Stranger in the Lake

by Kimberly Belle

  I look around for my phone, which in the second or third spin flew from the cup holder. I search the passenger’s seat and console, stick my hand between the seats. I’m feeling around by my feet when, suddenly, the windshield lights up. Headlights gleaming in the gushing water.

  Not Paul. Please don’t let it be Paul.

  I freeze, peeking over the dash.

  A flash of relief at the sight of Micah’s truck, followed by trepidation. Micah is one of Paul’s best friends. How much does he know? He rolls to a stop by my front fender, throws open the door and slides out, hitting the dirt at a jog. I eye him through the cracked windshield with suspicion.

  He yanks open my door. “Are you okay? Jesus. Can you move?” Already the rain has soaked his hair, his clothes, splashing from him onto me.

  “I’m fine, but I can’t find my phone.” Even I hear how ridiculous it sounds, to be whining about my phone when my car is crumpled against a tree, but it’s not the phone I’m worried about. It’s Chet. I need to talk to Chet. I need him to be a sounding board, to help me sort everything out. He’s the only one I can trust.

  “Come on. You need to go to the hospital. I’ll take you.” Micah wraps a hand around my bicep to help me out, but I shake him off, a violent, physical no.

  “I need my phone.” I unhook my seat belt and hurl myself over the console, reaching with both hands onto the floorboards. “I need to call Chet. He’s waiting for me in town.”

  He slides his cell from a pocket, flips on the flashlight. “Here. Get out. I’ll find it for you.”

  I stand in the pouring rain while Micah fishes around under the seats, finally locating the thing wedged between the back door and a box of tile samples I was supposed to return days ago. He hands it to me, and I check the screen. Other than a text from Paul—Home. Where are you?—there are no messages. No missed calls.

  I dial Chet again, get his voice mail, again. I hang up and look around, eyes drilling into the rain and dark woods, trying to decide what to do. I could get Micah to take me to town, but there are a million places Chet could be by the time I get there, including back at the house. What if he’s there already, his phone charging on his nightstand downstairs while he’s busy in the kitchen? How do I call the house without talking to Paul?

  And then something else occurs to me. “Did Paul send you to find me?”

  “No. I was coming from town, headed home when I spotted you.” Water drips down his glasses, soaks his collar, splashes off his sleeve when he hitches a thumb over his shoulder. “Can we talk about this in the car?”

  “What’s going on here, Micah? And tell me the truth, because I’ll know if you’re lying. I’m starting to piece things together.”

  He squints at me behind his glasses. “What kind of things?”

  “Nope, it doesn’t work that way. You tell me and I’ll know if I can trust you.”

  “I understand that, but we’re in the middle of a police investigation. What I can tell you is that Jax has been a source of contention between me and Paul since the second he walked into the woods. Longer than that, actually. Paul was the reason Jax and I were friends. He was the glue.”

  “Is Jax the reason Bobby was at the bottom of Pitts Cove?”

  Micah nods. “There’s a piece of evidence putting him in the car, yeah. They’re still sorting out the rest.”

  “That’s why Paul never talks about Jax, isn’t it? Why he bought up all of Pitts Cove. Paul knew what was down there, didn’t he?”

  Micah watches me for a long time, the water dripping in streams off his chin. He sighs, his breath cutting a shaft in the foggy rain. “It sure as hell looks that way.”

  His answer hits me square in the stomach because it makes a sick sort of sense. Paul knew. He knew, and then he left Bobby down there. For twenty years.

  I look to the shoulder, a thin line of mud and puddles that ends in scraggly brush, searching for a good place to vomit. “I can’t go home, Micah. The Sterlings were just there. They told me about the necklace, which I’m guessing you’ve been looking for, haven’t you?”

  He nods. “I couldn’t mention it. You understand that, right?”

  “But...didn’t Bobby Holmes go missing around the same time Jax wandered into the woods? How is it possible nobody made the connection?”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I was a kid.” Six going on sixteen, thanks to my jailbird father and a mother who left me alone with a newborn baby for long stretches of time. Too busy caring for Chet to care why the trailer at the end of the park suddenly went dark and quiet. Of course I didn’t make the connection. But the police should have.

