A memory hovers just out of reach, somewhere beyond my fingertips.
He leans into the glass, cupping a hand to his ear. I point to the mudroom, a silent signal to meet me there, then beat him to the door. I was wrong before, when I said he reeked. He smells like earth and pine.
“Is Paul okay?”
“There’s a cut on his face.” Jax waves a finger above his eye, on the same spot where Paul has a lump. “I didn’t put it there.”
“I know you didn’t. He fell down Fontana Ridge.”
“Oh. That’s good, then.”
I pause, confused. It’s good that Paul fell and hit his head? Or Jax saw Paul but they didn’t talk?
Jax holds up two fingers. “That’s twice now.”
“Two cuts?”
“No.” He gestures behind him, to the black smear glittering in the darkness. “Two women in the lake. First Katherine, then Sienna.”
I pull in a sharp breath, and my heart bounces against my ribs. Jax knows the woman’s name. I want to ask how he knows—did he talk to her?—but I’m more traumatized by his message. This horrible, awful thing he’s implying.
“Paul didn’t hurt those women, Jax. He loved Katherine, and he was with me all last night. He couldn’t have hurt either one. He wouldn’t.”
Jax doesn’t look convinced. “But Micah...” He frowns.
“Micah what?”
Jax looks to his left, to Micah’s porch lights flickering through the trees, and I wonder if he came from there, if he maybe banged on Micah’s door first. But then Jax turns back, and his expression sends an uneasy feeling climbing up my spine. He looks jittery again, and I don’t know what’s changed. I don’t understand any of this.
“Jax. What about Micah?”
But Jax has never been one for conversation, and I can tell I’ve already lost him. He takes a step backward, then another, moving in the direction he came. “I wasn’t here. You never saw me.” He turns in long strides for the stairs.
I step onto the deck, the boards icy under my bare feet. “Jax, wait.”
He’s all the way to the corner when he stops. He slaps a palm to the siding, but his body leans for the stairs. It’s like he’s literally holding himself back. Slowly, reluctantly, he looks over his shoulder.
“Do you need anything? Food, maybe, or a coat? Some warm socks?”
His beard tugs in a way that makes me wonder if he’s smiling, and I think for a second or two that he might turn back. And then what? Do I invite him in? Raid Paul’s closet while I make Chet whip him up dinner?
And then Jax makes the decision for me. He ducks his head and takes off, disappearing in one long stride around the corner. I’m turning for the door when his voice floats up from the stairs.
“Watch your back.”
14
Jax follows me around the rest of the night. Not literally, of course, but every time the house goes quiet I feel him there, whispering in my ear. Chet settles in, taking over the entire downstairs. He blares ESPN while I putter around the house, replaying every word of the conversation over and over in my head.
That’s twice now.
I wasn’t here.
You never saw me.
I gather the laundry from the hamper in the closet and carry it downstairs to the laundry room.
Watch your back, he said, one humdinger of a closer. Was it a threat? A warning? His conversation skills could use some help, but Jax certainly knows how to end with a bang.
I’m coming down the hallway when the door in front of me pops open. I shriek and lunge backward into the wall, clutching the laundry to my chest like a shield. Paul’s mother steps out of the powder room, smoothing her sweater.
“Oh, sweetie. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Diana pulls me into a perfumed hug, awkward since I’m holding the laundry. Her bony ribs press into my arms. “I said hello when I came in, but you must not have heard me over Paul’s TV.”
Paul’s TV. Paul’s house. She never passes up an opportunity to remind me.
I release from her grip, taking a step back. “If you’re looking for your son, he’s not here. He had a work thing.”
“I’m not here to see him, dear. I’m here to see you. I heard what happened. That must have been some shock, finding that poor girl. Are you okay?”
Diana’s voice is soft and soothing, every syllable rounded with a velvety mountain cadence. Not a coarse twang like mine and Chet’s. She sounds like she comes from money, and she looks it, too, in styled hair and an oversized cream sweater that hangs artfully off one shoulder. Her boots are low and Western-inspired, chunky heels and pointy toes. She looks like a million bucks.
