Micah may be back in his clothes, but his hair is still sopping, the ends clumped and turning white with ice. I reach out and squeeze his arm. “I’ll bring down some coffee and whatever else I can scrounge up, okay? I’ll also make sure the basement door is open, in case y’all need a bathroom or you want to warm up in the shower.”
Micah gives me a smile, purple lips against bright white skin. “Thanks, Char. You’re the best.”
Paul looks relieved when I turn for the house, and he leads me up the hill at a pace that sends my heart hurtling. Thanks to his daily trots up and down these hills, this climb is just a quick jaunt for him, barely any effort at all. I’ve already run up these steps once today, and it wiped me out.
“Babe, babe,” I say, pulling on his arm. We’re four steps in and I’m already panting. “Slow down. I can’t—”
“Hey, Charlie,” Sam says, not a question.
Paul and I pause, sharing a fleeting look that dumps me back into my body. I feel Sam’s gaze on me like an army of ants, biting and stinging my skin. He’s coming up the hill behind us, a duffel slung over his shoulder.
“I need an answer from you, too. Do you have an ID on the body?”
Paul squeezes my hand so tight it’s almost painful, and if I had any doubts as to what’s going on here, I don’t anymore. This is where things could get sticky.
Because I don’t have to think too hard about what would happen if I were to blurt out the truth. If I were to tell Sam that, no, I don’t know her, but we did have a fleeting encounter. That I only noticed her because she was talking to Paul, who was not too traumatized from his memories of Katherine like I first thought, but aware enough to look a cop in the eyes and lie.
Sam would pounce on my confession, on the way it would implicate Paul. If nothing else, I’ve got him for lying to a police officer during an investigation. He won’t walk away from this one, not this time. Not again. I told Charlie, and she went and married him anyway. I feel Sam’s eyes on mine now, conjuring up all the rumors that could come from this very moment. All the stories taking shape in his head, taking on a life of their own.
And Paul.
Paul might say he understands, he might tell me we are fine, but would we be? Would he love me just the same? Lie or implicate your new husband and there goes the marriage, the money, the stability. And really, what’s one tiny, silly, inconsequential lie compared to everything Paul has given me? It’s not a difficult decision.
Especially since I don’t know her; I don’t have anything to add other than that she was in town yesterday afternoon. Something that whoever else ran into her will surely tell Sam, as soon as he makes it to town. Self-preservation, I’ve only been doing it my whole life. The lie comes with surprising ease.
“Sorry. I’ve never seen her before, either.”
8
June 12, 1999
5:53 p.m.
For those first few months after his mother’s funeral, it hurt to see Mrs. Keller again. She was constantly dropping by the house or calling him up to check in, and every time, her voice would hit him like a surprise punch to the underbelly, that moment before you could tighten up your muscles to absorb some of the blow. If he were a funny guy, he’d say it hurt like a mother.
Jax had known Mrs. K all his life, but now he couldn’t talk to her without remembering those days when his mom was withering away and his heart wouldn’t stop pounding. When Mrs. K was a constant presence in their house, taking charge in that way of hers, doing the laundry and making sure the house was clean and everybody got where they needed to be. She was the one who set up the food deliveries, bossing the other moms around and working the sign-up sheet like a four-star general. Jax’s mother wasted away in her wheelchair while their refrigerator busted at the seams. Talk about some sick irony.
She was there at the funeral, too, hugging him so hard with those skinny arms of hers that he felt like his bones might pop, then hounding him constantly in the dark days afterward. We’re all hurting. Please don’t suffer in silence. Talk to me, sweetheart. I’m here for you, always. He loved Mrs. K, but she was the kind of mother you didn’t want as your own, needy and demanding and completely relentless. When he’d pulled back, when he’d stopped taking her calls and made himself scarce whenever she dropped by, she marched up the stairs and barged into his room.
“Jax Edwards, where the hell have you been?”
He shot upright on his bed, grateful he wasn’t naked or—Jesus, what if he’d been jerking off? It was bad enough that a pair of his underwear was stuck to her left heel. He tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off the damn thing.
