Stranger in the Lake(19)
The lock releases with a metallic thunk, and I step inside and slide the door closed behind me. The air is warmer than outside, but just barely. I flip on the lights and crank the thermostat to toasty. In the bathrooms, I restock the toilet paper and lay out fresh towels for Micah and whoever else needs them, then haul my ass up some more stairs.
I toss my coat on the bed and step to the bathroom, where Paul is coming out of what must have been a two-second shower. Fresh rivulets of water drip down his skin, naked except for a waterproof runner’s watch and a twin to the golden necklace Micah unlooped from his neck and tucked in a pocket. A rectangular pendant engraved with the town’s coordinates hanging from a gold ball chain, a graduation gift from Paul’s mother so they could always find their way home.
My gaze dips to the fresh bruise on Paul’s hip, a dark smudge of red and purple surrounding a melon-sized lump and curling down onto his thigh. I pull a towel off the bar and hand it to him. “That must have been some tumble. I guess Noland Ridge is pretty treacherous this time of year.”
He swipes the towel over his back, scrubs it over his hair. “It wasn’t so much a tumble as a skid straight down. And it was Fontana, not Noland.” He wraps the towel around his waist, his fingers freezing on the terry cloth. “But I said that already. That was a test.”
I grin. Both ridges are nearby, and both can be dicey, but Paul would never confuse the two, not unless he was lying about how he got hurt. Of course it was a test—one I’m happy to say he passed.
I rummage through a drawer and pull out some supplies, cotton swabs and antiseptic and a tube of liquid bandage, lining everything up on the vanity. I point him to the padded seat by the mirror. “Now sit down and start talking.”
He shifts on his feet, glancing at his watch. “Can I get dressed first?”
“Not until I clean that thing on your forehead.” I drape a hand over his damp shoulder and press down, and he drops to the seat. I hook a finger under his chin and tilt his face toward mine.
His eyes drift closed. “Well, I was headed back to the office to meet you when she stopped me. She saw my coffee cup and she wanted to know if it was any good. She said she hadn’t scoped out the shops in town yet and was dying for a decent cappuccino.”
I reach for the bottle of antiseptic, making a humming sound for him to continue.
“I remember thinking I hadn’t seen her in the restaurants or on the streets. Not that I notice every tourist, but you saw her. She’s pretty—was pretty.”
I douse the cut with liquid, and he hisses at the sting. “Sorry.” Not sorry. Not jealous, but not sorry, either. “Keep going.”
Paul winces as I dab a cotton swab around the wound. “Anyway, I told her to skip the coffee shop for the counter at the back of the organic market, that their beans are way better. She thanked me, and that’s when you walked up. She stopped talking.”
“No, Paul. That’s when you stopped talking. She perked up when I introduced myself, remember? It was like a light bulb went off in her head when I said the name Keller. I think she recognized it or something.”
His eyes open. “Maybe she was house hunting. Even if she didn’t come here looking for me specifically, my name’s on at least a dozen lot signs. Maybe she didn’t make the connection until you said the name.”
It wouldn’t be the first time Paul was approached by a stranger in town, someone who saw his homes in Dwell or Architectural Digest or on Houzz and wanted to meet the wizard behind the curtain. In the architecture world, Paul is kind of a rock star. People drive hundreds of miles just to beg him to design their dream house.
I pinch the skin around the cut and seal the wound with liquid bandage, then toss the tube on the counter. “Even more reason to just admit you ran into her randomly on the street. What if they find your name in her search history? What if she, I don’t know, has pictures of some of your houses on her phone? At least then you won’t look like you’ve got something to hide.”
“Is that what you think, that I’m hiding something? Because I told you everything. There’s nothing else going on here.”
The hurt in his voice straightens my spine. “That’s not what I said at all. I know you’re not the reason that woman ended up in the lake. You have an alibi, remember? We were together all night.”
Paul leans into the mirror to inspect his forehead. “This looks great, babe. Thanks.” He squeezes my arm and brushes by, dropping his towel over the bar on his way out of the room.
I watch his naked form disappear into the closet, my chest going hot with exasperation, with aggravation. Paul is a great communicator when he wants to be, but other times—like now—he plies me with only the basics. My first wife died unexpectedly. My dad left when I was ten. My mother can be a little controlling. Jax was once a friend. Flat, nonspecific answers that tell me nothing but the facts.
I hustle after Paul into the closet. “What happens if somebody saw us talking? What if nosy old Wanda Whitaker was looking out her upstairs window and spotted the three of us standing in the alley? Sam’s already halfway to town. He’ll be questioning everybody.”
Paul steps into a pair of navy boxer shorts, digs around in a drawer for a long-sleeved shirt. “Mrs. Whitaker is in Ohio, visiting her daughter. She’s not back until after Thanksgiving.”
“Somebody else, then.”