It helps that she’s beautiful, all dark hair and ivory skin and a body she keeps lean with daily barre and Pilates. Even if she had Paul when she was a teenager, even if she slept hanging upside down by her ankles every night, there’s no way someone her age—I’ve done the math, and the woman is well into her fifties—looks that good, not without a little help. But either her surgeon is really, really good, or somewhere along the line, Diana Keller made a deal with the devil.
“I’m fine, thank you. It was sweet of you to check on me.”
This is how we always are with each other. Cautious. Polite. Full of bright smiles and friendly words we volley back and forth, more for Paul’s benefit than for ours. Honestly, I’m surprised she wasn’t here sooner.
“I’ll make us some tea and you can tell me everything. Or would you rather have something stronger? I can pop open a bottle of wine if you prefer.”
My stomach sends up a twinge of nausea. “Tea’s perfect. Thanks.”
“Sit, sit.” She waves a manicured hand at the counter stools.
Invited to sit in my own home—scratch that, Paul’s. I edge around the island and sink into a chair, watching her bang around his kitchen like she owns the place. I wonder what Micah would say if he were here. Micah sees Diana as a second mother, the kind he calls weekly and sends flowers to on birthdays and Mother’s Day. Paul says Micah spent as much time in their house as he did his own. Is Diana one of the people I’m supposed to tell “no comment”?
“So how did you hear? About the woman in the lake, I mean.” I don’t mention her name. Sienna, assuming Jax was right. I gesture to the window I just spotted him through, a sheet of solid black glass. “Who told you?”
Her hands still, and her eyes cut to mine. “Everybody. Everybody told me. People in town are losing their minds, especially the tourists. The mayor’s making the rounds, but I don’t know how he’ll be able to put out this fire. It’s all anybody can talk about.” She grabs two cups and saucers from the cabinet and a black tin from her handbag. “Peppermint okay? Miss Mary’s is the best.”
I smile, trying not to be offended she brought her own tea. “Peppermint’s fine.”
For the millionth time today, I wish Paul were here. Diana is a lot to handle on an ordinary day, and after the stress of this one, I’m not sure I can sit across from her and pretend my nerves aren’t jangling. Too many lies to keep track of, too much bad blood boiling between us, and Paul not here to act as a buffer.
Diana chatters away, popping open the tin and rummaging through the drawer for the infuser, which it takes her three tries to pry open. The loose tea doesn’t want to cooperate, either. It comes out in a surge, raining down over the infuser and onto the counter. She swipes it with a palm into the sink. Not for nothing, but Lipton is a whole lot simpler.
“Charlotte, did you hear a single word I just said?”
I snap back to the conversation, trying to inventory the words I missed, but it’s like grabbing a handful of water. I come up empty.
“I’m sorry—what?”
“I said it’s just so strange. I can’t get over it. A body floating under the dock. I mean, what are the odds?”
If Paul were here, he could work th
e numbers. He’d know how many houses are lined up along the shore, and he’d use it to calculate the likelihood of the lake sending her to our yard instead of Micah’s or grumpy old Mr. Guthrie’s on the other side.
“I bet the odds are a lot higher than you’d think.”
“It’s a saying, dear.” A quick pause, her nails, a light baby doll pink, tapping on the counter. “I heard she was staying at the Crosby Shores, which means she wasn’t from around here.”
“She was a tourist.” Diana looks surprised, so I add, “Micah was here most of the day with the divers, and—”
“There were divers?” She presses a palm to her chest, fingertips fluttering over a bony clavicle. “How many? What did they find? Where were they looking?”
“A whole bunch of them, and under the dock, mostly. But it didn’t look like they had much luck. Micah said whatever evidence was on her probably washed off long before she ended up here.”
