The House Across the Lake

by Riley Sager

No matter how much you look, something just beneath the surface will always remain hidden. I should know. I’ve been watching.

Katherine Royce. Former supermodel. Current philanthropist. And, with her husband, owner of the house directly across the lake. It had been vacant the last time I was here, on the market for north of five million dollars. It made headlines when it sold over the winter, not just because of who bought the house but because of where it was located. Lake Greene. The Vermont hideaway of beloved musical theater icon Lolly Fletcher. And the place where troubled actress Casey Fletcher’s husband tragically drowned.

Katherine mentioned her husband several times, but—for now at least—she’s not wearing a wedding ring.

I avoid all forms of social media, which are basically hazardous waste sites with varying levels of toxicity.

there’s no such thing as happily ever after. There’s only happy for a short period of time before everything falls apart.

“Alcoholism is an occupational hazard of being an actor, of being a widow, and of being alone. And I’m all three.”

“I make jokes,” I say, “because it’s easier to pretend I’m not feeling what I’m feeling than to actually feel it.”

And in this case, the truth is that Tom needs me too much to agree to a divorce. He’d kill me before letting me leave.”

Royce house is like a silent movie playing just for me. No voices. No music. No sound at all save for the ambient noise of the wind in the leaves and the lapping of water along the shore.

She whirls around to face her husband, who continues to drag her toward the couch. Her free arm rises, fingers curling into a fist that, once formed, connects with Tom’s jaw.

Omg

What is marriage but a series of mutual deceptions? That’s a line from Shred of Doubt.

“It’s Casey,” I say. “Is everything okay over there?” There’s nothing on Katherine’s end. Not a breath. Not a rustle. Just a blip of silence before she says, “Why wouldn’t things be okay?” “I thought I—” I barely manage to stop the word about to careen off my tongue. Saw. “I thought I heard something at your house,” I say. “And I just wanted to know if you’re okay.”

Girl...what a bad lie

Then his arm rears back and he flings the glass. It hits the wall and shatters.

I now know what I heard. It was a scream.

Ahhhhh

It’s hard to fathom that that little girl is the same person now buzzed on bourbon and wielding a knife. If I hadn’t personally experienced the years between those two points, I wouldn’t believe it myself.

“I’ve tried reaching her several times today,” I say. “She’s not answering her phone.” “She doesn’t check her phone when traveling. She keeps it in her purse, silenced.”

You just said she called you???:

It’s the same with people. They’re like clothes to her. Something she can try on and wear for a while before moving on to the newest look.”

Outside, Central Park spreads out below in all its pastoral splendor. The caption is short and sweet: There’s no place like home. I check when it was posted. An hour ago. So Tom wasn’t lying after all. Katherine did indeed return to their apartment, a fact that seems to have surprised her famous friends who’ve left comments.

Huh

September. Marnie was right. Katherine really did post an old photo. Faced with proof that she’s being deceitful, most likely to fool her husband, I realize I can stop worrying—and, yes, obsessing—over where Katherine is or what happened to her.

Tom Royce. There’s no mistaking it. Dark hair, longish in the back, too much product in the front. Katherine never took this photo. Which means it was saved not on her phone but on her husband’s.

Tom posted this photo on his wife’s Instagram account. And the person being deceived is me.

The real surprise is the fourth person listed as currently being at Lake Greene. Katherine Royce. I stare at the triangle pinpointing her location. Just on the other side of the lake.

“You heard it, too, didn’t you?” he says before I can get a word out. “Heard what?” “The scream.” He turns his head until he’s once again facing the Royce house. “From over there.”

“She fell down the stairs.” Boone pauses, letting the information settle in. “That’s how my wife died. In case you were wondering.”

A plastic tarp folded into a tidy rectangle. A coil of rope. And a hacksaw with teeth so sharp they glint in the light of the dining room.

“I think,” Boone says, “it might be time to call my detective friend.”

Uhhh yeah duh

“And for God’s sake, stop spying on your neighbors. Go watch TV or something.”

the way this detective is reacting to things doesn't seem realistic to me

Be yourself. I don’t even know who that is anymore. I’m not sure I’d like her if I did.

“The lake is darker than a coffin with the lid shut,” she’d say. “And as deep as the ocean. If you sink under, you’ll never come back up again. You’ll be trapped forever.”

According to one of them, Katherine’s net worth is thirty-five million dollars. More than enough to meet Mixer’s needs.

It’s not quite breaking and entering, thanks to the unlocked door.

A small bowl the color of a Tiffany’s box sits next to her bedside lamp. Resting at its bottom are two pieces of jewelry. An engagement ring and a wedding band.

When Katherine left—if she left—she took only the clothes on her back.

And a phone. It’s stuffed into the back of Katherine’s underwear drawer, almost hidden behind a pair of Victoria’s Secret panties.

Swimming at night. Ghosts in reflections. Haunted lakes.

Harvey Brewer.

“Man Admits to Slowly Poisoning His Wife.”

brimladine, a common ingredient in rat poison, in Ruth’s system.

Megan Keene?”

Toni Burnett.

Sue Ellen Stryker.

I think they’re here.

A handwriting analysis concluded it was written by someone right-handed using their left hand.

dropped into a mailbox on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. That, incidentally, is where Tom and Katherine Royce’s apartment is located.

The handwriting analysis suggests it was written by a female.”

“Because I enjoyed it.”

boooo