her eyes flutter open. She looks up at me, at first utterly confused, then full-blown panicked.

“Who—”

She stops herself, still looking, her large, frightened eyes softening into recognition.

“Casey?” Her voice is weird. Hoarse and slightly wet, as if there’s water in the back of her throat. It doesn’t sound like her at all. “Is it really you?”

“It’s me. It’s me and I’m going to help you.”

I rush to her, putting a hand on her forehead. Her skin is cold and clammy with sweat. And pale. So startlingly pale. Her lips have become cracked with dryness. She parts them and croaks, “Help me. Please.”

I reach for the rope knotted around her right wrist. It’s been tied tight. The skin under it has been rubbed raw, and

dried blood flakes off the rope.

“How long have you been down here?” I say. “Why did Tom do this to you?”

I give up on untying the rope around her wrists and instead move to the end lashed to the brass railing. It, too, is knotted tight, and I tug at it helplessly.

But there’s a noise. Near the stairs.

An unnaturally loud creak as someone pushes off the bottom step.

Tom.

Soaked by the storm.

His expression is a mix of surprise and disappointment and fear.

“Get away from her,” he says as he barrels toward me. “You shouldn’t have looked for her, Casey. You really, really should have left us alone.”

I continue fumbling with the rope, as if sheer determination will loosen it. I’m still tugging when Tom wraps an arm around my waist and drags me away. I flail in his grip, kicking and swatting. It’s no use. He’s shockingly strong, and soon I find myself shoved against the stairs. The bottom step hits my calves and I fall backwards until I’m sitting down against my will.

“What the fuck are you doing to her?” “Protecting her,” Tom says.

“From what?” “Herself.”

I look to the brass bed, where Katherine has gone still. But her eyes remain open, watching us. To my surprise, she looks not distressed but slightly amused.

“I don’t understand. What’s wrong with your wife?” “That is not my wife.”

“It sure as hell looks like Katherine.”

“It looks like her,” Tom says. “But it’s not.”

I cast another glance at the bed. Katherine remains motionless, content to watch us talk. Maybe it’s merely Tom’s words getting under my skin, but something about her seems off. Katherine’s energy feels different from what I’m used to.

“Then who is it?”

“Someone else,” Tom says.

My head is spinning. I have no idea what he’s talking about. Nor do I understand what’s going on. All I know is that the situation is far weirder than I ever imagined—and that it’s up to me to defuse it.

“Tom.” I take a step toward him, hands raised to show I mean him no harm. “I need you to tell me what’s going on.” He shakes his head. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.

And maybe I am. I’ve considered that possibility a lot in the past few days. It would be easier to deal with than this.”

Tom gestures Katherine’s way, and although I’m not certain, I think what he’s just said pleases her. The corners of her mouth lift ever so slightly into a quarter smile.

“I won’t think that,” I say. “I promise.”

Desperation fills Tom’s gaze as it darts between me and the woman he says isn’t his wife, although it clearly is. “You won’t understand.”

“I will if you explain it to me.” I take another step toward him. Calm. Careful. “Please.”

“That stuff Eli told us the other night?” Tom says in a scared, guilty murmur. “About the lake and people believing spirits are trapped in the water?”

“I remember.”

“I think—I think it’s true. I think something was in that lake. A ghost. A soul. Whatever. And it was waiting there. In

the water. And whatever it was entered Katherine when she almost drowned and now—now it’s taken over.”

I’m unsure how to respond.

What can one say when faced with something so absurd?

The only thought going through my head is that Tom is right. He has gone insane.

“I know you think I’m lying,” he says. “That I’m spouting bullshit. I’d feel the same way if I hadn’t lived through it. But it’s true. I swear to you, Casey. All of it is true.”

I push past Tom, who no longer tries to stop me from approaching the bed. I stand at the foot of it, gripping the brass railing, and stare down at Katherine. The hint of a smile grows at my presence, blooming into a full-on grin that makes me queasy.

“If you’re not Katherine,” I say, “then who are you?”

“You know who I am.” Her voice has deepened slightly, changing into one that’s chillingly familiar. “It’s me—Len.”

A jolt of shock rushes through me, so fast and buzzing it feels like the bed frame has been electrified. I let go of it and, swaying slightly, stare at the person

tied to the bed. A person who is definitely Katherine Royce. It’s the same coltish body, long hair, and billboard-ready smile.

Yet I seem to be the only person here who understands that fact, making me unsure who to be worried about more. Katherine, for making such an outlandish claim, or her husband, for believing it.

“I told you so,” Tom says.

From the bed, Katherine adds, “I know how weird this seems, Casey. And I know what you’re thinking.”

That’s not possible. I’ve just been told my husband, dead for more than a year, is inside the body of a woman I had thought was missing for days. No one else can fully comprehend the chaos of my thoughts.

At least now I understand all of Tom’s secrecy, not to mention his lies. He believed he couldn’t keep Katherine around, pretending everything was normal, when to him, nothing about the situation was normal. So he whisked her to the house next door, away from their glass palace and my prying eyes. He hid her cell phone, posted that sham picture on Instagram, tried as much as he could to keep what he believed to be the truth from getting out.

Because who would have believed him? I sure as hell don’t.

The idea is more than crazy. It’s batshit insane.

“This is real, Casey,” Tom says, easily reading my thoughts.

“I believe you think that.” My words are calm and careful—a clear indicator that I’ve made up my mind. Right now, Tom is the more dangerous of the two. “When did you start to think it was happening?”

