Paul leans into the mirror to inspect his forehead. “This looks great, babe. Thanks.” He squeezes my arm and brushes by, dropping his towel over the bar on his way out of the room.

I watch his naked form disappear into the closet, my chest going hot with exasperation, with aggravation. Paul is a great communicator when he wants to be, but other times—like now—he plies me with only the basics. My first wife died unexpectedly. My dad left when I was ten. My mother can be a little controlling. Jax was once a friend. Flat, nonspecific answers that tell me nothing but the facts.

I hustle after Paul into the closet. “What happens if somebody saw us talking? What if nosy old Wanda Whitaker was looking out her upstairs window and spotted the three of us standing in the alley? Sam’s already halfway to town. He’ll be questioning everybody.”

Paul steps into a pair of navy boxer shorts, digs around in a drawer for a long-sleeved shirt. “Mrs. Whitaker is in Ohio, visiting her daughter. She’s not back until after Thanksgiving.”

“Somebody else, then.”

“Who? It was freezing yesterday. Nobody was out.” Paul pulls the shirt over his head and reaches for a pair of pants. “Let’s just give it a day or two. See if anybody comes forward.”

I fold my arms across my chest, leaning a hip against the wall. “By then it’ll only be worse. Why can’t we just tell the truth? It’ll look better coming now, and from us rather than somebody else.”

“If I thought it would help the investigation in any way, I would call Sam right this second, but I just...” His shoulders slump, a sock dangling from each hand. “I can’t, Char. I can’t go through that again. The suspicion. The rumors. I just can’t.”

His pained expression, the way his voice goes raw and real... My heart cracks wide open, and I stop pushing.

He thanks me with a thin smile, then opens a door at the far end of the closet, pulls out a backpack and leans it up against the wall. It’s the big one he uses for multiday hiking trips, the one he once lugged two thousand miles up the Appalachian Trail. He yanks open some drawers and shoves in clothes much like the ones he’s wearing—waterproof pants, a thermal shirt and socks, hats and gloves and fleece neck warmers. He stuffs his feet into his brand-new leather clodhoppers, leaving them untied. The laces slither like bright red snakes across the hardwood floor.

A dull pounding starts up behind my eyes. “Paul, why does it look like you’re going camping?”