When I joked with that editor acquaintance of mine about naming her proposed memoir How to Become Tabloid Fodder in Seven Easy Steps, I
should have included one more in the title. A secret step, tucked like a bookmark between Five and Six.
Discover your husband is a serial killer.
Which I did the summer we spent at Lake Greene.
It was by accident, of course. I wasn’t prying into Len’s life, searching for any dark secrets, because I’d foolishly assumed he didn’t have any. Our marriage had felt like an open book. I told him everything and thought he had been doing the same.
Until the night I realized he wasn’t.
It was less than a week after our picnic on the bluff at Lake Greene’s southern tip. Since that afternoon, I’d given a lot of thought to Len’s suggestion that we become like Old Stubborn poking from the water and stay here forever. I’d decided it was a fine idea, and that we should try it for a year and see how it went.
I thought it would be nice to tell him all of this at night as we drank wine outside by the fire. Complicating my plan was the fact that, thanks to a morning drizzle that had soaked the ridiculously long fireplace matches we’d left out overnight, there was no way to start said fire.
“There’s a lighter in my tackle box,” Len said. “I use it to light my cigars.”
I made a gagging noise. He knew I hated the cigars he sometimes smoked while fishing. The stench lingered long after he was done with them.
“Want me to get it?” he said.
Since Len was busy opening a bottle of wine and slicing some cheese to pair with it, I told him I’d go to the basement and fetch the lighter. A split-second decision that changed everything, although I didn’t know it at the time.
To the basement I went. There was no hesitation back then. Just a quick clomping down the stairs followed by a straight shot to the mudroom and the long wall rack filled with our outdoor gear. Above it was the shelf on which Len kept his tackle box. It was a stretch to reach it. Standing on my tiptoes with my arms extended, I grabbed it with both hands. Everything inside the box rattled together as I lowered it to the floor, and when I opened it, I saw a tangle of rubbery lures colored like candy but bearing barbed hooks sharp enough to draw blood.
A warning, I know now. One I instantly ignored.
I found the lighter at the bottom of the tackle box, along with a couple of those blasted cigars. Beneath them, tucked in a back corner, was a red handkerchief folded into a lumpy rectangle.
At first, I thought it was weed. Although I hadn’t used marijuana since my drug-fueled teenage years, I knew Len still occasionally did. I assumed it was something else he smoked while fishing when he wasn’t in the mood for a cigar.
But instead of a baggie full of dried leaves, when I unfolded the handkerchief I found three driver’s licenses. A lock of hair was paper-clipped to each one, colored the same shade as the hair of the woman pictured on it.
I flipped through the licenses a dozen times, the names and faces shuffling like a slide show from hell.
Megan Keene.
Toni Burnett.
Sue Ellen Stryker.
My first thought, born of naïveté and denial, was that they had been placed there by someone else. It didn’t matter that the tackle box belonged to Len and that few people came to the lake house. My mother’s visits had grown less frequent as she got older, and Marnie and my aunt had stopped coming entirely years earlier. Unless there was some renter I didn’t know about, that left Len.
The second thought, once that initial hopefulness had worn off, was that Len had been fucking around. Until then, I’d never given infidelity much thought. I wasn’t a jealous wife. I never questioned my husband’s faithfulness. In a business full of philanderers, he didn’t seem like the cheating kind. And even as I held three strangers’ IDs in my hand, I continued to give Len the benefit of the doubt.
I told myself there had to be a rational explanation. That these licenses, all of which were current, and strands of hair were simply props kept from a film he’d worked on. Or research for a future project. Or that the licenses had been sent to him by crazed fans. As someone who’d once been met at the stage door by a man trying to give me a live chicken he’d named after me, I knew all about weird fan gifts.
But then I took another look at the licenses and realized two of the names were vaguely familiar. Leaning against the mudroom’s ancient sink, I pulled out my phone and Googled them.
Megan Keene, the first familiar name, had gone missing the previous summer and was assumed to be the victim of
foul play. I’d heard about her because Eli told us all about the case when Len and I had spent a week at the lake the summer she disappeared.
Sue Ellen Stryker, the other name I recognized, had been all over the news a few weeks earlier. She disappeared and was thought to have drowned in a different lake several miles south of here. As far as I knew, police were still trying to recover her body.
I found nothing on Toni Burnett except a Facebook page started by friends of hers seeking information about where she might be. The last time anyone saw her was two months after Megan Keene vanished.
Instantly, I became ill. Not nauseated.
