Stranger in the Lake(39)
17
Chet and I use the rest of our snow day wisely: stretched out on opposite ends of the buttery sectional in the basement, binge-watching an ancient season of Naked and Afraid. If Paul were here, he’d be catching up on emails or working on a sketch upstairs in his study, away from the noise. Paul likes schedules. He likes crossing off his to-do lists, the charting and mapping of his goals. He is physically incapable of doing nothing.
The McCreedys, however, are masters.
“Ten bucks says that dude is going to get eaten,” Chet says, gesturing to the potbellied and bearded man on the screen. “And what kind of idiot chooses a fire starter in a jungle? You need a knife so you can hunt for food and fight off all the wild animals. Duh.”
“What was she like?” Chet glances over with a frown, and I add, “Sienna. Was she nice? Did you have a real conversation with her?”
“Sure, we talked. She was sweet. Funny.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Good tipper.”
“What’d the two of you talk about?”
“I don’t know, all sorts of things. She asked me if I liked living here, what I did for a living, stuff like that. It wasn’t anything serious. I got the feeling she just wanted to relax and have a good time.”
I nudge him in the ribs with my toe. “You didn’t give her one, did you? Because I heard you say she was hot. Please tell me the two of you didn’t swap more than stories.”
Chet snatches the remote from the table and hits Pause. “Seriously? You seriously want me to talk about my sex life with my sister?”
“Did you?”
It certainly wouldn’t be the first time Chet has sweet-talked his way into some pretty girl’s panties, a tourist looking for adventure with a handsome local. He’s everything you’d look for in a town like this one—a little rugged, a little dirty, a lot charming. The female tourists love Chet, and Chet loves the female tourists.
“No. Now can we please just shut up and watch the show?”
He pushes Play and rolls onto his side. Conversation over.
We’re deep into the fifth episode when my phone rings. Gwen, and I push her to voice mail. The second and third time, too, mostly because I have no idea what I would say to her. Gwen has access to Paul’s calendar, which he updates with maniacal obsession. Whatever “work thing” I’m supposed to be using to excuse his disappearance won’t be listed on there, and Gwen would call me out on it. And it doesn’t make any sense for him to have gone anywhere with all this snow.
The phone screen lights up, and I tilt it toward my face. Gwen again, with a text this time.
SOS answer the goddamn phone!
It’s followed by another call. With a sigh, I kick off the blanket and carry the phone to the hallway.
“Where the hell is Paul?”
No “hello.” No “how are you?” Just this angry demand, one that I wish I knew the answer to.
“Scouting a property.”
What worked just fine for Sam and Micah hasn’t a chance in hell with Gwen. Gwen has worked for Paul since long before I came on the scene. She knows Paul scouts potential properties all the time, but she also knows he puts the trips on his calendar and makes sure he’s reachable by cell. And he always checks the forecast before he goes so he won’t get stuck in whatever weather is brewing between the mountaintops.
“What property? Where?”
“I don’t know. He only said he might not have service. Did you try his cell?”
“Of course I tried his cell, all day yesterday and today. It doesn’t even ring, just shoots me straight to voice mail. A scouting trip’s not on his calendar.”
“He said something about it being super top secret.”
Another ridiculous lie. Gwen is Paul’s longest employee, the closest thing to a partner he’s got. He doesn’t keep secrets from Gwen, not when it comes to Keller Architecture business. Anger wells in my chest, and I consider the words I’d really like to say. I don’t know where he is. He left me here holding a bag of lies. Go home and take a snow day. That’s what I’m doing.
But as angry as a part of me is at Paul, a bigger part knows he doesn’t deserve all the blame. I lied, and then I lied again without him asking me to. So when the lies rolled off my tongue for the second and third time, I told myself I was looking out for Paul, but that’s horseshit, isn’t it? The truth is, by protecting Paul, I was also looking out for myself.
“You know what?” she says, sighing. “I don’t have time for this. I need Paul’s laptop, otherwise we’re going to miss the Cedar Hill deadline.”
Her words dull the sharpest edges of my thoughts. Cedar Hill is a development on the other side of Bald Rock, a potential build of up to thirty million-dollar homes situated along the Eastern Continental Divide. A big developer out of Atlanta invited only three firms to submit a bid, plans that showcase their vision for mountain luxury living. Paul has been working on the bid for months.
I frown, sinking on the steps. “The bid’s not on the server?”
Another sigh, this time louder. No, the bid’s not on the server.
“Hold on,” I say, rising and heading up the stairs to the mudroom. I hang my head around the corner, and there it is, Paul’s bag on the bench under the coat hooks, leaned up against the wall. I unclip the buckles and toss open the flap. His silver MacBook Pro is inside.