Chet gives me a who else? look.

“What about Paul? What did she want from him?”

Chet shrugs. “Like I said, Wade was baked. I couldn’t get much more out of him that made sense. You know how he tends to...”

Chet’s voice bleeds away, and new worries snag in my brain. Why was Sienna looking for Paul? Did she know who he was when she approached him in town, or did I feed that info to her when I introduced myself as a Keller? And Wade isn’t exactly known around these parts for his discretion. If he told Chet, he’s told other people. People like Sam, who will automatically think the worst.

Chet pushes up from the chair. “Hey, you got something to drink? I’m parched.”

“Check the fridge.” I gesture behind me, in the general direction of the kitchen.

He wanders off, and I sit here for a moment, the breath turning sluggish in my lungs. If what Wade said is true, if this woman was here asking about Paul, if he knew her, then he looked me in the eyes and lied like it was nothing. What else has he lied about? What other secrets has he stuffed down, hidden in files on his hard drive or buried around the house like rotten Easter eggs? Happy couples don’t keep secrets, and they don’t lie. What does all this say about us? What does it mean for our future? For the future of the baby growing in my belly?

And then the darkest, ugliest question rises above the rest, sticking to my brain.

What time did Paul get out of bed, really?

18

The snowstorm blows off on a warmer wind, clearing the clouds into a bright blue sky. Late-afternoon sunshine heats the hill behind the house, a blinding white field of smooth crystals melting like ice cream in the summer, sliding into the lake in slushy chunks. According to the news, we got a full eight inches, a record for this time of year, all of which is supposed to be melted by this time tomorrow. Welcome to winter in the South.

Word of Sienna’s murder has also made the news, though the details are scarce. They haven’t mentioned her name or where she washed up, only that she was fished out yesterday morning. I keep Paul’s laptop tuned to a local news station and roam from room to room, poking through closets and dressers, searching for anything that might explain why a dead woman under our dock might have been asking about my husband.