Feverish.
Sweat formed on my skin even as my body shook with chills.
Still, a part of me refused to believe the worst. This was all some horrible mistake. Or sick joke. Or strange coincidence. It certainly didn’t mean Len had made those three women disappear. He simply wasn’t capable of something like that. Not my sweet, funny, gentle, sensitive Len.
But when I checked the calendar app we both used to keep track of our schedules, I noticed an unnerving trend— on the days each woman went missing, we weren’t together.
Sue Ellen Stryker vanished during a weekend in which I had returned to New York to do voice-over work for a commercial. Len had stayed here at the lake house.
Megan Keene and Toni Burnett both disappeared when Len had been in Los Angeles, working on the superhero script that had bedeviled him for months.
That should have been a relief. It wasn’t.
Because I had no proof he truly was in LA both of those times. We traveled for work so much—both together and separately—that I never stopped to wonder if Len’s stated destination was where he had actually gone. According to the calendar, those two LA trips were weekenders. Fly out Friday, come back Monday. And even though I was certain Len had called me from the airport each time before taking off and after landing, it dawned on me that he also could have made those calls from a rental car heading to and from Vermont.
On the day Megan Keene disappeared, Len had stayed at the Chateau Marmont. At least, that’s what the calendar app claimed. But when I called the hotel and asked if Leonard Bradley had checked in that weekend, I was told no.
“A reservation was made,” the desk clerk informed me. “But he never showed. Because he didn’t cancel, we had to charge his credit card. I’m assuming that’s what this is about.”
I hung up and called the hotel he’d allegedly stayed at the weekend Toni Burnett had vanished. The answer was the same. Reservation made, room never canceled, Len never arrived, weekend charged to the credit card.
That’s when I knew.
Len—my Len—had done something horrible to those girls. And the locks of hair and the licenses in his tackle box were mementos. Sick souvenirs kept so he could remember his kills.
In the span of minutes, I experienced every terrible emotion you can think of. Fear and sadness and shock and
confusion and despair, all colliding in a single, devastating moment.
I cried. Hot tears that, because I was trembling so hard, shook from my cheeks like raindrops off a windblown tree.
I moaned, shoving my fist into my mouth to keep it from being heard by Len upstairs.
The anger, hurt, and betrayal were so overwhelming I honestly thought they would kill me. Not a horrible prospect, all things considered. It certainly would have put me out of my misery, not to mention saved me from facing the dilemma about what to do next. Going to the police was a given. I had to turn Len in. But when? And how?
I decided to tell Len that I couldn’t find his lighter and that I needed to run to the store to buy more matches. Then I’d drive straight to the nearest police department and tell them everything.
I told myself it was possible. I was an actress, after all. For a few minutes, I could fake not being sick and terrified and veering between wanting to kill myself and wanting to kill Len. I shoved the licenses and locks of hair in my pocket and headed upstairs, prepared to lie to Len and run to the police.
He was still in the kitchen, looking as nerdy-s*xy as always in his silly Kiss the Cook apron. He had poured two glasses of wine and arranged the cheese on a platter. It was the very picture of domestic contentedness.
Except for the knife in his hand.
Len was using it innocently enough, slicing a salami to join the platter of cheese. But the way he gripped it, with a smile on his face and his hand so tight his knuckles had turned pale, made my own hands shake. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d killed those three girls with that same knife,
using that same tight grip, sporting that same contented grin.
“That took forever,” Len said, oblivious to the fact that everything had changed since we last saw each other. That my entire existence had just turned to ash like I was a character in one of those fucking superhero movies he was supposed to be working on while he was really here, ending the lives of three people.
He continued to slice, the blade thwacking against the cutting board. As I listened to it, all those horrible emotions I’d been feeling went away.
Except for one. Fury.
It vibrated through me, like I was a water glass struck with a hammer. I felt just as brittle. Just as ready to shatter. And as it coursed through me, I started to come up with reasons why I shouldn’t go to the police. At least, not alone. The first thing I thought about was my career. God help me, it was. A fact that I still hate myself for. But I knew instantly that this was going to end it. No one would hire me after this. I’d become a pariah. One of those people involved in something so shameful it taints their reputation forever. As soon as word got out that Len was a murderer, people would judge me—and very few would give me the benefit of the doubt. I was certain most people would question how I failed to notice there was a serial killer right
under my nose, living in my apartment, sleeping in my bed. I knew because I was asking those very same things.