“Not as early as I should have.” Tom looks askance at his wife’s form, as if he can’t bring himself to completely face her. “I knew something was wrong the day you fished her out of the lake. She was acting weird. Not quite herself.”

It’s exactly the way Katherine described what she thought was happening to her. The sudden weakness. The coughing fits. The fainting. It occurs to me that this could be a form of simultaneous delusion, with one of them influencing the other. Maybe Katherine’s symptoms prompted Tom to start thinking she was possessed, which in turn made Katherine believe it herself. Or vice versa.

“It just kept getting worse and worse,” Tom continues. “Until, one night, it was like Katherine was no longer there. She didn’t act like herself or sound like herself. She’d even started to move differently. I confronted her about it—”

“And I told him the truth,” Katherine says.

I don’t ask when this happened because I already know. The night before Katherine disappeared.

If I close my eyes, I’ll be able to picture the scene with cinematic clarity. Tom pleading with Katherine as she stood by the window.

Who.

That’s the word I’d struggled to identify. Who was she?

Len, apparently. An idea preposterous to everyone but the two other people in this basement. Stuck between them, their madness coming at me from both sides, I know I need to get them away from each other. Even though it’s clear Tom’s been feeding Katherine, he’s neglected everything else. A foul odor rises from the bed, indicating she hasn’t been bathed in days. An even worse smell wafts from a bucket in a corner of the basement.

“Tom,” I say, trying not to let my horror at the situation seep into my voice. “Could you leave us alone? Just for a minute?”

He finally looks at the bed and the person he thinks is someone other than his wife. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Casey.”

“I just want to talk to her,” I say.

Tom continues to hesitate, even though his entire body appears eager to leave. His legs are parted, as if gearing up for a sprint, and he leans slightly toward the basement stairs.

“I won’t be long,” I say. “Katherine’s not going to go anywhere.”

“Don’t untie her.”

“I won’t,” I say, even though it’s one of the first things I plan on doing.

“She’ll ask you to. She’s . . . tricky.”

“I’m prepared for that.” I put both hands on his shoulders and turn him until we’re eye to eye. Knowing that placating him is the only way I’ll get him to leave, I say, “Listen, I know I’ve caused you a world of trouble the past few days. The spying and the police. I’m truly sorry. I didn’t know what was going on, so I thought the worst. And I promise to make it up to you as much as I can. But right

now, please, if this is my husband, I want to talk to him. Alone.”

Tom considers it, closing his eyes and pressing his fingers to his temples as if he’s a clairvoyant trying to summon the future. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll give you five minutes.”

Mind made up, he grudgingly starts up the steps. At the halfway point, he turns to give me one last look of concern.

“I’m serious, Casey,” he says. “Don’t do a single thing she asks.”

I let that sink in as he clomps up the remaining steps. When he reaches the top, I hear the door close behind him and, unnervingly, the chain being slid back into place.

The only thing keeping me from panicking that I’m now also trapped down here is the person on the bed. At this moment, Katherine is enough to worry about.

“Why are you doing this, Katherine?” “You know that’s not who I am.”

“It’s who you look like,” I say, although it’s no longer entirely true. Katherine’s appearance seems to subtly be changing, turning harder and colder. Like a layer of ice forming over still water.

“Looks can be deceiving.”

They can. I know that all too well. But I don’t for a second believe my dead husband is inhabiting Katherine’s body. Outside of it being completely beyond all laws of science and logic, there’s the simple fact that people’s brains are capable of strange things. They split and mutate and create all kinds of trouble. Katherine could have a brain tumor that’s causing her to act out of character, or she’s suffering from an undiagnosed multiple personality disorder that’s only now manifested itself. She knows who Len was. She knows what happened to him. After almost

meeting the same fate he did, she might have convinced herself that she’s become him. All of that makes more sense than this possessed-by-a-spirit-in-the-lake bullshit.

Yet now that it’s just the two of us, I can’t shake the feeling that Len is somewhere in this basement. His presence fills the room just like it did when he was alive. Whether in our apartment or at the lake house, I always knew when he was around, even if he was out of sight in a distant room. I get that same sensation now.

But he can’t be here. It’s just not possible.

“You need help,” I tell Katherine. “A hospital. Doctors.

Medication.”

“That won’t do me any good.”

“It’s better than being held captive here.” “About that, I agree.”

“Then let me help you, Katherine.”

“You need to start using my real name.”

I fold my arms across my chest and huff. “If you’re Len, tell me something only the two of us would know. Prove to me you’re really him.”

“You sure you want that, Cee?” I gasp.

Cee was Len’s nickname for me. No one outside of close friends and family knew he called me that. Katherine certainly didn’t, unless I let it slip at some point. It’s possible I could have casually mentioned it when we were drinking coffee on the porch or chatting in the boat after I pulled her from the lake, although I have no memory of doing so.

“How do you know about that?”

“Because I came up with it, remember? I even used it the last time we talked, hoping you’d get the hint.”

My heart hopscotches in my chest as I think back to that late-night phone call and Katherine’s enigmatic wave from the window.

I’m fine. See.

Now I understand what she really said.

I’m fine, Cee.

But I also understand it was Katherine who said it. There’s no other person it could have been. Which means I had to have mentioned Len’s nickname at some point. Katherine remembered it and made it just another brick in her vast wall of delusion.

“That’s not enough,” I say. “I’ll need more proof than that.”

“How about this?” Katherine grins, the smile spreading like an oil slick across her face. “I haven’t forgotten that you killed me.”