Page 46 of Stranger in the Lake

Paul nods, and he does look better. The sugar and the full stomach have brought some color to his cheeks, softened the beard and the bruises.

But that cut he got sliding down Fontana Ridge looks worse. A hardened scab on skin that’s shiny and inflamed. Deep enough that it’s going to leave a scar.

Micah slaps the counter. He reaches in his pocket, fingers jingling his keys. “Then maybe you’ll hear me this time when I say that you can’t save Jax this time. Nobody can.”

Five minutes later, Paul is in the shower, his clothes in a crusty pile on the bright white bath mat. He hasn’t said the first word since Micah stormed out. At first, I attributed Paul’s silence to exhaustion, the thirty-six hours of searching the woods finally catching up with him.

But then I noticed his shaking hands, the muscle jumping in his jawline. I’ve only ever seen him that way once, when a contractor tried to swindle him out of $100,000. Paul is furious, literally quaking with outrage, and I wonder who it’s aimed at—Micah or Jax or himself, for getting in between the two. From the ruckus in the kitchen, it’s clear that whatever’s going on with those three runs deeper than whatever I witnessed here tonight.

“You missed the Cedar Hill deadline.”

The least unpleasant of all the things I have to say to him, a warm-up question disguised as a statement. I watch the smoky shadow of Paul’s body through the steamed-up glass, the soapy outline of his hair, but I can’t quite make out his expression.

“Yeah, Gwen left me about a thousand messages. I didn’t listen to all of them, but after about three or four I got the gist.” He leans his head into the spray, scrubbing with both hands. Suds scatter against the wall, fat white bubbles trickling down the foggy glass. “I’ll see what I can figure out tomorrow, but...” He sighs, flips off the water. “Right now I’m too tired to care.”

And clearly, too tired to shave, as well, but at least he’s clean.

I pull a towel from the rack and hand it over. “Are you going to tell me what happened, or are you going to make me guess?”

“Honestly, there’s not muchtotell. Jax wasn’t at his cabin—and before you ask, yes, I knew he had one, and, yes, I went inside. From what I could tell, the cops hadn’t been there yet, but if they dust for prints, they’ll find a million of mine. I drank some water and ate some of his food, and I rifled through his things. If anything of hers was there like Micah said, I didn’t see it, but I wasn’t looking for it. The only thing I cared about was refueling and finding Jax.”

“It was her coat and scarf, apparently.”

“Oh, then maybe? I might have seen something hanging over a chair, but I don’t remember. I was only inside for long enough to catch my breath, and like I said, I was distracted.” Paul drags the towel across his back, swipes it over his hair, the necklace glinting gold against his wet skin. “After that, I tracked him around Balsam Bluff for hours, until I figured out he was messing with me. Snapping branches, putting down footprints where I’d find them, then doubling back and pointing me the other way, getting me all turned around. He used to do that when we were kids, too. I can’t believe I fell for it.”

“He was here, Paul. Jax, I mean. He was on the back deck.”

Paul’s fingers pause on the terry cloth, and his gaze whips to mine. “He was? What for?”

“I don’t really know. He said he’d seen you—he knew about the cut on your forehead—and he wanted me to know he didn’t put it there. He told me to watch my back.” Paul’s face pales around the bruises and cuts. “Paul, why are you protecting him?”

“Because he didn’t do it. He’s not the reason Sienna ended up in the lake.”

He says it without hesitation, without pausing first to think, which is how I know he’s telling me the truth—or at least his version of it.

But he also said it too quickly to notice the slipup until it was already out there, slithering in the space between us. Or maybe he saw it on my face, in the way I flinched at her name. Because how would he know? The police still haven’t released her name and I haven’t told him.

“That’s what Jax called her,” Paul says. “He told me her name was Sienna, right before he punched me in the face.”

It’s possible he’s telling the truth. But still. The words you don’t say are sometimes just as meaningful, just as deafening, as the ones you do.

“Why do you think Jax will end up dead if you share his whereabouts with Micah?”

“Because Micah will tell Chief Hunt and Chief Hunt will...” Paul shakes his head, and that muscle ticks in his jaw again. “Jax just wants to be left alone, and he doesn’t like feeling caged. If the cops find him, if they point their guns at his head and shout for him to hit the ground, he’s going to get himself killed.”

“That seems a little extreme.”

“There are all sorts of extenuating circumstances here. Things you don’t understand.”

Another flicker sparks in my chest, more at his tone than his actual words, and I push off the wall, moving to the center of the room. Yes, I knew there were circumstances. No, I don’t understand them. But only because Paul likes to shove things into a box and bury them at the back of his brain, never to be thought or spoken of again. And he doesn’t have to say it likethat, like my lack of knowledge is because I’m stupid.

“I don’t understand, Paul, because you never talk about it. You’ve told me nothing about your friendship with Jax, about how it ended, about whatever awful thing happened to turn him into Batty Jax. And don’t tell me the awful thing didn’t concern you, because I can see by the look on your face whenever his name comes up that it did.”

“How do I look?”

“Sad. Guilty.”

He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t have to. His silence tells me I’m right. He wraps the towel around his waist, tucking in the corner so it hangs low on his hips, and leans into the mirror. “Jesus, I look like Frankenstein’s monster.”

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