Paul heads for the stairs, and I step around the outdoor furniture and tap in the code on the pad next to the basement door, a feature I’ve never once used until now. This door is one we usually unlock from inside, sliding the glass panels back into deep pockets that disappear into the walls and turn the indoors into outside. This entire level is made for summertime entertaining—a kitchen and fully stocked bar, a TV screen as big as the wall, his-and-hers powder rooms and a walk-in shower big enough for twenty people. In a stroke of genius, Paul painted the ceilings on the overhang a metallic bronze, so when the sun hits the lake just right, it bathes everything in an orange glow.

The lock releases with a metallic thunk, and I step inside and slide the door closed behind me. The air is warmer than outside, but just barely. I flip on the lights and crank the thermostat to toasty. In the bathrooms, I restock the toilet paper and lay out fresh towels for Micah and whoever else needs them, then haul my ass up some more stairs.

I toss my coat on the bed and step to the bathroom, where Paul is coming out of what must have been a two-second shower. Fresh rivulets of water drip down his skin, naked except for a waterproof runner’s watch and a twin to the golden necklace Micah unlooped from his neck and tucked in a pocket. A rectangular pendant engraved with the town’s coordinates hanging from a gold ball chain, a graduation gift from Paul’s mother so they could always find their way home.

My gaze dips to the fresh bruise on Paul’s hip, a dark smudge of red and purple surrounding a melon-sized lump and curling down onto his thigh. I pull a towel off the bar and hand it to him. “That must have been some tumble. I guess Noland Ridge is pretty treacherous this time of year.”

He swipes the towel over his back, scrubs it over his hair. “It wasn’t so much a tumble as a skid straight down. And it was Fontana, not Noland.” He wraps the towel around his waist, his fingers freezing on the terry cloth. “But I said that already. That was a test.”

I grin. Both ridges are nearby, and both can be dicey, but Paul would never confuse the two, not unless he was lying about how he got hurt. Of course it was a test—one I’m happy to say he passed.

I rummage through a drawer and pull out some supplies, cotton swabs and antiseptic and a tube of liquid bandage, lining everything up on the vanity. I point him to the padded seat by the mirror. “Now sit down and start talking.”

He shifts on his feet, glancing at his watch. “Can I get dressed first?”