“Here. Around.” He shrugged his shoulders up to his ears. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.”
He shook his head.
Mrs. K sighed, a heavy, put-out sound, and moved closer, dragging the underwear for a few steps before she kicked it aside. “Your mother warned me this would happen. She asked me to look after you—did you know that?”
Nobody had ever told him as much, but Jax wasn’t surprised. Why else would Mrs. K be coming over here all the time? Certainly not because he was such great company. Hell, the only person besides Mrs. K who wanted to spend time with him was Paul.
She sank onto the edge of his bed, draping a hand over his knee. “She was so worried about you, sweetheart. About you doing exactly this. She always said you were the more sensitive child.”
The pity on her face brought tears to his eyes, but he blinked them away. He wasn’t about to cry now. No way. Not happening. Not with Mrs. K looking at him like that, like he might break apart or something.
“Uh, what am I doing?”
“Sitting up here all alone, punishing yourself for something that isn’t your fault. Pulling away from the people who love you most, pushing us away. Your family and Paul and me. We love you and we know you’re hurting, and we want to be there for you. Please let us be there for you.”
Jax couldn’t talk. His lungs were filled with concrete, his tongue weighted down with rocks. He wanted to tell her about all those times in the woods when he stared at his rifle and wondered if what Pammy believed was true—that there was a better life after this one, that his mom was living it up on some fluffy cloud up in the sky. He wondered what it felt like when your heart stopped beating and your lungs stopped pulling air, when all those horrible, awful thoughts going through your head just...stopped. He wondered if death hurt or if it was a relief.
“I adore you, Jax, and not because Paul does or because your sweet mother told me to. I’ve loved you since that first day at kindergarten, when you walked up to Paul and asked if he wanted to be friends. There’s sweetness at the core of you, and that’s how I know how much you’re hurting. Because you’re a good man who loves with all his heart and soul.”
Well, hell. What was he supposed to say to that? Nice words and all, but coming from the wrong mother, they didn’t stick. He didn’t feel sweet at his core. He felt mean and ugly and wrong.
“You will survive this, I promise.” Mrs. K leaned forward, grabbed his face in both hands. “I will see to it. Whatever you need, wherever you end up, I’ll always be here for you, sweetheart. Always.”
Ever since, he’d been making more of an effort to show up, mostly so she wouldn’t ever barge into his room again. Once a week he dragged his ass out of the woods, scrubbed off the dirt and grime, and came here, to Paul’s. He said all the right words. He made sure to smile at least once. And judging by Mrs. K’s reaction, it seemed to be working.
She spotted him coming up her back deck, calling to him through the open double doors. “Jax Edwards, you hurry up and get your behind in here. How are you, sweetheart? Come here and give me a hug.”
Mrs. K was a hugger, one of those people who liked physical contact. She was always patting his shoulder and squeezing his hand. Never creepy or inappropriate
, just...nice. He’d learned a long time ago it was easier to just stand there and take it. She smelled like flowers and honey.
“Hi, Mrs. K. Thanks for the key chain.”
She was generous, too, always giving him things—T-shirts from places she visited, souvenirs and little keepsakes, anything to let him know she was thinking of him. Mostly little trinkets like this silver ring with the Town of Lake Crosby seal, but she had great taste, and occasionally she’d splurge on something nice, like the gold necklace she gave him for graduation. Her gifts often came in threes, for him and Paul and Micah.
“You’re so welcome, sugar. I figured you could use one for your dorm room this fall. How’s your summer going? Did you find a job yet?”
Jax shook his head. “Still looking.”
He wasn’t looking. The last summer before college, and the only thing he could get even remotely excited about was getting the hell out of this place. Sixty-six days until freshman orientation at Duke University, two hundred and eighty-eight miles of space between there and here. Jax couldn’t wait.
“I’m sure you’ll find something soon,” she said, leading him into the kitchen. “How’s your father?”
“He’s fine.” It was what everybody wanted to hear when they asked that question, but not Mrs. K. She stopped walking to give him a look, and he amended, “He’s a robot. My sister’s a Jesus freak. And they think I’m the one having difficulty adjusting.”
