The mess inside is not much better, wrappers and crumbs and coffee grounds scattered like dirt across the marble of the kitchen island. I swipe the trash into the can and the grounds into the sink along with my breakfast, a bowl of oatmeal now congealed into a gooey chunk. I shove it down the disposal, and the way it clings to my spoon sends a wave of nausea rolling through. Eat or puke, I can’t decide. So far this pregnancy hasn’t been much fun.

Especially since there’s no one here for me to share it with. I think of Paul, of his trek to find Jax, and the tears rise unexpectedly, hot and sudden. Paul has told me almost nothing about his former best friend, why the summer after their senior year Jax went off the deep end, walked away from his family and friends, and disappeared into the woods.

Paul’s silence makes it all too easy to believe the rumors. That Jax cheated Paul out of money or popularity, or he slept with one of Paul’s girlfriends. That there was a fight that got out of control, a fit of jealousy, a push too hard. That Jax hit his head, knocked something loose. That the devil made him do it. Lake Crosby gossip and speculation because the people who know—Paul and Micah and Jax—aren’t talking.

I hate that Paul left me here to deal with Micah and Sam, with work and clients, with his mother, who has surely spotted the smoke signals by now. I hate that in a few hours, the sun is going to sink behind the trees and everybody will pack up and leave. The windows will go black with night, and I’ll be in this big house all alone.

The front door swings open, and I jump. “Hey, Charlie, what’s with all the cop cars?”

My brother, Chet, the only soul on the planet still allowed to call me Charlie. My cell has been lighting up with his messages all morning, and the truth is I’ve been expecting him. My brother is a needy guy, and he doesn’t take well to anybody ignoring him, least of all me.

I swipe my eyes with my sleeves, clear the tears from my throat. “In the kitchen.”

There’s the thump of him kicking the heavy door with a boot, the thuds of his soles echoing in the high atrium of the house as he heads straight for the back window. He presses his face to the glass, looking down the hill to where Micah and the others are trampling what’s left of the summer grass. “What’s going on? Did somebody get arrested or something?”

“No. Somebody died.”

His head whips around, his eyes bulging. “No shit. Like died, died?”

I nod, flipping on the water and rinsing out my bowl. “She washed up sometime last night.”