Stranger in the Lake(44)

My gaze falls on our wedding picture at the edge of Paul’s desk, happy faces in a shiny silver frame. My head is tilted up to his, leaning in for the kiss that sealed the deal. “Hello, wifey,” he whispered against my lips, and I thought my heart would burst with joy.

Unlike Sam and the rest of my friends, Chet never asked me if I was sure. He never tried to talk me out of it or told me I was insane for marrying a man who everybody says got away with murder. He never accused me of choosing money over sense.

But that doesn’t mean he never thought it.

“I love Paul,” I say, and my voice goes squeaky on his name. “I wouldn’t have fallen in love with him if I thought he was capable of hurting me. Of hurting another person that way. And I know it makes me sound ignorant and gullible, but even after what Wade told you, I still don’t think it. There are a lot of things I don’t know about Paul, but he’s not a killer. No way.”

Chet picks at a thread on the hem of his shirt. “So I guess that means you’re staying.”

“Of course I’m staying. Leaving now would be doing the very thing I got so pissed at Sam for—making assumptions about a man’s guilt instead of assuming his innocence. People drown all the time, even strong swimmers. Look it up. The only reason they suspected Paul at all is because of the money, which he doesn’t need. He’d be doing just fine without it.”

“What if he wanted it, though?”

“Is that what you think, that Paul killed her for the money?”

Chet shrugs, rolling his head on the lounger to face me. “I heard all those things people said about him after his first wife died, and maybe I believed some of it at first, but it doesn’t match up with the Paul I know. He’s a nice guy. It’s complicated.”

See? I’m not crazy.

But there’s another reason I can’t just up and leave, one I haven’t told Chet yet. I hold his gaze, count to three. Three heartbeats, three breaths. I’m suddenly as nervous as when I peed on the stick.

“I’m pregnant.”

“Shut up.” He pops onto both elbows, a grin tugging on his lips. “Are you kidding me? You better not be kidding me. You’re really pregnant?”

“I’m not kidding you. I really am.”

I remember the thrill I felt on the boat, the way Paul picked me up and swung me around the tiny space between the seats, and I try to hold on to that flash of happiness. Without him here, it’s fading fast.

“Aw, hell.” Chet swings his feet to the floor. I’m two seconds away from waterworks, and Chet hates it when I cry. He says it makes him twitchy. His gaze stays steady on mine. “You’re gonna be a great mom. Look at how you did with me. You took care of me, and I’m not even your kid. A baby is a good thing.”

“How? How is this baby a good thing? It’s going to live at the edge of a lake that’s sucking down women left and right, raised by what everybody says are gold-digging and maybe murdering parents. This baby is not exactly coming in on a winning streak.”

He shifts on the lounger. “That’s not... You always say not to pay any mind to what people are saying, and they’re not seeing what I see, that this baby will have two parents who actually like each other. Y’all eat meals together and hold hands on the couch and smile more when the other’s around. I’m no expert, but it seems like the biggest battle is already won.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“A little.” He gives me a sheepish shrug. “But I kinda mean it, too. I don’t know. I’m as confused as you are.”

I laugh. If nothing else, Chet is honest.

The doorbell rings, and I’m out of the chair in an instant, breath tingling in my lungs. I’m praying it’s Paul, who left in such a hurry he forgot his keys. First I’m going to hug him and then I’m going to strangle him, or maybe the other way around. Or maybe both at the same time.

I sprint into the foyer, and it’s not Paul’s face pressed to the window. It’s Micah’s.

Micah, who I’ve lied to now, what—three times? Four? I’ve lost count, and I know enough about lying to know that forgetting can’t be a good thing. You have to keep track of all the lies you tell and to whom. You have to tie up all the threads and not let a single one dangle. One good tug on mine and the whole thing unravels.

He waves, then points to the wall. “Alarm,” he mouths through the glass.

Chet steps up behind me, breathing hard. “Uh-oh,” he mutters.

My joints feel locked up like superglue, but what other choice do I have?

“Just a sec,” I shout through the glass. I smile brightly, hold up a finger and whirl around to face Chet. “Not a word,” I whisper. “You promised.”

Chet gives me a who, me? look.

I step to the panel, tick in the code and let Micah inside.



19


I gesture for Micah to follow me into the kitchen, where Chet is already popping open two Heinekens. On the island before him is what has kept him busy all afternoon—a thick wooden cutting board covered in onion peels and vegetable skins, surrounded by bottles and boxes and mixing bowls. Dinner, by the looks of things, a salad of broccoli and carrot and sliced almonds, thin strips of cucumber swimming in sour cream, two giant T-bones resting on a platter. Behind him, lined up like soldiers, two potatoes wrapped in silver foil sit on a rack in the upper oven.