“But people don’t just fall into the lake in the middle of the night, not in this weather. Did somebody push her or, I don’t know, whack her over the head? Do they think she was murdered?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what they think.”
Diana blanches. She reaches for the teapot, settling it under the hot water tap by the stove, twisting the valve to gushing.
“Doesn’t it freak you out?” I ask. “Another woman under the dock, I mean. Because you know what people are going to say. You know who they’ll suspect.”
She scowls, her gaze whipping to mine.
“I didn’t say they’re right, just that everybody will think it. And now Micah’s saying I should keep the doors locked and the alarm on all the time, which doesn’t make me feel any better. He makes it sound like whoever did this might do it again. It could be a serial killer, for all we know.”
My gaze wanders to the windows and beyond, to the shadows shifting in the darkness on the other side, and I wonder what’s out there besides the trees. It makes me want to shut the lights off so I’m not so exposed. It makes me wish there were curtains.
Diana’s voice pulls me back into the room. “Who are they talking to? Who are they questioning?”
Chief Hunt’s words bark in my head: no comment. He and Diana are friendly—as friendly as someone can be with that man. She puts up with him because of his son, even inviting the Hunt family over for Thanksgiving dinner. I’m still waiting for her permission to bring along Chet.
“You should probably ask Micah. I’m sure he knows more.”
Diana glances over her shoulder, steam dancing around her head like smoke. “I’m talking to you, Charlotte. You just said they were here all day. I’m asking you.”
I try not to be offended by her words, her snappish tone, the way she’s looking at me like I’m a bug she’d like to squash. I lift my hands, let them fall to the marble with a slap.
“Diana, honestly. I’ve already told you everything I know.”
“Well, it’s not very much.” She shuts the tap with a flick of her wrist, grabbing the pot and swinging it around onto the island. A steaming glug of water sloshes out the spout and onto the kitchen floor.
Why do conversations with Diana always make me feel so inadequate?
“I’m only repeating what I heard, and Micah was pretty specific. I’m not supposed to go spreading anything around. He said the police are holding back details on purpose.”
“What kind of details?”
I open my mouth to respond, but a rattling starts up underneath us, a slow and subtle beat I feel in the soles of my feet. I turn to the stairs and scream, “Chet, turn it down!”
The noise builds steadily, a coal train rumbling through the hills, gaining speed and moving closer, swelling into a deafening roar.
“Chet’s here?”
For sure I caught that bitter note that crept into her voice, the way the skin around her eyes went tight, but I don’t have time to deal with it. The panel just inside the mudroom is beeping—the loud music tripping the glass break sensor on the alarm. I pop out of my chair.
I rush to the mudroom and tap in the code, then ping-pong from room to room, retracing my steps from earlier. I check under the magazines on the coffee table, the cushions of the chair across from the couch, the breakfast table and the kitchen charger. I look everywhere I can think of.
“What are you looking for?”
“My cell phone. The alarm company’s about to call and ask me for the secret word, but of course Paul told me it forever ago and he just left me here to deal with everything all by myself. There was another dead woman in the lake and he left.” It’s the first time I’ve said the words out loud, and they come out angry and acidic, like the way I feel.
I cup my hands around my mouth and holler down the stairs. “Chet! Too loud!”
Right on cue, my phone rings, a shrill clanging coming from a pile of mail by the microwave.
Diana tips her head at the sound. “Dixie Cup.” Her lips spread into a thin smile, a victorious one. “Paul’s security password is Dixie Cup.”
Of course she knows. Because if nothing else, these past four years have returned Diana to her post as the most important woman in Paul’s life. Swooping in when he lost his beloved first wife, filling his freezer with individually portioned meals, patting his hand and promising him things would get better. That he would find another, that he would love again.
Except not me. She never meant he should fall in love with me.
And so that look on her face right now? That smug little grin? It’s why instead of answering the phone, I hear myself say, “I’m pregnant.”
