Stranger in the Lake(14)

Paul reaches for my hand, warms it in both of his. “It’s yours, too, you know. The yard. The house. My heart. All of me belongs to you.”

I melt, despite the icy air. Paul is so good at this part, at spoken sentiments and physical touch, at outward displays of affection. Kisses when he comes through the door, hand squeezes across the car console. Whispered I-love-yous in the dark. An aftereffect of losing Katherine so suddenly, he told me once. He’s learned the hard way not to waste any time.

But after growing up in a household where people were either screaming, throwing things or passed out cold, Paul’s brand of affection is something I’m still getting used to. Whenever we fight, which isn’t all that often, it always feels like the end. Every time he leaves, a not-so-tiny part of me holds my breath until he comes back. As easy as it was to fall in love with Paul, I’m still getting the hang of how to be a married couple.

“Hey, Paul,” Micah hollers up the hill. He shifts from foot to foot on the middle of the dock, tipping his head to the boat in an obvious let’s go. He’s already in his wet suit, his clothes and jacket in a heap on the dock, the golden necklace I watched him tuck carefully into a pocket. Paul has one just like it under all those layers, and so does Jax—Oh, crap, Jax.

“Paul, I forgot to tell you. I—”

“Can it wait?” Paul drops the towels onto my lap and stands, wriggling the boat keys from his pocket, casting an impatient glance down the hill.

“Of course. Go.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He leans in for a lightning kiss, then takes off for the dock.

I clutch the towels to my chest, stuffing my hands into the folds, searching for a warm spot. The snow has started up again, tiny white flakes that swirl in the wind like confetti. Not the kind that sticks or does much damage, just a visible and annoying reminder of the cold.

Micah waits for Paul at the mouth of the ramp, and together they walk up to the boat. I can’t hear them from here, but I see the focused tilt of Paul’s head, his solemn nods, and I know he’s listening hard. Instructions, I’m guessing.

Paul takes his seat at the helm, and Micah unties the ropes. He gives the vessel a gentle shove, and the currents catch the draft, the wind and the water carrying the boat away from the dock. Once Paul’s made enough distance, he leans over the side, craning his neck for a better look. He catches sight of her, and his entire body stiffens.

Aw, hell.

I should have insisted on going on that boat with him. I should have known the dead woman would be a trigger. There’s something distinctly different about being told there’s a body and seeing it for yourself, feeling the horror—especially for Paul. He tries very hard not to talk about Katherine with me, but there’s no way this isn’t digging up old wounds, pulling at painful threads. As awful as this is on me, for him this has to be a million times worse.

Micah gives the signal, and Paul starts the engine, swings the boat around, inches forward on the throttle and motors away, careful not to leave a wake.

Micah’s descent down the ladder is just as quick. Quiet, too, all but the sucking in of a hard breath before his head disappears below the dock.

I shiver and inch closer, stepping right up to the lake’s edge, doing the math. Fifteen seconds to swim under the dock to her, another fifteen to drag her out, maybe more. Behind me, the techs are antsy, too. They shift their boots in the dirt at the top of the tarp, their arms loose by their sides. The body bag is spread across the ground behind them. I stare at the empty water and hold my breath, the glare of snow and daylight rippling across the lake’s surface making my eyes burn. What’s taking him so long?

Micah’s head reappears from under the dock, his hair slicked back, his face fish-belly white. So is the hand he’s got hooked around the dead girl, who he carefully wrests from under the dock. He hasn’t flipped her over yet. She floats facedown beside him in steady dips and bobs, white hair skimming the water.

Thanks to the cold and the dead weight, it takes him way too long to drag her to shore. He frog-kicks and drags his free arm through the water, his breath wet and sharp with effort, but he’s still a good thirty feet from shore.

Hurry up hurry up hurry up.

The waiting tightens the back of my throat.

“Get back,” Chief Hunt snaps, and I look down to see one of my boots has landed inside the tape. “I don’t need you contaminating the crime scene.”

I move a few steps back up the hill.

Paul jogs up, panting lightly from his sprint back from Micah’s dock, right as Micah makes land. He plants his feet on the lake’s slippery bottom and shifts her so she’s in front of him, steering her carefully to shore. The techs run down the hill, wading a good couple of feet into the water.

“Grab her under the arms,” Micah says, his voice tight, his teeth chattering loud enough to be heard clear across the lake.

“Gently,” Chief Hunt yells. “Be careful with her, for crap’s sake.”

Between the four of them, they guide her up and out of the water, sliding her carefully onto the tarp. She settles at an awkward angle, hair hanging on either side of her face like a slick white curtain, smothering all but a sliver of porcelain jaw.

Micah hugs his sopping arms around his belly and leans over the body, careful not to drip on her. “I can’t tell if this rigor is from mortis or the temperature, but the ME will know. Skin’s intact, as far as I can see. Clothes and shoes look expensive.” He’s so cold his body is practically vibrating.