Stranger in the Lake(48)
Paul frowns, but only one eyebrow dips. The other is too swollen to budge. His hands are filthy, the dark lines of dirt under his nails like black half-moons against the white marble.
“What bullshit?” I say, but no one answers.
Micah’s body is restless. Impatient. He takes three steps closer to Paul, moving into his line of sight. “Dad’s made it his personal mission to find Jax, and you and I both know that man always gets what he wants. If you want to help Jax, and I know you do, then tell me where he’s hiding.”
“Right.” Paul coughs up a laugh with zero humor. “Because we all know what’ll happen then, don’t we? Jax’ll be dead before sunrise.”
“So you do know where he’s hiding.”
Paul shakes his head, looking away.
Micah leans in, planting both elbows on the cold marble. His voice rises, a brewing storm rattling the windows and walls. “Paul. Where is Jax?”
“I don’t know.” Paul shouts it, his cheeks going pink with rage. He takes three puffed breaths, three painful seconds to wrangle his anger back under control. “I don’t fucking know, okay? He knocked me out. He punched me in the face and left me there. By the time I came to, he was long gone.”
That explains the black eye, at least, but it’s only four or five miles to Balsam Bluff. If Paul didn’t sleep, what has he been doing all this time?
Micah shoves off the island, straightening to full height. “What is it people say? That the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting things to change. So maybe I was wrong. Maybe you’re the crazy one here, not Jax. Maybe you’re the one who needs psychiatric help.”
Paul grunts. “Are we almost done with this lecture? Because I really just want a shower and my bed.”
Chet wags the knife in the air. “Sandwiches incoming, extra heavy on the PB and J.” They’re more gooey filling than bread, stacked in a messy pile. He slices them down the middle and passes Paul the plate.
He wolfs the sandwiches down like he hasn’t eaten in days, only occasionally pausing to chug a glass of milk, greedy tugs that spill down the sides of his mouth. He wipes it away with a sleeve, but it doesn’t slow him down. He shoves the next sandwich half in his mouth and keeps going until there’s nothing on his plate but crumbs and a cranberry-colored smear. If Diana were here, she’d scold him for his lack of table manners.
“Feel better?” Micah says.
Paul nods, and he does look better. The sugar and the full stomach have brought some color to his cheeks, softened the beard and the bruises.
But that cut he got sliding down Fontana Ridge looks worse. A hardened scab on skin that’s shiny and inflamed. Deep enough that it’s going to leave a scar.
Micah slaps the counter. He reaches in his pocket, fingers jingling his keys. “Then maybe you’ll hear me this time when I say that you can’t save Jax this time. Nobody can.”
Five minutes later, Paul is in the shower, his clothes in a crusty pile on the bright white bath mat. He hasn’t said the first word since Micah stormed out. At first, I attributed Paul’s silence to exhaustion, the thirty-six hours of searching the woods finally catching up with him.
But then I noticed his shaking hands, the muscle jumping in his jawline. I’ve only ever seen him that way once, when a contractor tried to swindle him out of $100,000. Paul is furious, literally quaking with outrage, and I wonder who it’s aimed at—Micah or Jax or himself, for getting in between the two. From the ruckus in the kitchen, it’s clear that whatever’s going on with those three runs deeper than whatever I witnessed here tonight.
“You missed the Cedar Hill deadline.”
The least unpleasant of all the things I have to say to him, a warm-up question disguised as a statement. I watch the smoky shadow of Paul’s body through the steamed-up glass, the soapy outline of his hair, but I can’t quite make out his expression.
“Yeah, Gwen left me about a thousand messages. I didn’t listen to all of them, but after about three or four I got the gist.” He leans his head into the spray, scrubbing with both hands. Suds scatter against the wall, fat white bubbles trickling down the foggy glass. “I’ll see what I can figure out tomorrow, but...” He sighs, flips off the water. “Right now I’m too tired to care.”
And clearly, too tired to shave, as well, but at least he’s clean.
I pull a towel from the rack and hand it over. “Are you going to tell me what happened, or are you going to make me guess?”
“Honestly, there’s not much to tell. Jax wasn’t at his cabin—and before you ask, yes, I knew he had one, and, yes, I went inside. From what I could tell, the cops hadn’t been there yet, but if they dust for prints, they’ll find a million of mine. I drank some water and ate some of his food, and I rifled through his things. If anything of hers was there like Micah said, I didn’t see it, but I wasn’t looking for it. The only thing I cared about was refueling and finding Jax.”
“It was her coat and scarf, apparently.”
“Oh, then maybe? I might have seen something hanging over a chair, but I don’t remember. I was only inside for long enough to catch my breath, and like I said, I was distracted.” Paul drags the towel across his back, swipes it over his hair, the necklace glinting gold against his wet skin. “After that, I tracked him around Balsam Bluff for hours, until I figured out he was messing with me. Snapping branches, putting down footprints where I’d find them, then doubling back and pointing me the other way, getting me all turned around. He used to do that when we were kids, too. I can’t believe I fell for it.”