Last Light

by M. Pierce

  SUBJECT: From one NIGHT OWL to another

  by nightowl on Wednesday, January 29, 2014

  Message me. I want to talk. You’re not in trouble. I’m not angry. I’m intrigued.

  I had one new private message. I clicked the little envelope icon and scanned the sender details. The user name, icarusonfire, was unfamiliar.

  The message was four words long.

  SUBJECT: [no subject]

  by icarusonfire on Saturday, February 8, 2014

  What do you want?

  I replied immediately.

  SUBJECT: Re: [no subject]

  by nightowl on Saturday, February 8, 2014

  You know what I want. I want to talk. You’re not in trouble, I promise. Call me.

  I included my new phone number below the message.

  And I waited.

  Ten minutes passed without incident. Anxiety began to coil up inside me. Had I scared him away? Him … her? I checked the profile info for icarusonfire. It was a brand-new forum account, made that same day, with no post history. I smirked. Clever … and careful.

  I checked my phone. It was fully charged and had decent signal. I set the volume to high.

  “Call me,” I muttered. “Call me, fucking call me.”

  I browsed the forum as I waited.

  That site felt haunted—as much as any digital space can feel haunted—and memories needled at me as I perused the forum.

  There was my post in early June 2013: NIGHT OWL SEEKING WRITING PARTNER. I laughed as I reread it. My God, I was such a snob. Please know how to spell. I expect timely replies. I reserve the right to drop you at any time.

  It was Hannah Catalano who took the bait.

  I know how to spell, she replied, and I can handle being dropped. Can you?

  That was the beginning. That was the start of our story, and it was a good story.

  The heat whirred on and I jumped.

  Fuck, what was I waiting for? A call that wouldn’t come. I slid my phone across the desk and moved to restart the fire. I needed a shower. I needed to chop more wood.

  Hell, I needed to eat—and to take stock of my food situation.

  I was halfway to the cellar when my phone began to ring.

  Chapter 3

  HANNAH

  I stumbled out of the phone booth and stood staring at Nate, who stood staring at me, his expression unreadable.

  “N-Nate … hi.”

  Nate looked paler than I remembered him, his black hair a shock of darkness against the sky. He wore an elegant black suit and tie and a wool coat that reached his knees. Sleepless smudges stained the skin beneath his eyes.

  I was running on little sleep, too. My flight from Colorado to New Jersey had landed at seven that morning. Nate wanted to pick me up at the airport, but I insisted on taking a cab.

  Then he begged me to accept a ride from my motel to his house, and I gave in because part of me missed Nate. We hadn’t seen one another since October of last year, and that was during Matt’s meltdown. And even then, Nate made a good impression. Fiercely loyal to his brother. Forgiving. Gracious. Handsome.

  I blinked rapidly, clearing that thought.

  “Hello, Hannah,” Nate said. He opened his arms and I went to him automatically. We didn’t quite hug. He gripped my elbows and pressed a kiss to my cheek, and then he drew back and searched my face.

  I began to shiver.

  What could Nate see on my face? He took his time looking at me. His dark, impenetrable eyes swept my expression, the search so thorough it felt intimate, and at last he smiled and said, “It’s good to see you.”

  “It’s good to see you, too.”

  “What are you doing out here?” He nodded toward the pay phone.

  “Oh, my phone…” I shifted my purse. “My phone died. I wanted to call my mom. She’s been really supportive. I needed to hear her voice.”

  I hated myself for lying. The guilt was acid.

  Nate glanced at the rundown Motel 6 behind me. He cocked his head. As always, he reminded me of a hawk. “I take it your accommodations are without phone service?”

  “Ah, no. Er, yes, of course.” Fuck. “Phones … they have phones. I was just on my way to—” I looked across the street, where only one establishment stood. SMOKEY’S TOBACCO SHOP. Seriously? I flushed. “Um … buy a pack of cigarettes. So. The pay phone was on my way.” I looked at my boots.

  “Cigarettes,” Nate said.

  “Yes, cigarettes.”

  “I didn’t know you smoked.”

  “Well, I didn’t. But I do now.” I lifted my chin. “And I know it’s bad for me, and I’d rather not hear some doctory spiel about it. Matt used to smoke. Sometimes.”