How did I not suspect anything? How did I miss the signs?
How did I not know?
Even worse would be the people who assumed I did know about it. There’d be plenty of speculation, wondering if I was a killer myself. Or at least an accomplice.
No, the only way I could do this and keep my reputation and career intact was if Len went with me. If he confessed
—to me, then to the police—then maybe I’d emerge from the situation unscathed. An innocent victim.
“Sorry,” I said, shocked I was able to speak at all. “Marnie texted me about something.”
Len stopped slicing, the knife hovering over the cutting board. “Texted? I thought I heard you talking to someone.”
“I ended up calling her. You know how much she likes to chat.”
“What about the lighter?”
I gulped, uneasy. “What about it?” “Did you find it?”
“Yes.”
With that one word, I started to prepare for what would surely be the worst night of my life. I handed Len the lighter and asked if he could start the fire while I went upstairs to change clothes. In the bedroom, I shoved the licenses in the back of a dresser drawer before slipping into a pair of jeans and a floral blouse Len always said made me look extra s*xy. In the bathroom, I grabbed several tablets of the antihistamine he used to ward off allergies. In the kitchen, I dropped one of them into a glass of wine and took it outside to Len. My goal was twofold—get him relaxed enough to confess while also keeping him drunk and drugged enough so that he wouldn’t become violent or dangerous.
Len drank the wine quickly. When he was finished, I brought the glass inside, added another antihistamine, filled it up.
Then I did it a third time.
For the rest of the night, I smiled and chatted and laughed and sighed contentedly and pretended to be
perfectly happy.
It was the greatest performance I ever gave.
“Let’s go out on the water,” I said as midnight drew near.
“In the boat?” Len said, his voice already a slurred murmur. The pills were working.
“Yes, in the boat.”
He stood, swayed, dropped like a sack back into his chair. “Whoa. I’m really tired.”
“You’re just drunk,” I said.
“Which is why I don’t want to take the boat out.”
“But the water’s calm and the moon is so bright.” I leaned in close, pressing my breasts against him and bringing my lips to his ear. “It’ll be romantic.”
Len’s expression brightened the way it always did when he thought he was about to get laid. Seeing it then made me wonder if he looked exactly like this while he killed Megan, Toni, and Sue Ellen. That horrible thought stuck with me as I led him into the boat.
“No motor?” he said when I pushed off from the dock. “I don’t want to wake the neighbors.”
I rowed to the center of the lake and dropped the anchor into the water. By this time, Len was as high as the moon.
Now was the time.
“I found them,” I said. “The driver’s licenses in your tackle box. The locks of hair. I found it all.”
Len made a little noise. A low half chuckle of realization. “Oh,” he said.
“You killed those women, didn’t you?” Len said nothing.
“Answer me. Tell me you killed them.” “What are you going to do if I say yes?”
“Call the police,” I said. “Then I’m going to make sure you go to jail and never, ever get out.”
Len suddenly began to cry. Not out of guilt or remorse. These were selfish tears, bursting forth because he’d been caught and now had to face his punishment. Bawling like a child, he leaned toward me, arms outstretched, as if seeking comfort.
“Please don’t tell on me, Cee,” he said. “Please. I couldn’t control myself. I tried. I really did. But I’ll be better. I swear.”
Something overcame me as I watched my husband cry for mercy after showing none for others. An internal realignment that left me feeling as hollow and ablaze as a jack-o’-lantern.
It was hatred.
The seething, unquenchable kind.
I hated Len—for what he’d done, for deceiving me so thoroughly.
I hated him for destroying the life we had built together, erasing five wonderful years and replacing them with this moment of him weeping and begging and grasping for me even as I recoiled.
I hated him for hurting me.
But I wasn’t the only victim. Three others suffered far worse than me. Knowing this made me hope they had at least tried to fight back and, in the process, brought Len some amount of pain. And if they hadn’t, well, I was now able to do it on their behalf.
Because someone needed to make Len pay.
As his angry, deceived, now-ruined wife, I was suddenly in a position to do just that.
“I’m so sorry, Cee,” Len said. “Please, please forgive me.
Please don’t turn me in.”
Finally, I relented and pulled him into an embrace. Len seemed to melt as I wrapped my arms around him. He put his head to my chest, still sobbing, as a thousand memories of our marriage passed through my thoughts.
“I love you so much,” Len said. “Do you love me?” “Not anymore,” I said.
Then I pushed him over the side of the boat and watched him vanish into the dark water.
