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.