Page 52 of Stranger in the Lake

I think of the opossum, rotting in the early-morning sun on the back deck, blood and guts and white bone. That awful word that’s bled—literally—into the grass. That’s twice now someone has crept up dangerously close to do damage with a knife, both times when Paul wasn’t here.

Just like he wasn’t here when Katherine drowned. Or when Sienna slid into the lake. A fluke? That explanation feels too convenient, much too easy. So what, then?

I consider calling Paul, telling him to get his ass home or else, forcing him to finish the conversation we started last night, the one he ran away from this morning. I feel like all I’ve done is ask, and I’ve gotten very little in return. Paul clammed up. He sneaked out for a reason.

When you’re ready to hear the truth, you call me.Not Paul, but Sam’s voice, an echo cutting through my mind, the last words he said to me before he stormed out of the wedding. Maybe I’m ready to hear what he has to say about Paul. Maybe it’s time to judge for myself.

The muddy puddle under Chet’s feet is spreading fast. It seeps over the tiles and over the grout lines, creeping closer and closer to the hardwoods.

I grab some kitchen towels and toss them on the puddles. “Go get dressed. We’re going to town.”

Thirty minutes later, Chet and I pull in to the gravel lot of Dominion Marine Salvage, otherwise known in these parts as the boat junkyard. Where boats go to get chopped into pieces and sold in repair shops and on eBay. Mostly legit, though Lake Crosby boats do tend to disappear and Donny Dominion spends his winters lounging on a beach in the Panhandle, so your guess is as good as mine. Either way, the place is dead this time of year, not to mention on a stretch of deserted road on the outskirts of town.

In other words, perfect.

“Up there,” Chet says, pointing to the far end of the lot, where I spot Sam leaning on the hood of his car, scrolling through something on his phone. The day has warmed up to somewhere in the low fifties, but Sam has always run hot. He’s soaking up the early-afternoon sunshine in short sleeves and no jacket, immune to the frigid breeze rustling in the trees. He hears the gravel crunching under my tires and pushes off the car.

“You’re late,” he says as we’re climbing out. His phone rings, but he silences it and slips it in his pocket. Chet’s the only one of us who gets a smile, and even then, it’s half-assed. Sam’s anger runs deep, and it spills over to all the McCreedys.

“Hello to you, too. You look like hell, by the way.” Even from here, parked a good fifteen feet away, I can see he looks exhausted, the lines around his eyes and mouth deeper than just yesterday. His scruff is two days old, maybe three. I close my door, and the clap echoes across the water. “Have you been getting any sleep?”

“Do catnaps at my desk count?”

So no, then. Not sleeping.

I slide my hands into my back pockets, stepping right up to Sam, staring up at him. It feels strange to be standing near enough to see the amber flecks in his eyes, the scar from a long-ago biking accident that slices his brow. The last time I was this close, I planted two hands on his chest and shoved, hard enough he fell backward over a chair. He looks skinnier, too.

“What about food? And before you crack some joke, I don’t mean coffee and sugar doughnuts. I’m talking about real food. Something with vitamins and protein.”

I used to fuss at him like this all the time, egging him on to eat better, to dress nicer and study harder, and he used to roll his eyes and tell me he already had a mom and didn’t need another. Subconsciously, at least, there must be a reason I’m doing it now, trying to shoot us back to that place when we were on better terms. A kind of apology, maybe, or because I miss his friendship. All I know is that it feels good to be doing it again.

He checks his watch. “Do you mind if we hurry this along? It’s pretty much all hands on deck down at the station, and I need to be getting back. Why did you want to meet?”

“I saw Jax.”

And just like that, his impatience drops to the gravel beneath us, replaced with something sharp and intense. “When? Where?”

“On my back deck.” A tiny stab of guilt spears me between the ribs, but I manage to hold Sam’s gaze. “And two nights ago.”

“You’re freaking kidding me, right?” He shakes his head, looks away in disgust. “I was at your house just yesterday. You looked into my face and you didn’t say a goddamn word.” He flicks his gaze to Chet. “Did you know about this?”

Chet stuffs his hands in his coat pockets, turning his back to the wind. “Dude. You know as well as I do there ain’t nobody on this planet can tell Charlie what to do. Least of all me.”

Sam reaches for his phone, sliding it out of his pocket. “You know that cops in five counties are looking for him, right? You know he’s wanted on suspicion of murder.”

“I do now.”

“Jesus, Charlie. When a suspect is seen on your back deck, you tell the cops. I shouldn’t have to tell you this. Did you talk to him?”

Unlike Sam, I remain calm. I recount my conversation with Jax, word for word. His not-so-subtle implication linking two bodies to Paul. The weird way he peered through the trees to Micah’s. And just like Jax did, I save the best part for last.

“Watch your back? He said for you to watch your back? And youstilldidn’t tell me?”

“Jax shouts poetry at the tourists and presses his face to the shop windows, puffing up his cheeks like a blowfish. I thought he was an innocent kook. I thought it was a warning, not a threat. So, you can quit with the reprimands or we’re leaving.” I pause, just long enough to let him suck back down whatever he was about to say. “Though while I’m here, I might as well tell you the boat got loose this morning. Chet says the seats were slashed and the ropes sliced clean through. You can’t help but wonder.”

I leave it at that, withwonder. It’s as much as he’s getting from me. We both know what I meant by it.

Sam shakes his head, incredulous. “You really do have a death wish, don’t you?”

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