15
I fall asleep, unexpectedly and deeply, my eyes popping open sometime around four. I roll over and catch a whiff of Paul, the smell of his skin and aftershave, and I reach for him before I remember. Paul’s side of the bed is empty, his scent caught inside the fabric of the T-shirt I salvaged from the hamper. It was the only way I could get settled in this big bed all alone.
I stare at the ceiling and the worries return, nicking at my consciousness, shimmering in the dark air of the bedroom. I worry about Paul tumbling down some gorge or freezing in his hammock under the trees. About Diana a few miles down the road, screaming into her pillow at the news she’s going to be a grandmother. About the lies that keep piling up like Jenga blocks, only a matter of time before a sloppily placed tile sends the whole mess toppling down.
Without warning, a wave of nausea pitches up my throat. I lurch out of bed and sprint to the toilet, barely making it on time. My last meal was hours ago, pasta that comes up in a series of sour waves. I throw it all up, over and over, until all that’s left is bile. I flush the sick down, but the dizziness, the shock of it, doesn’t pass.
I brush my teeth and pull on some clean clothes, leggings and an oversized sweater because no way I’m going to work today. On the other side of the window, the ground is white with snow, a good coating this time, a couple of inches at least and more coming down. Even if I could get to the office, what would I tell Paul’s staff? He never misses work, and everybody there has access to his calendar. I’d really like to not have to pile on yet another lie.
On the way out of the bedroom, I lift my cell phone from the charger and awaken the screen. No missed calls. No texts. No nothing.
Paul is an experienced hiker, and the area around Lake Crosby is remote enough that service, if there is any, would cut in and out. How long does an iPhone battery hold a charge in snow and sweat and freezing temperatures? If he’s smart, and he is, he’s powered it down and is saving the battery in case of emergency.
Emergency. My heart pinches, and I start catastrophizing. Broken bones, unconscious at the bottom of a cliff, frozen to death in that ridiculous hammock of his, ripped to shreds by a bear.
“Alexa, what’s the weather?” I say on the way into the kitchen.
Her
smooth voice cuts through the morning silence. “In Lake Crosby, it’s currently twenty-seven degrees Fahrenheit with a windchill of thirteen. Today you can look for lots of snow.”
I don’t have to look very far. The windows are white with it, swirling snowflakes pelting the glass like insects around a light. At the bottom of the hill, the crime tape is still strung in a wide arc around the dock like party streamers, a slick yellow ribbon dancing in the wind. I hope the police took whatever they needed from our backyard before it got buried.
At the view, my stomach growls, not from hunger but from habit. A lingering reflex from all those times the roads were too slick for the school buses to pass, and Chet and I would have no other choice but to stay home. Trailer-park kids don’t wish for snow days like normal kids do, and we don’t spend all spring counting down to the first day of summer. Not when the free school lunch is our biggest, most nutritious meal of the day.
Even now, even in a house full of food, the scars still sting—and I’m not the only one.
Krissy Hinkel from two trailers down is banned from the Piggly Wiggly for life, after the umpteenth time getting caught shoplifting candy bars. Johnny Winger from across the yard never goes anywhere without food, his pockets bulging like a squirrel’s cheeks. I have secret piles of junk food, Doritos and Twinkies and industrial-sized boxes of Little Debbies, stashed under every bed and at the back of every closet in this house. Chet now wants to spend all day every day working with food. We all have our coping mechanisms from a constantly rumbling belly, some of them healthier than others.
In the pantry, I climb on the stepladder, remove the lid from the slow cooker on the top shelf and pull out a fistful of Slim Jims. I stare at the bouquet of gas station sausages, and I can already taste them on my tongue, the salt and meat and preservatives, can feel the smoke tickling my sinuses, that delicate tension before my teeth puncture the skin. Empty calories, Paul would call them, but he’s wrong. When you grow up starving, there’s no such thing.
The doorbell rings, and I toss them back in the slow cooker and scramble down.
Stranger in the Lake Page 10