Stranger in the Lake

by Kimberly Belle

  Footsteps at the door snap me to attention. Chet wanders in, stirring in a mixing bowl with a wooden spoon. He’s in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, one sleeve dusted in a fine white powder. I mute the volume on the laptop.

  “Hey, taste this, will you?” He scoops up a bite and holds the spoon across the desk, waving it in front of my nose. “Tell me if it needs anything.”

  I wrinkle my nose at the wet blob of orange and pink. “It’s not pimento cheese, is it? I hate pimento cheese.”

  “Nope. Let’s just say I took a few liberties.” He wags his brows and the spoon in the air. “Stop being a baby. Taste it.”

  I sigh and take the spoon from his hand. Lick the blob with the very tip of my tongue. Frown, but only out of surprise. A pleasant surprise. I put the spoon in my mouth and it’s an explosion on my tongue, salty and sweet and...

  “Is that nuts?”

  “Nuts and cheese and some strawberry preserves, a little bit of powdered sugar. I thought we’d have it on some French toast tomorrow.” Chet grins, leaning back on his heels. “You really like it?”

  “No—I love it.” I give the spoon one last good lick and hand it back. “Seriously, Chet. This tastes like candy. Where’d you learn this stuff?”

  He lifts a shoulder, suddenly bashful. “Annalee was always watching those cooking shows. You know, the ones where they give you half a coconut and some peanuts and you have to use it to make a gourmet meal. I guess some of it rubbed off.”

  “You’re really talented. If I owned a restaurant, I’d hire you in a second, and I’m not just saying that because I’m your sister.”

  But because I’m his sister, I’m also counting the places in town that would be lucky to have him. The diner, Buck’s Bistro, even the pub puts on a decent Sunday brunch. Paul knows all the owners. When he’s back, I’ll ask him to put in a good word.

  And just like that, my cheerfulness bursts like a soap bubble.

  Because what’s going to happen when Paul walks through the door? After the relief at having him back in one piece, I mean. We can’t just pick up from where we left off, those innocent moments before my early-morning trek down to the dock. I need answers, and to questions I’m terrified of asking. Especially now that there’s a baby on the way. He can’t keep me in the dark, can’t keep holding me at an arm’s distance. I need more from him.

  Chet drops the bowl onto the desk and sinks onto the calf hide lounger by the window, swinging his feet up and crossing them at the ankle. “I know I’m supposed to be the ignorant one, but—”

  “Don’t do that, Chet.” I shake my head, my shoulders slumping. “Don’t make those kinds of jokes about yourself.”

  “Word on the street is it’s no joke.” One side of his mouth lifts into a half-cocked grin. “Anyway, you’re supposed to be the smart one in the family. So how come you’re acting so dumb?”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, your husband skips town two seconds after you find a dead lady in the lake, and you’re running around here trying to pretend that you’re okay with it, even though anybody with a set of eyes can see that you’re not. Let me see if I’ve got this straight.” He pulls one hand from behind his head and ticks his points off on his fingers. “Lady asks about Paul. Lady turns up dead. Paul splits. You provide cover.” His hand wriggles back underneath his head. “You gonna tell me what’s going on here, or are you gonna lie to me like you did with Sam and Micah?”

  I stare across the space at my brother, so much more observant than anybody ever gives him credit for. Chet didn’t come in here for my opinion on his latest food creation or help in finding him a job. He’s seen me poking around the house all afternoon, heard the silent debate raging in my head. He knows there’s something bothering me I’m not telling him.

  I realize with a pang that I want his opinion. I need another person’s honest, no-holds-barred take, and I want that person to be Chet.

  “You can’t tell anyone. I mean it, Chet—not a soul. If Sam or Micah or anybody else asks, you have to play dumb.”

  “We’ve already established I can do that.” Another slow grin, more deadpan tone.

  I roll my eyes. “This is serious. I’m being serious. You have to promise and swear you won’t say a thing.”

  He draws an X on his chest. “Not one word, swear to God.”

  I tell him everything. About finding Paul talking to Sienna the day she was murdered. About his lie to the police, and me following his lead. About him taking off with a backpack stuffed with food and a nylon hammock to find Jax, all the ways I’ve covered for him since. About Jax pressing his face to the window just last night.

  Chet swings his feet to the floor and sits up, frowning. “Jax was here? What for?”

  “I’m not entirely sure. At first, I thought it was to tell me something happened to Paul, which is why I opened the door. He knew about the woman drowning—even knew her name—and then he told me to watch my back.”

  “Dude. That’s...that’s crazy. Weren’t you scared?”

  “The weird thing is, it didn’t feel like a threat. He wasn’t aggressive, like, at all. I think he was trying to warn me.” I think back to his words about Paul and the body count, his expression when he looked through the woods to Micah’s, the way he shifted from foot to foot. “He seemed more spooked by me than I was of him.”

  “He’s at the receiving end of a manhunt. Of course he’s spooked.” Chet leans back into the recliner, watching me from across the room. Particles of dust dance in the air between us, glittering in a beam of sunlight. “But I guess the bigger question is, are you?”

  “Am I what, spooked?”

  Chet nods, and I don’t have to think on my answer for long. Micah and Sam might say Jax is dangerous, but I’m less sure. If he’d wanted to hurt me last night, he could have, and in a thousand different ways. He didn’t seem like a killer, just a lost and tortured soul.

  “I’m not afraid of Jax.”

  Chet gives me a meaningful look. “I’m not talking about Jax.”

  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.

  “Wow, this is some spread,” Micah says, taking in the food, doing the math. Two of each means none for Paul.

  “Chet’s practicing to be a chef. You should see what he does with pimento cheese. He makes it taste like dessert.” My words are too fast and my voice too bright, like a spotlight on the melting snow outside.

