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?