I think of Jax, standing in the glow of the porch lights on the back deck, and something sparks in my chest. “What does the scarf look like?”
“Cashmere. Cream and knitted. With dangly things on the ends.”
“Fringe.” I close my eyes, and I see his neck, wrapped in the creamy material. I remember thinking the scarf was too pretty for his big frame, the pattern too complicated and girlie. I think back to when I saw Sienna in town, the scarf she had double-wrapped around her neck and stuffed into her black wool coat.
But the parts of it I could see were cream.
Jax knew her name. He was wearing her scarf.
I open my eyes, and Micah is watching me. “Jax is dangerous, Charlotte. Volatile and violent and completely unpredictable, and he has been for a while. The cops have evidence he murdered that woman, something I’m guessing Paul at least figured when he took off after him. That’s where Paul is, isn’t it? He went to warn Jax the cops were coming for him.”
I look at Chet, standing stiff like a soldier on the other side of the island.
You can’t tell Micah, Paul said on his way out the door. Promise me you won’t say a word until I get back.
In the end, though, I didn’t make that promise, did I? I was angry about him leaving, angry he might not make it back in time for my doctor’s appointment tomorrow, moved to next week because of the snow. He said he had to go, that we’d talk about everything when he got back.
But when will that be? Paul has been gone for far too long already. What if he’s hurt? What if Jax hurt him?
“There are cops from five counties crawling all over Balsam Bluff, looking for a man who’s considered armed and dangerous.”
There’s so much to latch on to here, but one word is ringing in my ears: armed. Jax owns a gun, which shouldn’t surprise me. This is North Carolina. Everybody owns a gun. But Paul is unarmed and Batty Jax has a gun.
Micah turns the bottle in a hand, scratching absently at the lettering with a thumbnail. “If Paul is there, if the cops see him and think he’s Jax, there’s no telling what will happen.”
Paul’s words echo through my head, just as surprising as when I heard them the first time.
Promise me you won’t tell Micah.
I grab on to Micah’s sleeve, the words tumbling out of me. “You have to find him, Micah. He left with his backpack and three days’ worth of supplies, but he should have been back by now. He—”
“I knew it.” Micah slams the beer bottle to the marble so hard foam shoots out the top. “I knew that idiot would be halfway to Balsam Bluff by the time I came up the hill. You’d think he’d learn, after looking down the end of Jax’s barrel as many times as he has, but Paul has always been such a goddamn martyr. One of these days this bleeding heart of his is going to get him killed.”
Just then, from the depths of the house, a door bangs open. Chet tilts his head, listening for the source of the noise, but I already know. I race to the railing and lean over the stairs to the lower level, right as the alarm pad chimes. A computerized voice fills the air: basement door open. It’s the only way in without a key, but only if you know the code.
There’s movement just out of sight in the downstairs hallway, the thump of something hitting the ground. And then, finally, a familiar slope of shoulder, a patch of filthy brown hair.
“Paul!”
20
June 12, 1999
9:53 p.m.
They decided pretty quickly that Micah, with his eighteen years and stuntman swagger, would be the best bet to win over any liquor store cashier, especially if they could manage to find one who was female. The first three, flashy package stores that catered to the tourists on the outskirts of town, were staffed by men who knew too damn well who Micah was, and what his dad would do to their permits if he found out they’d sold his underage son alcohol. At each one, he came out empty-handed.
In a fit of frustration, they drove all the way to Sylva, to a seedy shack run by locals who knocked back as much as they sold. They watched through the window as Micah flirted with the cashier, a permed blonde in jeans too tight, her smile too big, too desperate. But Micah leaned on her counter and turned up the charm, reemerging moments later with two bottles wrapped in brown paper bags, one clutched in each fist. He held them high above his head, like trophies.
“Way to be cool about it, asshole,” Jax muttered, but he was only half-serious, the other half-impressed Micah actually pulled it off.
He strutted with the bottles across the gravel lot, dodging cars and tromping on trash, and Jax smiled despite himself. A lot of the time Micah was insufferable, but all that screaming earlier had loosened up something in Jax’s chest, made the night a little more bearable. Micah was a blowhard, but only a real friend would know what Jax needed at the exact moment he needed it. Jax couldn’t help but love the guy a little for it.
He reached across the passenger’s seat and popped open the door. “What’d you get?”
Micah grinned, wagging the bottles. “Do you prefer your tequila with a worm or without?”
Paul grimaced. “I prefer beer.”
“Quit your bitching, man. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that. Besides, liquor’s quicker.”
Jax wasn’t going to argue with that. He started the car and Micah dropped in, passing a bottle to the back seat, tugging off the bag on the second, holding it up so Jax could see. Tequila. Fast and cheap and dirty.
Micah twisted off the cap with a click. “Happy Saturday, gentlemen. Let’s get plastered.”
21
“Are you okay?” I push past the others lined up next to me along the railing and step to the mouth of the stairs. Paul is hunched at the bottom, loosening the laces on his boots. “Do you need help?”
“I’m fine. Just beat.” He kicks off his shoes and glances up.
I gasp. Paul’s face is a horror show. The cut on his brow is angry and infected, a purple scab pushing up from skin that’s swollen and rash-red. Dark stubble has sprouted on his chin and cheeks, and it’s clumped with dirt and grime. One of his eyes is sunken into skin bruised a dark purple; the other is swollen shut.