  “Here you go, Sheriff,” Chet says, handing over the beer. “Got any news about Sienna?”

  I widen my eyes at Chet—real subtle—but Micah doesn’t seem to mind the question. “Yep, but not anything I can tell the two of you. Dad’s holding a press conference tomorrow morning, though, so maybe give it a watch.” He tips the bottle at Chet, then me. “Cheers.”

  I pour myself a glass of water, but I can’t drink. My stomach is in knots, my hand shaking the glass. I set it on the marble with a hard smack.

  “I hear you took the boat to town.” Micah pauses to receive my nod. “Don’t do it again, okay? This entire end of the lake is an active crime scene. I put up no-entry signs at either side of the bend by Piney Creek, and if you see anybody out on the water between now and tomorrow morning, I want to know about it.”

  “What happens tomorrow morning?”

  “We’ll be back in the lake as soon as it’s light, looking at currents, trying to determine her trajectory from the moment she went in the water until we fished her out so we know where to point the sonar.” His eyes flash with excitement. For Micah, there’s no better day than one he gets to strap on his flippers and an oxygen tank and skim the lake bottom like a catfish, sifting through the silt for evidence. “We’ll be starting in the cove, though, so if anyone tries to sneak past us, we’ll see it.”

  I nod, the tightness I’ve been carrying around all day releasing just a tiny bit in my chest. Micah and his divers will be out on the cove tomorrow, which means no more surprise visits from Jax, no more vile words carved into the snow.

  Micah swivels his head to Chet, watching from the other side of the counter. “In the meantime, Dad says for you to stop harassing Piper.”

  A red flush sprouts on Chet’s cheeks, and his gaze darts between me and Micah. His expression says fuuuuuuuuuck.

  “I wasn’t harassing her,” Chet says slowly, thinking about every word before it comes out of his mouth. “Piper and I were just...talking. About stuff.”

  Micah gives him a knowing nod. “What kind of stuff?”

  Chet coughs into a fist. “Basically, she told me to leave her alone because she doesn’t want to go to jail.”

  Micah laughs. “That’s what she told him, too, though nice to have it confirmed by someone who’s not Piper.” He leans a hip against the counter, reaching down to scratch a knee. “I ran into Gwen on my way out of the B and B. She was spitting mad. She said Paul missed some big deadline?”

  Chet’s dip sours in my stomach, hardening into a painful lump. Micah talked to Gwen, who’d already told me she’d trudged all the way down to county GIS but couldn’t get the email to send. The signal was too weak, the files too massive. After all that work, they weren’t able to put the bid in. Gwen must have been livid, and I’m sure she gave him an earful.

  I nod. “When Paul’s back, he’ll call them to explain, see if they’ll accept his bid a day or two late. Surely they can’t hold him responsible for the snow, or for a traffic accident that took down the internet. Isn’t weather like an act of God or something?”

  Micah is silent for a beat or two, and I know what he’s thinking, that Paul didn’t miss the deadline because of the snow or the accident. He missed it because he took off on an errand so important that he forgot all about the bid he’d been working on for months.

  Micah takes a long, pensive pull from the bottle, then settles it onto the counter. “You know, back in high school, everybody made fun of Paul for turning in his term papers a whole week early. Professor Paul, we used to call him, including the teachers. He never waited until the last second to turn in anything.”

  There’s a question in there somewhere, but I’m not about to touch it. Micah is right. It’s not like Paul at all to miss a deadline. If I keep my mouth shut, I won’t have to tell another lie.

  “Here’s another thing Gwen and I can’t seem to understand. How’s Paul scouting anything in this weather?”

  I swallow, trying to keep my breath steady. I want Paul to be here. I want him to swing his arm around my shoulder
s and explain it his damn self. “He left before the snow hit.”

  “How come he’s not answering his phone?”

  “No reception, I guess. Either that, or he forgot his charger.”

  Or both. Or he’s too busy lying in a broken heap at the bottom of some bluff.

  The kitchen is a pressure cooker. Micah is playing us. He talked to Gwen, and he knows Paul’s history. He knows the way Paul thinks, what makes him tick, what would make him run off in such a hurry. The walls shrink in, the ceiling moves lower, and the hot air blowing through the vents hurts my ears.

  Micah sets the beer on the counter with a sigh. “Charlotte, what do you say we cut the crap? Because I think you know exactly where that crazy-ass husband of yours went, and if it’s the place I think he’s gone, then you’d best be telling me so I can do something about it. You won’t hear it on the press conference tomorrow, but all signs point to Jax for Sienna’s murder.”

  My body is tight with unreleased fear. Micah knows where Paul went, and he’s worried about him, which means I should be, too.

  “Look, I don’t want this getting all over town, but the cops have been to Balsam Bluff.”

  I frown. “What’s in Balsam Bluff?”

  “Jax has a cabin on the western side.”

  This is news to me. Jax has a cabin, and in Balsam Bluff no less. A popular hiking area crisscrossed with trails and picnic spots deep in the Nantahala National Forest, a good thirty minutes by car from here.

  But the western side is undisturbed wilderness, an untamed, undeveloped forest where the few humans wandering the hills are either lost or up to no good. How Jax got away with erecting a cabin on government land is anybody’s guess. You can’t stake anything there without an act of Congress.

  Chet doesn’t buy it, either. “Dude, that makes zero sense. For one thing, nobody has a cabin in Balsam Bluff. And even if Jax did live there, which he doesn’t, he’s not going to be anywhere near there by the time the cops arrive. You don’t find Jax. Jax finds you.”

  “That may be so,” Micah says, “but they found Sienna’s coat in Jax’s cabin. Her scarf is MIA.”