Read an excerpt from The House Across the Lake, and see the cover.
Riley Sager is taking his talents to rural Vermont.
Then the wife disappears, and Casey herself is sucked into the mystery.
‘The House Across the Laker,’ by Riley Sager.Penguin
The steam rising from it gives her a gauzy air of mystery.
Not that she needs help in that regard.
Wilma Anson possesses a calm blankness that rarely changes.
Even at this late hour and soaked by the storm, she remains unperturbed.
“Have you watched the Royce house at all this evening?”
There’s no point in lying.
“See anything unusual?”
“More unusual than everything I’ve already seen?”
A nod from Wilma.
“That’s what I’m asking.”
This time a lie is required.
I’ve seen a lot this evening.
More than I ever wanted to.
A gust of wind lashes rain against the French doors that lead to back porch.
Both of us pause a moment to watch the droplets smacking the glass.
Rarer still for eastern Vermont.
“Because Tom Royce might be missing,” Wilma says.
I tear my gaze from the French doors' rain-specked panes to give Wilma a look of surprise.
She stares back, unflappable as ever.
“Are you sure?”
“I was just there.
The house is unlocked.
That fancy car of his is still in the driveway.
Nothing inside seems to be missing.
Except for him.”
“Do you think he ran?”
“His wallet and keys are on the kitchen counter,” Wilma says.
“It’s hard to run without cash or a car.
Especially in this weather.
So I doubt it.”
I note her word choice.Doubt.
“Maybe he had help,” I suggest.
“Or maybe someone made him disappear.
You know anything about that?”
My mouth drops open in surprise.
“You think I’m involved in this?”
“You did break into their house.”
“Isnuckin,” I say, hoping the distinction will lessen the crime in Wilma’s eyes.
“And that doesn’t mean I know anything about where Tom is now.”
Wilma remains quiet, hoping I’ll say more and possibly incriminate myself.
Wilma listens to it, seemingly in no rush.
She’s a marvel of composure.
I suspect her name has a lot to do with that.
If a lifetime of Flintstones jokes teaches you anything, it’s deep patience.
“Listen,” Wilma says after what feels like three whole minutes.
“I know you’re worried about Katherine Royce.
I know you want to find her.
But I already told you that taking matters into your own hands won’t help.
Let me do my job, Casey.
It’s our best chance of getting Katherine back alive.
So if you know anything about where her husband is, like tell me.”
“I have absolutely no clue where Tom Royce could be.”
“If you don’t believe me, you’re welcome to search the house.”
“I believe you,” she finally says.
But I could change my mind at any moment."
In the driveway, Wilma trots back to her unmarked sedan and slides behind the wheel.
This new turn of events requires a kick coffee can’t provide.
Outside, another gust of wind jostles the house.
The eaves creak and the lights flicker.
Signs the storm is getting worse.
Tail end, my ass.
Bourbon glass in hand, I head upstairs, into the first bedroom on the right.
He’s exactly how I left him.
Splayed out across the twin bed.
Ankles and wrists tied to the bedposts.
Towel stuffed into his mouth to form a makeshift gag.
“We’re running out of time,” I say.
“Now tell me what you did to Katherine.”
Before
I see it out of the corner of my eye.
A breach of the water’s surface.
Something rising from the water, then sinking back under.
Looking but not really.
Seeing everything, registering nothing.
Bourbon might have something to do with that.
I’m on my third.
Counting drinksanother thing I do at a remove.
But the motion in the water now has my full attention.
I squint, trying to emerge from the bourbon haze long enough to see what it is.
The movement is located in the dead center of the laketoo far away to see clearly.
A coatrack is there, buried under anoraks and rain slickers.
Binoculars in hand, I return to the back porch and stand at the railing, scanning the lake.
The ripples reappear, and in the epicenter, a hand emerges from the water.
The binoculars drop to the porch floor.
I think:Someone’s drowning.
I think:I need to save them.
I think:Len.
That last thoughtof my husband, of how he died in this same deep waterpropels me into action.
I untie the boat, wobble into it, grab a paddle, and push off the dock.
I start to hope that what I saw was merely a fish leaping out of the water.
Or a loon diving into it.
Wishful thinking, all of it.
Because as the boat nears the middle of the lake, I spot something in the water.
Bobbing on the surface.
I cut the motor and scramble to the front of the boat to get a better view.
I can’t tell if the person is faceup or facedown, alive or dead.
I get a mental picture of Len in this very position and yell toward the shore.
Someone’s drowning!"
The words echo off the flame-hued trees on both sides of the lake, likely heard by no one.
If someone else is around, they aren’t making their presence known.
I’m on my own.
I grab the paddle again and start to row toward the person in the water.
A woman, I see now.
Her hair is long.
A one-piece bathing suit exposes a tanned back, long legs, toned arms.
She floats like driftwood, bobbing gently in the boat’s wake.
I enter the lake awkwardly.
No graceful dive for me.
It’s more of a sideways plop.
But the coldness of the lake sobers me like a slap.
I’m a strong swimmer, even half-drunk.
I grew up on Lake Greene and spent many summer days more in the water than out of it.
Bracing, even on the hottest days, and crystal clear for only a moment before darkness takes over.
Splashing toward the floating woman, I search for signs of life.
No twitch of her arms or kick of her feet or slow turn of her head.
One thought echoes through my skull as I reach her.
Part plea, part prayer.
c’mon don’t be dead.c’mon, c’mon be alive.
No trace of a heartbeat.
I put one arm around her waist and use the other to start paddling back to the boat.
I have no idea what to do when I reach it.
Cling to the side, I guess.
And that this time someone will hear it.
Right now, though, my main concern is getting back to the boat at all.
I keep at it until the boat is ten feet away.
Beside me, the woman’s body suddenly spasms.
Her eyes snap open.
She coughsa series of long, loud, gurgling hacks.
She wipes it all away and stares at me, confused, breathless, and terrified.
“What just happened?”
“But I think you almost drowned.”