  Micah lifts his hands, lets them fall back to his sides with a splat. “Selling drugs is a dangerous business. When Bobby disappeared, people assumed he skipped town or ended up at the wrong end of a drug deal gone bad. I heard a million scenarios, and not one of them involved Jax or the bottom of Pitts Cove. It wasn’t something people assumed because there was no reason to assume it.”

  “And Katherine?” I say her name, and my voice wavers. “Is it true she and Paul were fighting before her death?”

  Micah winces. “Everybody argues, even the perfect couple. And for what it’s worth, I regretted saying those words the second they came out of my mouth. Sam latched on to it like a bulldog, but he couldn’t prove anything. That’s got to count for something, right? Now can we please get out of the rain?”

  I nod, and he grabs my arm and leads me to his truck. I’m numb, shaking from the cold and wet and shock. I let him pack me into the passenger’s seat of his truck, then sit there in the stuffy air while he jogs around the front to his side, his big body lighting up in the headlights like a firefly. The cab is thick with the smell of roasted chicken coming from the grocery bags by my feet, heavy brown paper with the gourmet market’s logo. It clings to my lungs and coats the windows in a milky fog, turning the woods and road hazy.

  Or maybe that’s just my tears.

  The cell phone buzzes in my hand. Paul, probably wondering where I am. I hit Ignore, and my cell goes dim, then black.

  Micah climbs in, cleaning his glasses with a bandanna he pulls from the seat pocket. “Look, maybe you should...I don’t know...call him back and talk this out.”

  “What’s there to talk about? Paul lied to me about Pitts Cove. He fed me some bullshit story about Walsh Capital and a plan he hatched with the mayor, but I’m no idiot. Swampland is not an investment.”

  “No,” Micah murmurs. “It’s not.” He slides his glasses up his nose and cranks the engine. The radio kicks on, a country music station, as does the heat. He fiddles with the controls, flips on the defogger.

  “And why is Paul always out for a run when women get sucked into the lake? What is up with that? It’s so awfully damn convenient, don’t you think? Especially since Billy Barnes doesn’t remember seeing him on Wednesday morning. Paul doesn’t have an alibi for the morning yet another woman washes up under his dock. Even Jax said as much. He said, ‘That’s two.’ He told me to watch my back, and I thought it was just Jax being batty.”

  “Look, it might be nothing.”

  “If you believed that, you would have just said it was nothing.”

  Micah doesn’t respond, and his silence is answer enough. I turn to the window, feeling sick.

  “What am I going to do? I don’t have anywhere to go. I don’t have a job. Knocked up with a baby I didn’t plan and don’t have the money to care for, not on my own.” I rake my fingers into the soaked hair at my temples, squeezing with the heels of my hands. “I am married to a criminal. I am having a criminal’s baby. Oh, God, I really am my mother.”

  My cell lights up on my lap with another call from Paul. I hit Ignore, then pull up his contact card and tap Block. I don’t ever want to talk to him again.

  Except I have to, don’t I, because of our baby. A baby attach
es me to Paul until the end of time. It tangles us up in a bond so much more complicated than marriage. My throat goes thick, burning with coming tears.

  Micah sits silent, watching me across the dim space, and his expression makes my stomach hurt. He doesn’t think the baby is good news, either.

  “Maybe I should take you to Dr. Harrison, let him check you out just in case.”

  “No, I’m fine. Really. I just need Chet.”

  Micah’s phone buzzes in the cup holder. I know who it is long before he shows me the screen. Paul’s face jiggles in the air between us. “What do you want me to tell him?”

  “Nothing. You haven’t seen me.”

  “At least let me tell him you’re okay. If he gets wind of your car wrapped around that tree, he’s going to have a fit.”

  “Not a word, Micah. I’m serious.”

