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.”