You killed me,” Katherine says again, as if I didn’t hear her the first time.
I did, but barely. My whole body is vibrating with shock. An internal hum that gets louder and louder, building from a whisper to a scream.
That’s what I want to do. Scream.
Maybe I am screaming and just don’t know it, the noise still rising inside me so loud it eclipses all outside sound.
I bring a hand to my mouth and check. It’s shut tight, my lips flattened together, my tongue still and useless. The inside of my mouth is dry—so parched and numb from surprise, fear, and confusion that I begin to wonder if I’ll ever be able to speak again.
Because there’s no way Katherine could know what I’d done to Len.
No one knows. No one but me. And him.
Which means Tom is right about Eli’s campfire tale being true. Even though it’s utterly preposterous, it’s literally the only explanation for what I’m experiencing right now. Len’s soul or spirit or whatever the fuck was left of him after life fled his body remained in Lake Greene, waiting in the dark water, biding its time until it could take the place of the next person to die there.
Who happened to be Katherine.
She was dead the afternoon I went out to rescue her. I’m certain of that now. I hadn’t reached her in time, a fact the state she was in—that lifeless body, those dead eyes, her blue lips and ice-cold flesh—made clear.
And I’d believed she was dead. Until, suddenly, she wasn’t.
When Katherine sprang back to life, jolting and coughing and spitting up water, it was like some kind of miracle had occurred.
A dark one.
One that only the people Eli talked about seemed to believe.
Somehow, Len had entered Katherine, bringing her back to life. In the process, he’d resurrected himself, albeit in a different body. Where Katherine—the real Katherine and everything that makes her her—is now, I have no idea.
“Len—”
I stop, surprised by how easy it is to use his name when it’s not him I’m seeing.
It’s Katherine. Her body. Her face. Everything is hers except for the voice, which sounds more like Len’s with each passing word, and her attitude.
That’s all Len. So much so that my brain flips like a switch, making me think of her as him.
“Now you get it,” he says. “I bet you thought you’d never see me again.”
I don’t know which one of them he’s referring to. Maybe both. It’s true on either count.
“I didn’t,” I say.
“You don’t look happy.” “I’m not.”
Because this is the stuff of night terrors. My worst fear made real. My guilt manifested into physical form. It takes
all the strength I have not to faint. Even then, specks of blue buzz like flies across my vision.
I literally can’t believe this is happening. It shouldn’t be happening.
How the fuck is this happening?
A hundred possibilities run through my shock-addled brain, trying to land on something remotely logical. That it happened because Len’s ashes had been scattered in Lake Greene. That there was a combination of minerals in the water that kept his soul alive. That because he died before his time, he was forced to roam the depths. That the lake, quite simply, is as cursed and haunted as Eli and Marnie say it is.
But none of those are possible. It can’t be real.
Which means it isn’t. There’s no way it could be.
Relief starts to seep into both my body and brain as I realize that this is all a dream. Nothing but a bourbon- induced nightmare. There’s a very real possibility that I’m still on the porch, passed out in a rocking chair, at the mercy of my subconscious.
I run a hand along my cheek, wondering if I should slap myself awake. I fear it will only lead to disappointment. Because this doesn’t feel like a nightmare. Everything is too vivid, too real, from the mismatched antiques crowding the corners of the room like bystanders to the creak of the bed to the twin smells of body odor rising off Len and piss wafting from the nearby bucket.
A different thought occurs to me.
That instead of dreaming, maybe I’m actually dead and am only now realizing it. God knows how it happened. Alcohol poisoning. A heart attack. Maybe I drowned in the lake and that’s why I’m seeing Len in Katherine’s body. It’s
my personal limbo, where my good and bad deeds are now colliding.
But it doesn’t explain Tom’s presence. Or why my heart is still beating. Or why sweat pops from my skin in the stifling basement. Or how the storm continues to rage outside.
“After what you did to me, of course you wouldn’t be happy,” Len says. “But don’t worry. I didn’t tell Tom about that.”
I’ve said exactly five words to my long-dead husband, which is five too many. Yet I can’t resist adding two more to the tally.
“Why not?”
“Because our secrets are as wedded together as we are.
I did a bad thing, which caused you to do a bad thing.” “Yours was far worse than mine, Len.”
“Murder is still murder,” he says.
“I didn’t murder you. You drowned.”
“Semantics,” Len says. “You’re the reason I’m dead.”
