Invited to sit in my own home—scratch that, Paul’s. I edge around the island and sink into a chair, watching her bang around his kitchen like she owns the place. I wonder what Micah would say if he were here. Micah sees Diana as a second mother, the kind he calls weekly and sends flowers to on birthdays and Mother’s Day. Paul says Micah spent as much time in their house as he did his own. Is Diana one of the people I’m supposed to tell “no comment”?

“So how did you hear? About the woman in the lake, I mean.” I don’t mention her name. Sienna, assuming Jax was right. I gesture to the window I just spotted him through, a sheet of solid black glass. “Who told you?”

Her hands still, and her eyes cut to mine. “Everybody. Everybody told me. People in town are losing their minds, especially the tourists. The mayor’s making the rounds, but I don’t know how he’ll be able to put out this fire. It’s all anybody can talk about.” She grabs two cups and saucers from the cabinet and a black tin from her handbag. “Peppermint okay? Miss Mary’s is the best.”

I smile, trying not to be offended she brought her own tea. “Peppermint’s fine.”

For the millionth time today, I wish Paul were here. Diana is a lot to handle on an ordinary day, and after the stress of this one, I’m not sure I can sit across from her and pretend my nerves aren’t jangling. Too many lies to keep track of, too much bad blood boiling between us, and Paul not here to act as a buffer.

Diana chatters away, popping open the tin and rummaging through the drawer for the infuser, which it takes her three tries to pry open. The loose tea doesn’t want to cooperate, either. It comes out in a surge, raining down over the infuser and onto the counter. She swipes it with a palm into the sink. Not for nothing, but Lipton is a whole lot simpler.

“Charlotte, did you hear a single word I just said?”

I snap back to the conversation, trying to inventory the words I missed, but it’s like grabbing a handful of water. I come up empty.

“I’m sorry—what?”

“I said it’s just so strange. I can’t get over it. A body floating under the dock. I mean, what are the odds?”

If Paul were here, he could work the numbers. He’d know how many houses are lined up along the shore, and he’d use it to calculate the likelihood of the lake sending her to our yard instead of Micah’s or grumpy old Mr. Guthrie’s on the other side.

“I bet the odds are a lot higher than you’d think.”