Her expression softened. “Everybody grieves in their own way, sugar. There’s no right or wrong to it, just...different. I realize it’s difficult, but try to remember that they’re hurting, too.” She reached out, patted his arm. “I’ll talk to your father and see if I can’t get him to be a little more supportive.”
The idea of Mrs. K dressing down his father made Jax laugh out loud, even though he was torn between amusement and hope she could actually do something to fix it.
He pointed to the music thumping on the ceiling. “Is that Paul?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, it’s Paul. Tell him to turn it down, will you? Oh, and here.” She grabbed three Cokes from the fridge, shoved the icy cans at his chest along with a bag of chips from the pantry. “Take these up with you.”
“Who’s the third one for?”
“Micah.” She sighed. “Do me a favor and try not to kill him.”
9
We’re all the way to the top of the yard before Paul pulls me to a stop. “It’s not what you think.”
I laugh—both at the way the climb has me huffing like I’ve just run a marathon, and at the absurdity of his statement. “Paul, even I don’t know what I’m thinking. Like, zero clue. I just watched you lie to a police officer for reasons I can’t figure out, and then you made it pretty obvious you wanted me to do the same.”
“I didn’t lie. Not technically. I said I don’t know her, and I don’t.” He shakes his head, corrects himself. “Didn’t. I don’t know her name or where she’s from. I don’t know anything about her, other than that she stopped me yesterday to ask where I got my coffee.”
“Well, I lied. I said I’d never seen her before.”
He winces. “You said that, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did. And I’d really like it if you told me why.”
Paul gazes down the hill to where Micah is huddled with the others at the edge of the crime scene. He stands a good head above the rest, his wet hair gleaming in the light. The cops around him stand rapt, nodding at whatever Micah’s saying. The hometown hero.
“I panicked, okay? When they flipped her over and I saw her face, I panicked. Because you know exactly what would have happened if I’d told them the truth. You know what everyone down there would have thought.”
I do know, because I thought the same thing myself: that’s two dead bodies under the same dock. Four years apart, but still. Surely, surely, that must be a horrible coincidence.
“Just so we’re clear, I’m not mad about the lie per se. When you grow up like Chet and I did, stretching the truth is pretty much the same thing as surviving.”
Yes, sir, our mama will be home later tonight. No, sir, we don’t live here alone. We’re children.
But this wasn’t my lie; it was Paul’s.
If only it had been anyone other than Sam who was doing the asking. Anybody else, and maybe I would have come clean. I could have reminded Paul of their fleeting encounter and everyone would have brushed it off as a blunder.
But it wasn’t anyone else; it was Sam. Sam with his pursed lips and squinty eyes. With his silent judgment and retracted friendship. A year ago, he was capping off his workday with a glass of iced tea on my front step, and now suddenly I’m Mrs. Keller.
I reach out, touch Paul’s sleeve. “Paul, who was that woman? What did she say to you yesterday?”
He sighs, a rush of breath I can feel on my forehead. “Can we finish this upstairs? I really could use a shower.”
He really could. The cut on his forehead needs a good, deep scrubbing before it scabs over, and I can’t tell if the mud from his slide down Fontana Ridge is dried or just frozen. He smells like cold and earth and sweat.
I point him to the outdoor staircase that leads to the mudroom—the route we usually take to the house. “I’ll meet you up there. I need to open the downstairs first.”
Paul heads for the stairs, and I step around the outdoor furniture and tap in the code on the pad next to the basement door, a feature I’ve never once used until now. This door is one we usually unlock from inside, sliding the glass panels back into deep pockets that disappear into the walls and turn the indoors into outside. This entire level is made for summertime entertaining—a kitchen and fully stocked bar, a TV screen as big as the wall, his-and-hers powder rooms and a walk-in shower big enough for twenty people. In a stroke of genius, Paul painted the ceilings on the overhang a metallic bronze, so when the sun hits the lake just right, it bathes everything in an orange glow.
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 finge
r 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.”
Stranger in the Lake Page 6