That part is true, but it’s only half the story. The rest— memories I never want to think about but am always thinking about—crashes over me like a thousand waves. All those details I’d try to chase away with whatever liquor I could get my hands on. They’re back.
Every. Single. One.
And I’m drowning in them.
I remember leaning over the edge of the boat, watching Len splash and sputter for what was probably minutes but felt like hours, thinking the whole time that it wasn’t too late, that I could dive in, save him, take him ashore and call the police, but also realizing I had no desire to do that.
Because he’d done terrible things and deserved to be punished.
Because I had loved him and trusted him and adored him and now hated him for not being the man I thought he was.
So I stopped myself from diving in. From saving him.
From taking him ashore. From calling the police.
I stopped myself and watched him drown.
Then, when I was certain he was dead, I hauled up the anchor and rowed the boat back to shore. Inside the house, the first thing I did was pour a bourbon, beginning a pattern that continues to this day. I took it to the porch and sat in one of the rocking chairs, drinking and watching the water, fearful that Len hadn’t really drowned and I’d see him swimming to the dock at any second.
After an hour had passed and the ice in my empty glass had melted to shards, I decided I needed to call someone and confess.
I chose Marnie. She had a level head. She’d know what to do. But I couldn’t bring my finger to tap the phone and make the call. Not for my sake. For Marnie’s. I didn’t want to drag her into my dirty deeds, make her complicit in something she had nothing to do with. But there’s another reason I didn’t call her, one I only realized in hindsight.
I didn’t want her to turn me in.
Which she would have done. Marnie is a good person, far better than me, and she wouldn’t have hesitated to get the police involved. Not to punish me. Because it was the right thing to do.
And I, who had definitely not done the right thing, didn’t want to risk it.
Because this wasn’t a cut-and-dried case of self-defense. Len didn’t try to physically hurt me. Maybe he would have
without that potent cocktail of alcohol and antihistamine churning in his system. But he was drunk and drugged and I had plenty of ways to get away.
Even if I did claim self-defense, the police wouldn’t see it that way. They would only see a woman who drugged her husband, took him out on the lake, shoved him overboard, and watched him drown. It didn’t matter that he was a serial killer. Or that those locks of hair and stolen IDs were proof of his crimes. The police would still charge me with murder, even though I hadn’t killed my husband.
He drowned.
I just chose not to save him.
But the police would make me pay for it anyway. And I didn’t want to be punished for punishing Len.
He deserved it. I didn’t.
So I covered my tracks.
First I removed the hair and licenses from the dresser drawer, wiped them clean with the handkerchief I’d found them in, and hid everything behind the loose plank in the basement wall.
Then I brewed a pot of coffee, poured it into Len’s battered thermos, and returned to the basement. There, I grabbed everything Len took with him when he went fishing. The floppy green hat, the fishing rod, the tackle box.
When I exited through the blue door, I left it open just a crack to make it look like Len had also used it. I then carried everything to the boat, which wasn’t easy. It was dark and I couldn’t use a flashlight because my arms were full and I feared someone on the opposite shore would notice it.
Back in the boat, I rowed to the middle of the lake. After tossing the hat into the water, I lowered myself into it and swam back to shore. Once inside the lake house, I stripped off my wet clothes, put them in the dryer, changed into a nightgown, and crawled into bed.
I didn’t sleep a wink.
I spent the night wide-awake, alert to every creak of the house, every rustling leaf, every splash of waterfowl out on the lake. Each noise made me think it was either the police arriving to arrest me or Len, somehow still alive, returning home.
I knew which scenario was worse.
It was only once dawn broke over the lake that I realized the horrible thing I’d done.
Not to Len.
I don’t feel guilty about that. I didn’t then and I don’t now.
Nor do I miss him.
I miss the person I thought he was. My husband.
The man I loved.
That wasn’t the same person I watched sink under the water. He was someone different. Someone evil. He deserved what happened to him.
Still, I’m filled with regret over what I did. Every second of every minute of every hour that I’m sober, it eats away at me. Because I was selfish. I had felt so angry, so hurt, so fucking betrayed, that I only gave a cursory thought to the women Len had killed. They’re the true victims of my actions. Them and their families and the cops still struggling to find out what happened.
By killing Len instead of turning him in, I denied all of them answers. Megan Keene, Toni Burnett, and Sue Ellen
Stryker are still out there, somewhere, and because of me, no one will ever know where. Their families continue to live in some horrible limbo where a small possibility exists that they’ll return.