  Micah stares at me, and the phone rings and rings. He swipes to pick up right before it flips to voice mail. “Hey, Paul. What’s up?”

  My husband’s voice comes through the phone in fits and starts, too faint to pick out anything other than speed. Paul is in a hurry, the words rushing out of him.

  “No, sorry. I haven’t talked to her all day. Is her car there?”

  A long pause. Micah gives me a reassuring smile.

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry too much. She probably just ran into town or something. I’m sure she’ll show up soon. Hey, listen, I’m kinda in the middle of something here. Can I call you back in a little bit?” Another pause. “I know, but try to chill out, will you? I’m sure everything’s fine. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

  He hangs up, tosses his cell on the console. “So what now?”

  “I don’t know. Take me to town, I guess? That’s where Chet went earlier.”

  “Let’s stop at my place first.” With a quick glance over his shoulder, Micah puts the truck in gear, pulls onto the road and points the nose toward home. “You need to get out of those wet clothes, and so do I. After that, we’ll figure out a game plan.”

  32

  Of all of Paul’s projects, Micah’s house has always been my favorite. Some old great-aunt’s dusty log cabin, transformed into a sleek, modern masterpiece, all wood and glass and steel. Paul scaled the place for Micah’s six-foot-two frame, the rooms and the fittings and the furniture all oversized, gargantuan tables and deep-seated couches made for large bodies and long limbs. I want to climb onto that big couch of his and sleep for a week.

  He parks in the garage, then flips on the lights as we come into the kitchen, dumping his keys and bags onto the counter. He tosses me a couple of towels from a top drawer. “I’d offer you some whiskey to warm you up, but after what you just told me in the car, you’re going to have to settle for hot tea.”

  I drop one under my feet and use the other to sop up the worst of the rain from my hair, biting down on my molars to stop my teeth from chattering. “Tea would be perfect. Thanks.”

  He fills an electric kettle at the sink, flips on the switch. “Bags are in the cabinet above the microwave. Make yourself at home. I’ll go see what clothes I can scrounge up.”

  He disappears upstairs, and I select a box of green tea, then wander into the living room with the dish towel, bypassing the matching leather couches for a spot at the back window. Like Paul’s, Micah’s house is perched high on a hill, flush with the treetops for spectacular views of the water. Tonight there’s nothing but blackness where the lake should be, but that’s not the direction I’m looking. I’m looking through the trees, staring at the house I’ve called home for the past year.

  It’s lit up like a bonfire, golden light pouring from every downstairs window, the kitchen and the living area and Paul’s study. Paul must be home, looking for me. Even the sides of the house I can’t see are glowing, the wet trees and grass glittering with reflected light. I stare through the branches, trying to pick up movement behind the glass, but I can’t tell if the motion is coming from inside the house or from the wind shaking the trees.

  The ceiling squeaks above my head, bare feet moving across an uncarpeted portion of the floor. The low hum of his voice, worming its way through the wooden planks. It probably wasn’t fair to Micah, asking him to lie to a friend, but I didn’t know what else to do. I just pray he’s not up there talking to Paul.

  I slide my phone from my pocket and text Chet. I’m at Micah’s. If you talk to Paul, do NOT tell him where I am. And freaking call me asap. I need you.

  I turn at Micah’s footsteps on the stairs, a thick stack of clothing balanced on an arm. He’s changed into fresh jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, but his hair is still damp. “Here,” he says, handing me the pile. “Something in here should fit.”

  “Thanks.”

  I carry the clothes into the bathroom and select the least gigantic pieces from the pile. A shrunken pair of sweats I roll up at the ankles, a light blue sweater that once belonged to a female. I fold my things and leave them on the sink to dry.

  “Whose sweater is this?” I say, coming back into the kitchen.

  “Yours now.” Micah is at the counter, filling two mugs with boiling water, dropping in bags of tea. He glances over his shoulder with a sheepish smile. “But if some angry woman comes up to you in town, demanding to know where you got it, maybe don’t mention my name. As I recall, things didn’t end well.”

