Page 37 of Stranger in the Lake

“No. Now can we please just shut up and watch the show?”

He pushes Play and rolls onto his side. Conversation over.

We’re deep into the fifth episode when my phone rings. Gwen, and I push her to voice mail. The second and third time, too, mostly because I have no idea what I would say to her. Gwen has access to Paul’s calendar, which he updates with maniacal obsession. Whatever “work thing” I’m supposed to be using to excuse his disappearance won’t be listed on there, and Gwen would call me out on it. And it doesn’t make any sense for him to have gone anywhere with all this snow.

The phone screen lights up, and I tilt it toward my face. Gwen again, with a text this time.

SOS answer the goddamn phone!

It’s followed by another call. With a sigh, I kick off the blanket and carry the phone to the hallway.

“Where the hell is Paul?”

No “hello.” No “how are you?” Just this angry demand, one that I wish I knew the answer to.

“Scouting a property.”

What worked just fine for Sam and Micah hasn’t a chance in hell with Gwen. Gwen has worked for Paul since long before I came on the scene. She knows Paul scouts potential properties all the time, but she also knows he puts the trips on his calendar and makes sure he’s reachable by cell. And he always checks the forecast before he goes so he won’t get stuck in whatever weather is brewing between the mountaintops.

“What property? Where?”

“I don’t know. He only said he might not have service. Did you try his cell?”

“OfcourseI tried his cell, all day yesterday and today. It doesn’t even ring, just shoots me straight to voice mail. A scouting trip’s not on his calendar.”

“He said something about it being super top secret.”

Another ridiculous lie. Gwen is Paul’s longest employee, the closest thing to a partner he’s got. He doesn’t keep secrets from Gwen, not when it comes to Keller Architecture business. Anger wells in my chest, and I consider the words I’d really like to say.I don’t know where he is. He left me here holding a bag of lies. Go home and take a snow day. That’s what I’m doing.

But as angry as a part of me is at Paul, a bigger part knows he doesn’t deserve all the blame. I lied, and then I lied again without him asking me to. So when the lies rolled off my tongue for the second and third time, I told myself I was looking out for Paul, but that’s horseshit, isn’t it? The truth is, by protecting Paul, I was also looking out for myself.

“You know what?” she says, sighing. “I don’t have time for this. I need Paul’s laptop, otherwise we’re going to miss the Cedar Hill deadline.”

Her words dull the sharpest edges of my thoughts. Cedar Hill is a development on the other side of Bald Rock, a potential build of up to thirty million-dollar homes situated along the Eastern Continental Divide. A big developer out of Atlanta invited only three firms to submit a bid, plans that showcase their vision for mountain luxury living. Paul has been working on the bid for months.

I frown, sinking on the steps. “The bid’s not on the server?”

Another sigh, this time louder. No, the bid’s not on the server.

“Hold on,” I say, rising and heading up the stairs to the mudroom. I hang my head around the corner, and there it is, Paul’s bag on the bench under the coat hooks, leaned up against the wall. I unclip the buckles and toss open the flap. His silver MacBook Pro is inside.

I pull it out, tuck it under an arm. “Got it. I’ll email them over right now.”

“You can’t. The internet’s down in town. TV and landlines, too. Some bad accident on 64 cut the cables or something. I need them on a stick. Either that, or I need the whole laptop.”

My gaze goes to the window, a patch of swirling white blocking the view of the lake and trees. Gwen may have made it to the office, but for her it’s only a three-block walk. For me, the only way there is by boat.

I drop the laptop back into Paul’s bag and turn for the stairs. “I’m on my way.”

By the time Chet and I get to town, my clothes are soaked and my nerves frayed. I was wrong before when I thought we got a couple of inches. More like six or seven, and it’s nowhere near done. The snow is a swirling white curtain, turning the world opaque, and even slow going, moving through the snowstorm was like boating blindfolded. Three times I pointed the nose straight at the shore, pulling back on the gas just in time.

The dock appears in a wall of white, and Chet scrambles to throw out the fenders. We hit the wood with a jarring thud, knocking Chet clear off the bench. I clear the lines of water, cut the motor and clamber out on shaky legs.

Chet juts a thumb up the hill, the opposite direction of the office. “I’m going to see if anyone’s out. Want something from the deli?”

“A sandwich would be great. Thanks. Bologna with extra mustard and pickles. Oh, and a strawberry milk over ice. Tell them to put it on the company’s tab.”

He cocks his head at my unusual order, then heads one way while I head the other, a sharp gust of wind chasing me up the hill to town. It whips my coat taut and clears the snow at the top, where I pause to catch my breath. The streets are deserted, an eerie winter wonderland lined with buildings and white lumps the size of parked cars. I spot tracks, both human and car, already filled with several inches of powdery snow.

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