I was able to mourn Len—or at least the man I’d thought he was—at two memorial services, one on each coast. I sat through both racked with guilt that I was allowed to wallow in my sorrow, a luxury his victims’ families didn’t have. They weren’t granted one service, let alone two. They were never allowed to fully grieve.
Closure.
That’s the thing I murdered that night.
Which is why I drink until my head spins and my stomach flips and my mind goes deliciously blank. It’s also why I spend all my time here sitting on that porch, staring out at the water, hoping that, if I look hard enough, at least one of those poor souls will make her presence known.
My single attempt to make amends was to slip on a pair of gloves and dig out a postcard of Lake Greene I’d bought during a visit years before, for reasons I can no longer recall. On the back, I scrawled three names and four words.
I think they’re here.
When writing, I used my left hand. Wilma’s handwriting analyst was spot-on about that. I slapped a self-adhesive stamp on the back of the postcard and dropped it in a random mailbox as I walked to the nearest bar. While there, I had so much to drink that I was shit-faced by the time I showed up to the theater where Shred of Doubt was playing.
It was one p.m. on a Wednesday.
By the time I finally sobered up, I was out of a job.
The irony is that mailing the postcard ended up being worse than useless. It confused more than clarified,
convincing Wilma and Boone that Katherine Royce had sent it—and that Tom was the man who’d committed Len’s crimes.
And I had to pretend I thought that, too. The only other option was to admit what I’ve done.
But now, as I watch a man who is definitely not my husband but also definitely is, I realize I’ve been granted an opportunity to right my grievous wrong.
Len is back. He can tell me what he did to his victims, and I can finally help give those who loved Megan Keene, Toni Burnett, and Sue Ellen Stryker the ending I had denied them.
I’m still not clear how or why this surreal turn of events happened. I doubt I’ll ever know the forces, whether they be scientific or supernatural, behind it. If this is some sort of fucked-up miracle, I’m not going to waste my time questioning it. Instead, I’m going to make the most of it.
I take a step toward the bed, prompting an intrigued look from Len. It’s strange how easily he’s replaced Katherine in my mind. Even though I’m conscious that it’s her I’m seeing, I can’t stop myself from picturing him.
“You’re planning something, Cee,” he says as I draw near. “You’ve got that gleam in your eyes.”
I’m beside the bed now, close enough to touch him. I reach out a trembling hand, place it on his right leg, retract it like I’d just bumped a hot stove.
“Don’t be scared,” Len says. “I would never hurt you, Cee.”
“You already have.”
He lets out a rueful chuckle. “Says the woman who watched me drown.”
I can’t disagree with him. That’s exactly what I did, and in the process I’d condemned an untold number of people
to a life of uncertainty. They need answers. Just as much as I need to be relieved of the guilt that’s weighed me down for more than a year.
My hand returns to Len’s leg, sliding over the hump of his knee and down his shin, traveling all the way to the rope around his ankle. I reach for the other end of the rope, wrapped tight around the bed frame and capped off with a large, messy knot.
“What are you doing?” Len says.
I give the knot a tug. “Getting you out of here.”
It takes me a while to loosen the knot. So long that I’m surprised Tom doesn’t appear before I’m finished. I do nothing to the rope around Len’s ankle. Like the binds
on all his limbs, I plan on using those again.
Rather than free his other leg, I move to his hands. I untie his left one first, the knot yielding faster now that I’ve gotten the hang of it. The moment his hand is free, Len moves it toward me, and for a panicked second I think he’s going to hit me. Instead, his palm rests against my cheek, caressing it with feather-like gentleness, just like he used to do after we made love.
“Christ, I’ve missed you.”
I pull away from his touch and start untying the rope attached to his right hand. “I can’t say the same.”
“You’ve changed,” he says. “You’re meaner now.
Harder.”
“Because of you.”
I unwind the rope from the bed frame and give it a tug while quickly moving away from the bed. Len’s forced to move with it, jerked partially upright like a marionette. I keep the rope taut as I cross in front of the bed and grab the one still tied around his left hand.
“You forgot my other leg,” Len says.
“No, I haven’t,” I say. “Slide forward and let me tie your hands behind your back. If you make it easy for me, then I’ll untie your other leg.”
“Can I get a kiss first?”
He gives me a flirty wink. Seeing it makes me want to puke.
“I’m serious,” I say. “Tom’s going to come back any second now.”