  They never do. Micah Hunt should come with a warning sticker: not husband material. His relationships rarely make it past more than a few months, which is why I don’t bother remembering their names until I’ve seen them more than three times by his side—and even then I sometimes confuse their faces. Micah has a type: young, blonde, pretty. His girlfriends all look the same.

  He picks up the mugs, points me to one of the couches. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but the diver confessed to swiping the necklace. He says it was resting on the rear dash under the shattered back window, which had collapsed under the weight of all that water. The local cops have tossed him in jail. Tampering with evidence is a crime.” He settles my mug onto the coffee table and plops with his onto the opposite couch.

  “So that puts Jax in the car.”

  “That puts Jax in the car.” Micah grimaces, shifting on the couch. “You know, I have to think that whatever happened that night would have been an accident. Jax was a mess, but he was always a good guy. Reckless and careless, maybe, but not malicious.”

  “No, what was malicious was leaving Bobby down there all these years and not telling a soul. For pretending he had no idea what happened. For lying about it for twenty years.” I’m talking about Jax, but the same would apply to Paul, too. How could I ever be with Paul after this? How can I share a house, a bed, a life with a man who lied about something so monumental? “So what do you think happened? Was Jax...I don’t know...hitchhiking and Bobby picked him up? Were they taking a joyride when the car slipped out of the curve?”

  Micah swings a big arm over the back of the sofa and watches me across the coffee table. “Probably too many possibilities to think about.”

  “Maybe, but you said it yourself. Jax and Bobby didn’t exactly run in the same circles. Most likely they wouldn’t have been palling around.”

  I pause a moment to think, mulling around the possibilities in my mind when I hear my mother’s voice, so clear it could be coming from the next room.

  Come on, Bobby. Just one little hit.

  “What about drugs? Jax could have gone to Bobby for drugs.”

  It’s not all that far-fetched. People always think it’s the trailer-park kids who are looking to numb their woes in narcotics, but the kids I grew up with couldn’t afford pills—not until they were old enough to get a job, and even then, it wasn’t pills but heroin, strong and cheap. The rich kids, though, the ones with big allowances and parents too distracted with their sixty-hour workweeks... Those kids lived in a world where anything was po
ssible. Coke. Oxy. Adderall. They were always making a pit stop at Bobby’s trailer. My mother always said they were some of Bobby’s best clients.

  I think these things, and at the same time, a memory. A fleeting image of her falling naked in the dirt. Of a pretty man—no, a boy, puking. It flits away before I can grab hold.

  “What are you thinking?” Micah says, watching me from the opposite couch.

  “I’m just thinking about how we lived down the street from him. From Bobby, I mean. My father was already...well, you know. But Chet and I lived four trailers down.”

  Micah’s face flashes genuine surprise. “That’s...that’s quite a coincidence.”

  “Is it?” I shrug, reaching for my steaming mug. “The shacks down by the river, that row of apartments off 64, the trailer parks. There are only so many places for people like us to live.”

  He tilts his head at the people like us comment, but he doesn’t dismiss it. “Why haven’t you mentioned this before? And you must have been, what—two? Three?”

  “Six.” I did the math this past spring, when they pulled Bobby’s skeleton from the cove. I was six that summer he disappeared. Not old enough for any real memories, only a bunch of blurry images that connect into the same, sad story. Chet crying. People raising hell out in the yard. Our mother passed out on the couch. “Enough people talk about my trailer-park past. I’m not going to go around reminding the rest.”

  “I don’t talk about it.”

  “I wasn’t referring to you.” I smile and sip my tea.

  “But six. That’s old enough to notice when a boy from your neighborhood goes missing.”

  “Honestly, the only thing I remember about Bobby was the noise.” I thread my fingers through the handle of the mug, soaking in the heat. “His car, his music, his clients coming by at all hours of the day and night. When Bobby disappeared, I wasn’t the only one who was relieved. Bobby stopped raising hell, and Chet started sleeping through the night.”