I rush down the stairs. “Oh my God, what happened to you?”
“You’re lucky he didn’t do worse,” Micah says from above our heads. “He could’ve put a bullet in your head and buried you somewhere we’d never find you, you stubborn moron.”
Paul ignores him, shedding clothes as he comes up the stairs. His coat, two thermal shirts stiff with dirt and sweat, his woolen cap and fleece neck warmer. He drops the filthy pieces to the ground as he heaves his body up, pulling himself up by the handrail. He reeks of blood and sweat.
I give him an arm, and he looks over with a tired smile. “I missed you. Everything okay?”
I’m not entirely sure how to answer this. Everything’s pretty much the opposite of okay, but this also isn’t the best time to sift through all the things that are wrong. Not with an audience. I nod, wrapping my arm around his waist and nudging him up the stairs. “Everything’s fine.”
Of all my lies, this one’s the most absurd.
Paul moves in slow motion, each step an effort when on a normal day he bounds up them by twos and threes. I scan his body for more injuries—wounds pushing through the fabric of his clothes, spots soaked with blood—but there’s nothing but hard muscle and sharp bone, more angular than usual. He’s lost weight, a good five pounds at least.
Micah shakes his head, staring down the staircase in sturdy silence.
“Did you sleep at all?” I say, counting new lines around his eyes and mouth, everything deeper than it was a couple of days ago. Or maybe that’s just the dirt smeared across every inch of him, shoved into every wrinkle. He’s like a charcoal drawing of an old man, black and white and defined.
He tries for a smile, but it comes up a wince. “For about five minutes.
I’ll be fine. I just need some food and a bed.”
“On it,” Chet says, pushing away from the banister.
“You better hope you didn’t muck up this investigation,” Micah says. “If you stepped even one foot in that cabin, if you polluted the space with your DNA, then you’ll not just be an idiot but a suspect.”
Paul pauses halfway up the stairs. “He didn’t do it, asshole. Jax wasn’t anywhere near the lake when that woman went in, but I sure do appreciate your sympathy.”
We reach the top, and Paul is panting like he just sprinted up Clingman’s Dome. He elbows past Micah and collapses onto a counter stool with a groan.
“And you know this, how? Because Jax looked you in the eyes and pinkie-promised?” Micah laughs, a harsh sound. “Why are you always such a sucker where that man is concerned? Hasn’t anybody ever told you not to believe the madman in the woods?”
“You know,” Chet says, clutching a loaf of white bread and a peanut butter jar he fetched from the pantry, “Jax and I once had a twenty-minute conversation about the traffic light they put in at Fringe Tree Street. He said roundabouts were a lot safer, and then he spewed off all sorts of statistics to back him up. That dude’s smarter than he likes people to believe, and a lot less crazy.”
Paul shoots Micah a told you so gesture, but he’s too busy glaring at Chet to notice.
“Does Jax have an alibi?” Micah asks, turning back to Paul. “Of course he doesn’t, because he was there. Multiple sightings in town the afternoon before that woman fell into the lake. Multiple witnesses saying she was asking about him, and then her things were found in his cabin. He lied to you again, Paul. You fell for his bullshit, again.”
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.”
“He was here, Paul. Jax, I mean. He was on the back deck.”
Paul’s fingers pause on the terry cloth, and his gaze whips to mine. “He was? What for?”
“I don’t really know. He said he’d seen you—he knew about the cut on your forehead—and he wanted me to know he didn’t put it there. He told me to watch my back.” Paul’s face pales around the bruises and cuts. “Paul, why are you protecting him?”
“Because he didn’t do it. He’s not the reason Sienna ended up in the lake.”
He says it without hesitation, without pausing first to think, which is how I know he’s telling
me the truth—or at least his version of it.
But he also said it too quickly to notice the slipup until it was already out there, slithering in the space between us. Or maybe he saw it on my face, in the way I flinched at her name. Because how would he know? The police still haven’t released her name and I haven’t told him.
“That’s what Jax called her,” Paul says. “He told me her name was Sienna, right before he punched me in the face.”
It’s possible he’s telling the truth. But still. The words you don’t say are sometimes just as meaningful, just as deafening, as the ones you do.
“Why do you think Jax will end up dead if you share his whereabouts with Micah?”
“Because Micah will tell Chief Hunt and Chief Hunt will...” Paul shakes his head, and that muscle ticks in his jaw again. “Jax just wants to be left alone, and he doesn’t like feeling caged. If the cops find him, if they point their guns at his head and shout for him to hit the ground, he’s going to get himself killed.”
“That seems a little extreme.”
“There are all sorts of extenuating circumstances here. Things you don’t understand.”
Another flicker sparks in my chest, more at his tone than his actual words, and I push off the wall, moving to the center of the room. Yes, I knew there were circumstances. No, I don’t understand them. But only because Paul likes to shove things into a box and bury them at the back of his brain, never to be thought or spoken of again. And he doesn’t have to say it like that, like my lack of knowledge is because I’m stupid.
“I don’t understand, Paul, because you never talk about it. You’ve told me nothing about your friendship with Jax, about how it ended, about whatever awful thing happened to turn him into Batty Jax. And don’t tell me the awful thing didn’t concern you, because I can see by the look on your face whenever his name comes up that it did.”
“How do I look?”
“Sad. Guilty.”
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