And Paul? Paul was on a run when she went under. I know this from the photographs in the paper, his beet-red cheeks shiny with sweat, his look of terror to come home to a driveway filled with police cars. Some reporter pointed a camera at his face at the exact moment Chief Hunt delivered the bad news. Talk about a money shot. There’s no way he could have faked that kind of grief.

And yet that reporter’s question won’t stop playing on repeat in my head. Any chance the two deaths are connected? Jax’s words thump bass lines in my ears: That’s two. Watch your back.

Diana is long gone by the time the back door bangs open, and I jump clear off my chair. My heart settles when I see Chet, drenched from the waist down, his boots dangling from two fingers. He drops them, and they land on the tile with a splat.

“Did you get the boat?”

“I got the boat. Froze my ass off in the process, but I got it. I hope you got insurance, though. The seats were slashed to shreds, and so were the ties. Sliced clean through.”

I think of the opossum, rotting in the early-morning sun on the back deck, blood and guts and white bone. That awful word that’s bled—literally—into the grass. That’s twice now someone has crept up dangerously close to do damage with a knife, both times when Paul wasn’t here.

Just like he wasn’t here when Katherine drowned. Or when Sienna slid into the lake. A fluke? That explanation feels too convenient, much too easy. So what, then?

I consider calling Paul, telling him to get his ass home or else, forcing him to finish the conversation we started last night, the one he ran away from this morning. I feel like all I’ve done is ask, and I’ve gotten very little in return. Paul clammed up. He sneaked out for a reason.

When you’re ready to hear the truth, you call me. Not Paul, but Sam’s voice, an echo cutting through my mind, the last words he said to me before he stormed out of the wedding. Maybe I’m ready to hear what he has to say about Paul. Maybe it’s time to judge for myself.

The muddy puddle under Chet’s feet is spreading fast. It seeps over the tiles and over the grout lines, creeping closer and closer to the hardwoods.

I grab some kitchen towels and toss them on the puddles. “Go get dressed. We’re going to town.”