Len nods and I let the rope go slack. Once his hands are behind his back, I press them together and wind the rope around both wrists several times before tying the tightest knot I can manage. Satisfied that he can’t get loose, I move to the foot of the bed and work on the length of rope around his left ankle.
Tom returns just as I finish untying it, the rope still falling away from the bed frame as his footfalls ring out from the stairwell.
Len slides off the bed as I search for something to fight off Tom, if it comes to that. I assume he won’t let us go easily. I settle on a broken table leg leaning against a steamer trunk. Grabbing it, I realize that we have no plan. There wasn’t time to come up with one. The best I can hope for is that Len is just as determined as I am to get out of this basement.
And that he won’t try to hurt me in the process.
At the bottom of the stairs, Tom stops, glances at the bed, does a double take.
“What the—”
Len rushes him before he can get the rest of the sentence out, battering Tom with his shoulder like a wild ram.
Caught off guard, Tom tumbles to the floor.
Len remains upright and hustles toward the stairs, the ropes around his ankles trailing behind him. Tom reaches out, grabs one, yanks. Before he can pull hard enough to bring Len to the floor, I slam his arm with the broken table
leg. Tom howls in pain and lets go of the rope, allowing Len to skitter away.
Standing between them, still brandishing the chunk of wood I’ve just used as a weapon so the spirit of the man whose death I caused can escape in the body of the woman I’d thought Tom had killed, one thought rings through my skull.
What the fuck am I doing?
The answer is simple: I don’t know. I wasn’t prepared for any of this. How could I have been? Now that it’s happening—truly, legitimately, holy shit happening—I’m just going on gut instinct, fueled by both the desire to locate the women Len killed and the fear that Tom will learn I’m guilty of exactly what I accused him of doing. Right now, separating them seems like the best course of action.
So I run up behind Len, give him a shove, and try to propel him up the stairs before Tom can catch us. Which he almost does. We’re halfway up the steps when he come barreling after us, forcing me to swing the broken table leg at him like it’s a Louisville Slugger. The wood slams against one wall of the stairwell before ricocheting into the other.
Tom staggers out of the way, trips, drops onto all fours. The whole time, he shouts at me. “Casey, stop! Please don’t do this!”
I keep moving, catching up to Len at the top of the stairs and shoving him through the door. When both of us are out of the stairwell, I turn around and see Tom scrambling up the steps, calling out, “No! Wait!”
I slam the door, reach for the chain, slide it into place just as Tom bangs against it. The door lurches open a crack before being stopped by the chain. Tom’s face fills the two- inch gap between door and frame.
“Listen to me, Casey!” he hisses. “Do not trust her!”
I push against the door, trying to shut it again as, next to me, Len starts shoving the nearby hutch. It barely moves. He grunts and pushes, forgetting he’s now in the body of someone with half his former size and strength. Forced to join in, I let go of the door and start pulling the hutch. Together, we’re able to nudge it an inch in front of the door before Tom rears back, ready to make another escape attempt.
He smash-kicks the door. The chain snaps.
The door flies open a crack before bouncing off the back of the hutch.
Straining and heaving, Len and I shove the hutch against the door, forcing it shut and trapping Tom on the other side. He pounds and kicks and begs me to let him out.
I intend to. Eventually.
Right now, though, I need to get Len to the lake house, where I can question him in peace.
We exit through the kitchen door, Tom’s thumps and calls eclipsed by the storm outside. The wind roars, bending the surrounding trees so hard I’m surprised they haven’t snapped. Rain falls in blinding sheets and thunder cracks overhead. There’s a flash of lightning, in which I see Len start to run.
Before he can get away, I grab the ropes still around his ankles and tug them like reins. Len flops to the ground. Not knowing what else to do, I leap on top of him, holding him in place as the rain pummels us both.
Beneath me, Len grumbles, “I thought you were setting me free.”
“Not even close.” I slide off of him. “Get up.”
He does—not an easy task with his arms still bound behind his back and me gripping the ropes around his ankles like he’s an unruly dog on a leash. When he’s finally on his feet, I nudge him forward.
“Head toward the dock. Slowly. The boat’s there.”
“Ah, the boat,” Len says as he shuffles in the direction of the water. “That brings back memories.”
Moving through the storm, I wonder just how much he remembers about the night he died. Judging by his sarcasm, I assume most of it. It makes me curious if he has any knowledge about the fourteen months between then and now. It’s hard to imagine him being aware of time’s passage as his spirit floated in the water. Then again, I also never imagined him shuffling down a dock in the body of a former supermodel, yet here we are.
