Page 44 of Stranger in the Lake

But when will that be? Paul has been gone for far too long already. What if he’s hurt? What if Jax hurt him?

“There are cops from five counties crawling all over Balsam Bluff, looking for a man who’s considered armed and dangerous.”

There’s so much to latch on to here, but one word is ringing in my ears:armed. Jax owns a gun, which shouldn’t surprise me. This is North Carolina. Everybody owns a gun. But Paul is unarmed and Batty Jax has a gun.

Micah turns the bottle in a hand, scratching absently at the lettering with a thumbnail. “If Paul is there, if the cops see him and think he’s Jax, there’s no telling what will happen.”

Paul’s words echo through my head, just as surprising as when I heard them the first time.

Promise me you won’t tell Micah.

I grab on to Micah’s sleeve, the words tumbling out of me. “You have to find him, Micah. He left with his backpack and three days’ worth of supplies, but he should have been back by now. He—”

“I knew it.” Micah slams the beer bottle to the marble so hard foam shoots out the top. “Iknewthat idiot would be halfway to Balsam Bluff by the time I came up the hill. You’d think he’d learn, after looking down the end of Jax’s barrel as many times as he has, but Paul has always been such a goddamn martyr. One of these days this bleeding heart of his is going to get him killed.”

Just then, from the depths of the house, a door bangs open. Chet tilts his head, listening for the source of the noise, but I already know. I race to the railing and lean over the stairs to the lower level, right as the alarm pad chimes. A computerized voice fills the air:basement door open. It’s the only way in without a key, but only if you know the code.

There’s movement just out of sight in the downstairs hallway, the thump of something hitting the ground. And then, finally, a familiar slope of shoulder, a patch of filthy brown hair.

“Paul!”

20

June 12,1999

9:53 p.m.

They decided pretty quickly that Micah, with his eighteen years and stuntman swagger, would be the best bet to win over any liquor store cashier, especially if they could manage to find one who was female. The first three, flashy package stores that catered to the tourists on the outskirts of town, were staffed by men who knew too damn well who Micah was, and what his dad would do to their permits if he found out they’d sold his underage son alcohol. At each one, he came out empty-handed.

In a fit of frustration, they drove all the way to Sylva, to a seedy shack run by locals who knocked back as much as they sold. They watched through the window as Micah flirted with the cashier, a permed blonde in jeans too tight, her smile too big, too desperate. But Micah leaned on her counter and turned up the charm, reemerging moments later with two bottles wrapped in brown paper bags, one clutched in each fist. He held them high above his head, like trophies.

“Way to be cool about it, asshole,” Jax muttered, but he was only half-serious, the other half-impressed Micah actually pulled it off.

He strutted with the bottles across the gravel lot, dodging cars and tromping on trash, and Jax smiled despite himself. A lot of the time Micah was insufferable, but all that screaming earlier had loosened up something in Jax’s chest, made the night a little more bearable. Micah was a blowhard, but only a real friend would know what Jax needed at the exact moment he needed it. Jax couldn’t help but love the guy a little for it.

He reached across the passenger’s seat and popped open the door. “What’d you get?”

Micah grinned, wagging the bottles. “Do you prefer your tequila with a worm or without?”

Paul grimaced. “I prefer beer.”

“Quit your bitching, man. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that. Besides, liquor’s quicker.”

Jax wasn’t going to argue with that. He started the car and Micah dropped in, passing a bottle to the back seat, tugging off the bag on the second, holding it up so Jax could see. Tequila. Fast and cheap and dirty.

Micah twisted off the cap with a click. “Happy Saturday, gentlemen. Let’s get plastered.”

21

“Are you okay?” I push past the others lined up next to me along the railing and step to the mouth of the stairs. Paul is hunched at the bottom, loosening the laces on his boots. “Do you need help?”

“I’m fine. Just beat.” He kicks off his shoes and glances up.

I gasp. Paul’s face is a horror show. The cut on his brow is angry and infected, a purple scab pushing up from skin that’s swollen and rash-red. Dark stubble has sprouted on his chin and cheeks, and it’s clumped with dirt and grime. One of his eyes is sunken into skin bruised a dark purple; the other is swollen shut.

I rush down the stairs. “Oh my God, what happened to you?”

“You’re lucky he didn’t do worse,” Micah says from above our heads. “He could’ve put a bullet in your head and buried you somewhere we’d never find you, you stubborn moron.”

---