Page 45 of Stranger in the Lake

Paul ignores him, shedding clothes as he comes up the stairs. His coat, two thermal shirts stiff with dirt and sweat, his woolen cap and fleece neck warmer. He drops the filthy pieces to the ground as he heaves his body up, pulling himself up by the handrail. He reeks of blood and sweat.

I give him an arm, and he looks over with a tired smile. “I missed you. Everything okay?”

I’m not entirely sure how to answer this. Everything’s pretty much the opposite of okay, but this also isn’t the best time to sift through all the things that are wrong. Not with an audience. I nod, wrapping my arm around his waist and nudging him up the stairs. “Everything’s fine.”

Of all my lies, this one’s the most absurd.

Paul moves in slow motion, each step an effort when on a normal day he bounds up them by twos and threes. I scan his body for more injuries—wounds pushing through the fabric of his clothes, spots soaked with blood—but there’s nothing but hard muscle and sharp bone, more angular than usual. He’s lost weight, a good five pounds at least.

Micah shakes his head, staring down the staircase in sturdy silence.

“Did you sleep at all?” I say, counting new lines around his eyes and mouth, everything deeper than it was a couple of days ago. Or maybe that’s just the dirt smeared across every inch of him, shoved into every wrinkle. He’s like a charcoal drawing of an old man, black and white and defined.

He tries for a smile, but it comes up a wince. “For about five minutes. I’ll be fine. I just need some food and a bed.”

“On it,” Chet says, pushing away from the banister.

“You better hope you didn’t muck up this investigation,” Micah says. “If you stepped even one foot in that cabin, if you polluted the space with your DNA, then you’ll not just be an idiot but a suspect.”

Paul pauses halfway up the stairs. “He didn’t do it, asshole. Jax wasn’t anywhere near the lake when that woman went in, but I sure do appreciate your sympathy.”

We reach the top, and Paul is panting like he just sprinted up Clingman’s Dome. He elbows past Micah and collapses onto a counter stool with a groan.

“And you know this, how? Because Jax looked you in the eyes and pinkie-promised?” Micah laughs, a harsh sound. “Why are you always such a sucker where that man is concerned? Hasn’t anybody ever told you not to believe the madman in the woods?”

“You know,” Chet says, clutching a loaf of white bread and a peanut butter jar he fetched from the pantry, “Jax and I once had a twenty-minute conversation about the traffic light they put in at Fringe Tree Street. He said roundabouts were a lot safer, and then he spewed off all sorts of statistics to back him up. That dude’s smarter than he likes people to believe, and a lot less crazy.”

Paul shoots Micah atold you sogesture, but he’s too busy glaring at Chet to notice.

“Does Jax have an alibi?” Micah asks, turning back to Paul. “Of course he doesn’t, because hewasthere. Multiple sightings in town the afternoon before that woman fell into the lake. Multiple witnesses saying she was asking about him, and then her things were found in his cabin. He lied to you again, Paul. You fell for his bullshit, again.”

Paul frowns, but only one eyebrow dips. The other is too swollen to budge. His hands are filthy, the dark lines of dirt under his nails like black half-moons against the white marble.

“What bullshit?” I say, but no one answers.

Micah’s body is restless. Impatient. He takes three steps closer to Paul, moving into his line of sight. “Dad’s made it his personal mission to find Jax, and you and I both know that man always gets what he wants. If you want to help Jax, and I know you do, then tell me where he’s hiding.”

“Right.” Paul coughs up a laugh with zero humor. “Because we all know what’ll happen then, don’t we? Jax’ll be dead before sunrise.”

“So youdoknow where he’s hiding.”

Paul shakes his head, looking away.

Micah leans in, planting both elbows on the cold marble. His voice rises, a brewing storm rattling the windows and walls. “Paul. Where is Jax?”

“I don’t know.”Paul shouts it, his cheeks going pink with rage. He takes three puffed breaths, three painful seconds to wrangle his anger back under control. “I don’t fucking know, okay? He knocked me out. He punched me in the face and left me there. By the time I came to, he was long gone.”

That explains the black eye, at least, but it’s only four or five miles to Balsam Bluff. If Paul didn’t sleep, what has he been doing all this time?

Micah shoves off the island, straightening to full height. “What is it people say? That the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting things to change. So maybe I was wrong. Maybe you’re the crazy one here, not Jax. Maybe you’re the one who needs psychiatric help.”

Paul grunts. “Are we almost done with this lecture? Because I really just want a shower and my bed.”

Chet wags the knife in the air. “Sandwiches incoming, extra heavy on the PB and J.” They’re more gooey filling than bread, stacked in a messy pile. He slices them down the middle and passes Paul the plate.

He wolfs the sandwiches down like he hasn’t eaten in days, only occasionally pausing to chug a glass of milk, greedy tugs that spill down the sides of his mouth. He wipes it away with a sleeve, but it doesn’t slow him down. He shoves the next sandwich half in his mouth and keeps going until there’s nothing on his plate but crumbs and a cranberry-colored smear. If Diana were here, she’d scold him for his lack of table manners.

“Feel better?” Micah says.

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