Once again, I think: This isn’t happening. This is a nightmare. This can’t be real.
Unfortunately, it feels all too real, including the wind, the rain, the waves rising from the wind-whipped lake and crashing over the dock. If this was a dream, I wouldn’t be soaking wet. Or so fucking scared. Or nervous that the lake water sloshing around my ankles might send me sliding off the dock.
Ahead of me, Len does slip, and I fear he’s about to fall into the water. With his hands bound behind his back, he’d surely drown. I’m not concerned about the drowning part. Clearly. It’s him drowning before telling me where he put his victims’ bodies that worries me.
Len manages to keep his balance and drop into the boat just as it crests a wave at the end of the dock. I scramble in behind him and quickly start to knot the ropes around his ankles to the legs of his seat, which is bolted to the floor.
“This is all so unnecessary,” he says as I finish knotting the ropes around the seat’s legs.
“I beg to differ.”
With Len secured, I climb to the back of the boat and start the motor. Rowing isn’t possible in water this rough. It’s tough going even with the outboard motor running at full throttle. A trip that’s normally two minutes ends up being closer to fifteen. When we do reach the other side of the lake, it takes three tries and two jarring slams against the dock before I’m able to tie up the boat.
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 intimate position. 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 is somewhere.
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 hyperventilating and 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.
Because I was too busy either throwing up, gasping, towel screaming, or splashing my face with water, I didn’t hear the car pull into the driveway.
Or its door opening and closing as the driver got out. Or their footfalls as they approached the house.
The first time I’m aware of someone’s presence is when they knock on the door. Two raps so loud and startling they might as well be gunshots. I’m looking in the powder room mirror when I hear them, and my frozen expression is the very picture of deer-in-headlights panic. Lips parted. Eyes as big as quarters and shot through with surprise. My face, so pink and puffy a second earlier, drains of color.
Two more knocks snap me out of it. Fueled by a primal urge for self-preservation, I sprint from the powder room with the towel still in my hand, aware of what I need to do without giving it a moment’s thought. I fly up the stairs and into the bedroom, startling Len, who at last tries to speak.
He doesn’t get the chance.
I stuff the towel into his mouth and knot the ends behind his head.
Then it’s back down the stairs, pausing halfway to catch my breath. I take the rest of the steps slowly, feeling my heartbeat move from a frantic rattle to a steady thrum. In the foyer, I say, “Who is it?”
“Wilma Anson.”
My heart jumps—a single unruly spike—before settling again. I wipe the sweat from my brow, plaster on a smile
big enough to reach a theater’s cheap seats, and open the door. I find Wilma on the other side, shaking off the rain that drenched her on the trip between car and porch.
“Detective,” I say brightly. “What brings you by in this weather?”
“I was in the neighborhood. Can I come in?”
“Sure.” I open the door wide and usher her into the foyer, where Wilma spends a second staring at me, her gaze cool and probing.
“Why are you so wet?” she says.
“I was just out checking on my boat,” I say, the lie appearing out of the blue. “Now I’m about to have some coffee.”
“At this hour?”
“Caffeine doesn’t bother me.”
“Lucky you,” Wilma says. “If I had a cup right now, I’d be up until dawn.”
Because she’s still appraising me, seeking out any sign that something’s amiss, I gesture for her to follow me deeper into the house. To do otherwise would only make her more suspicious. I guide her into the kitchen, where I pour coffee into a mug before carrying it to the dining room.
Wilma follows me there. As she takes a seat at the dining room table, I look for the gun holstered under her jacket. It’s there, telling me she’s here on official business.
“I’m going to assume this isn’t a friendly visit,” I say as I sit down across from her.
“A correct assumption,” Wilma says. “I think you know what this is about.”
I honestly don’t. So much that has happened in the past twenty-four hours could warrant a visit from the state police.
“If this is about my phone call earlier, I want you to know how sorry I am. I wasn’t thinking right when I accused Boone.”
“You weren’t,” Wilma says.
“And I don’t believe he has anything to do with what’s going on.”
“He doesn’t.”
“I’m glad we agree.”
“Sure,” Wilma says, making it clear she doesn’t give a damn if we agree or not. “Too bad I’m not here to discuss Boone Conrad.”
“Then why are you here?”
I peer at her through the steam rising from my coffee mug, trying to read her thoughts. It’s impossible.
“Have you watched the Royce house at all this evening?” Wilma says.
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