Page 12 of Stranger in the Lake

Paul backs him up on it. “Seriously, Charlotte. He’ll be fine. In and out before you know it.”

I shake my head, roll my eyes. “What is it with you Southern men? Y’all aren’t made of rubber, you know. You don’t have nine lives.”

Something catches Micah’s attention at the top of the hill, and I turn to spot two more uniformed officers, new recruits the chief poached last month from the county sheriff’s office, hustling around the side of the house. They’re young, no older than me, which means they’re probably straight out of police academy. I wonder how many crime scenes they’ve worked. How many dead people they’ve seen. They’re about to get on-the-fly, on-the-job training.

Sam pulls a radio from a clip on his belt and calls up to them, rattling off a list of supplies they are to bring down from the cars.

He slides the radio back onto his belt. “Charlie, if you don’t mind, the towels?”

“I’ll get them,” Paul offers. “I need to grab the boat keys anyway.” He turns for the house, kicking into an easy jog up the stairs.

“There has to be a better way,” I say to Micah.

Micah shoots me a sideways look. “If you think of one, I’m all ears.” He sighs, and his voice softens. “Look, Char, I appreciate your concern, but somebody out there is wondering where this woman is and why she hasn’t called home to check in. My goal is to get her back to them as quickly and honorably as possible, while also preserving whatever evidence she’s still carrying. Even if that means I have to freeze my balls off to do it.”

He’s right, of course. If that were Chet or Paul under that dock, I’d want someone to cradle his head and swim him to shore, too. And I’d want him to do it now.

“You’re a good man, Micah Hunt. Crazy, but good.” I step back and let him get to work.

7

The recruits make it down the hill first, arms heavy with equipment and supplies.

Chief Hunt is here, too, an older, paunchier, grumpier version of Micah pacing the shoreline, barking out orders at anybody who comes within hollering distance. The chief’s temper is well-known in these parts, a micromanaging control freak who terrorizes his staff with shouted commands and icy stares and doors slammed hard enough to fall off their hinges.

I’m sitting on a backyard step, watching the activity farther down the hill, when Paul sinks down next to me. A thick stack of towels is pressed to his chest. “Oh, good, you brought the big ones.”

The ones we use on the boat or take to the beach, the ones I can wind three full times around my torso. They’re like blankets, big enough for Micah’s bulk, and plenty warm, too.

Paul studies my face. The wind whips the bare branches on the trees above his head, making an awful clacking sound, like a wind chime made of bones. His gaze dips to my stomach, toasty under the goose down. “You okay? I’m worried about you.”

“Because of Sam?”

Paul tilts his head, solemn. “This isn’t your fight. It’s mine. You shouldn’t let him get to you.”

“I married you, which means it is my fight, and Sam’s always been a sore loser. He needs to let this grudge go, especially when he’s standing in your backyard.”

Paul reaches for my hand, warms it in both of his. “It’s yours, too, you know. The yard. The house. My heart. All of me belongs to you.”

I melt, despite the icy air. Paul is so good at this part, at spoken sentiments and physical touch, at outward displays of affection. Kisses when he comes through the door, hand squeezes across the car console. Whispered I-love-yous in the dark. An aftereffect of losing Katherine so suddenly, he told me once. He’s learned the hard way not to waste any time.

But after growing up in a household where people were either screaming, throwing things or passed out cold, Paul’s brand of affection is something I’m still getting used to. Whenever we fight, which isn’t all that often, it always feels like the end. Every time he leaves, a not-so-tiny part of me holds my breath until he comes back. As easy as it was to fall in love with Paul, I’m still getting the hang of how to be a married couple.

“Hey,Paul,” Micah hollers up the hill. He shifts from foot to foot on the middle of the dock, tipping his head to the boat in an obviouslet’s go. He’s already in his wet suit, his clothes and jacket in a heap on the dock, the golden necklace I watched him tuck carefully into a pocket. Paul has one just like it under all those layers, and so does Jax—Oh, crap,Jax.

“Paul, I forgot to tell you. I—”

“Can it wait?” Paul drops the towels onto my lap and stands, wriggling the boat keys from his pocket, casting an impatient glance down the hill.

“Of course. Go.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He leans in for a lightning kiss, then takes off for the dock.

I clutch the towels to my chest, stuffing my hands into the folds, searching for a warm spot. The snow has started up again, tiny white flakes that swirl in the wind like confetti. Not the kind that sticks or does much damage, just a visible and annoying reminder of the cold.

Micah waits for Paul at the mouth of the ramp, and together they walk up to the boat. I can’t hear them from here, but I see the focused tilt of Paul’s head, his solemn nods, and I know he’s listening hard. Instructions, I’m guessing.

Paul takes his seat at the helm, and Micah unties the ropes. He gives the vessel a gentle shove, and the currents catch the draft, the wind and the water carrying the boat away from the dock. Once Paul’s made enough distance, he leans over the side, craning his neck for a better look. He catches sight of her, and his entire body stiffens.

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