Page 36 of Stranger in the Lake

At the end of a straight stretch, Jax veered onto the shoulder and slammed the brakes, his tires fishtailing in the gravel.

“Holy shit,” Paul muttered, slumping against the back seat. “You really could use some anger management. Has anybody ever told you that?”

Jax laughed despite himself.

Micah leaned into the windshield, frowning. “Rhodes Overlook, are you kidding me? It’s summer, not to mention nighttime. There’s no way we’re seeing the bear.”

It wasn’t a bear but a bear shadow, one that only appeared in the fall. Months from now, people would flock to this spot from all over, leaf watchers waiting for the sun to dip behind Whiteside Mountain and cast a bear-shaped shadow on the treetops below, rippling branches of red and orange and russet. His mom used to bring him every October.

Jax killed the engine and marched across the road to the outlook.

A flashback, to those late afternoons with his mom. Eating sandwiches and chips out of a cooler in the trunk, standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers on the edge of a lichen-crusted ridge, cameras dangling from their necks. It was something they did every year, just the two of them, a mother-son tradition that lasted until long after he stopped giving a shit about the shadow. Good thing it was dark, because he never wanted to see that stupid bear again.

He stepped over the railing. Jax knew from all the times his mother would pull him back by his shirt that one more foot and the ground would drop out beneath him.

What would happen if he took that step? Just...walked out onto the air? He’d have to crash through the branches and needles first, but eventually he’d hit something solid. At the thought of what that would feel like, blood pulsed through his veins, infusing his organs and bones with life, which was really messed up since the only thing he could think about lately was death. His mother’s. His own. One small step and it would all be over.

Behind him, a car door swung open to a rhythmic dinging.

“Jax, man, come on. Let’s go.” It was Micah’s voice, but Jax knew without looking that those were Paul’s shoes crunching in the gravel. He stopped right behind him, a silent, supportive presence.

What Jax needed was a sign. A butterfly landing on his arm, maybe, or a twinkling in the nighttime sky like his mom winking at him from that fluffy cloud. He looked up, and all he saw was blackness. No stars. No movement. Nothing but Jax, standing at the highest, loneliest point on earth.

“Don’t even think about it,” Paul said, his voice low and quiet enough that Micah across the street couldn’t hear it. “I’m serious, Jax. Take one step and I swear to God I’ll murder you myself.”

Jax puffed a laugh. Leave it to Paul to both sense his gruesome thoughts and try to turn things around with humor. That was one of the things Jax loved best about his oldest friend, that he always knew what Jax was thinking without him having to say the first word. It was why they were such good friends, because neither of them ever felt like he had to explain.

But it was Micah, with his wild hairs and coal-dark streak, who surprised Jax the most. Micah stepped up beside him, toes flush to the edge, leaned his upper body over empty air and screamed. He just...opened his mouth and let loose. He screamed like Jax did when he reached the top of Balsam Bluff, long and loud and hard enough to make his ears ache and his eyes water. And then he filled his lungs and screamed some more.

Jax exchanged a look with Paul, who grinned.

The two of them joined in on the third go-round, Jax clenching his fists and giving it everything he had. He pictured his dad back at the house, his fingers stabbing the computer keys, and Pamela on her knees upstairs, clutching a Bible to her chest. To stand here, screaming with his friends into the vast, hostile wilderness, felt sad and pointless and stupid.

But for once, for however long the moment lasted, Jax didn’t feel so alone.

17

Chet and I use the rest of our snow day wisely: stretched out on opposite ends of the buttery sectional in the basement, binge-watching an ancient season ofNaked and Afraid. If Paul were here, he’d be catching up on emails or working on a sketch upstairs in his study, away from the noise. Paul likes schedules. He likes crossing off his to-do lists, the charting and mapping of his goals. He is physically incapable of doing nothing.

The McCreedys, however, are masters.

“Ten bucks says that dude is going to get eaten,” Chet says, gesturing to the potbellied and bearded man on the screen. “And what kind of idiot chooses a fire starter in a jungle? You need a knife so you can hunt for food and fight off all the wild animals. Duh.”

“What was she like?” Chet glances over with a frown, and I add, “Sienna. Was she nice? Did you have a real conversation with her?”

“Sure, we talked. She was sweet. Funny.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Good tipper.”

“What’d the two of you talk about?”

“I don’t know, all sorts of things. She asked me if I liked living here, what I did for a living, stuff like that. It wasn’t anything serious. I got the feeling she just wanted to relax and have a good time.”

I nudge him in the ribs with my toe. “You didn’t give her one, did you? Because I heard you say she was hot. Please tell me the two of you didn’t swap more than stories.”

Chet snatches the remote from the table and hits Pause. “Seriously? You seriously want me to talk about my sex life with my sister?”

“Did you?”

It certainly wouldn’t be the first time Chet has sweet-talked his way into some pretty girl’s panties, a tourist looking for adventure with a handsome local. He’s everything you’d look for in a town like this one—a little rugged, a little dirty, a lot charming. The female tourists love Chet, and Chet loves the female tourists.

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