  “I’m aware. One of his many healthy habits. Shall we, then?” Nate turned on a heel and headed for the tobacco shop. I trailed after him.

  Fucking Matt, look what you’ve gotten me into now.

  The shop was full of pipes and incense, blown glass, rolling papers, and Rasta clothes. I tried to hold my breath. A gray-haired man with a spindly beard—Smokey, I presumed—sat at the checkout counter.

  Nate hovered as I asked for a pack of Marb Reds and picked out a lighter. I didn’t protest when he intervened to pay. My face was on fire.

  I waited in the shop while Nate brought the car around. The rain had turned to slush.

  He dashed out and got the door.

  As I buckled my seat belt, I remembered the last time—the first time—I was in Nate’s car. It wasn’t so long ago. Then, we were going to rescue Matt.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Nate.

  I glanced at him. God, he was nearly Matt. Matt’s dark-haired brother, at home in his car the way Matt only ever looked in his Lexus: A prince in his purring, expensive machine.

  Nate tipped his head against the headrest.

  “But there’s no Matt now, is there? No drive to Geneva. No boy to save.” A wistful smile played on his lips. He rolled his head toward me. I stared at the cigarettes and lighter in my hand. “Go ahead, Hannah.”

  “What?” I swallowed.

  “I don’t mind if you smoke one in the car.”

  “Oh … no, it’s okay, I—”

  “Please,” he said. “And you should have offered me one by now.”

  Nate plucked the cigarettes from my hand and neatly peeled off the plastic. He rapped the box against the heel of his hand.

  “I didn’t think,” I mumbled. “You’re … a doctor.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I’ll have one for my brother.”

  We lit our cigarettes and lowered our windows a sliver.

  I took thin drags and exhaled fast. Soon I was dizzy. The smoke made my eyes water. Perfect—false tears.

  When I looked at Nate, though, I saw very real tears standing in his eyes.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s okay. I don’t know—it makes no sense. Is my brother dead? I can’t say it.” He reached for me, found my hand, and held it tight.

  Nate didn’t cry, but I began to think I might. I couldn’t stand to see his grief.

  We finished our cigarettes and Nate pulled me over for a hug. His long fingers curled at the back of my neck. I pressed my face against his coat and breathed in the scent of cologne and smoke. I let myself imagine he was Matt.

  “It’s all right,” Nate said again, and I knew he said it for himself.

  *

  We pulled up to Nate’s house at noon. We had an hour to kill before the service.

  Mounds of graying snow lined the drive and a half-melted snowman stood by the front steps. Still, the home was magnificent. Yellow light shone in the windows. A large winter wreath hung on the door.

  A few cars were parked along the street, and I recognized a catering van.

  “Home sweet home,” said Nate. “I really wish you’d agreed to stay with us, Hannah. That motel…” His nose wrinkled. Classic Sky disdain, barely disguised.

  “I wanted to, Nate. It’s just, this house…” I stumbled
over my excuse.

  “Too many memories?”

  “Yeah.” I climbed out of the car before Nate could get my door.

  He rounded on me, blocking the sidewalk.

  “Hannah,” he said. He sounded cautious. “A few items, nothing major. Val—she’s quite upset.” He gestured to the house. “Owen, we haven’t explained it to him. He’s too young, you see? But Madison knows, and she understands.”

  “Okay, got it.” I felt a Pam-esque urge to say: Will you be coming to your point in 2014? Something more was on Nate’s mind, clearly.

  “Good, good.” He tugged off his gloves. “No one gives a damn about the book, of course. Don’t worry about that.”

  My stomach dropped.

  The book.

  Night Owl.

  The book Matt started in Denver and finished in Kevin’s cabin. The book that somehow leaked onto the Internet and got published as an e-book by “W. Pierce.”

  Matt swore he had no part in it—no part beyond writing it, that is. I believed him. After all, Night Owl chronicled our romance in aching detail. No way would Matt, Mr. Privacy Above All Else, publish that book for the world to see.

  But who did, and why?

  I remembered when I first heard about Night Owl. Pam got wind of the e-book in late January. Just weeks after appearing, it was viral. Half a thousand reviews on Amazon. Pirated copies all over the web. The text posted on forums, blogs, Facebook.

  And my name was in it, Matt’s name, the whole story.

  I sat up late that night reading the book, by turns horrified and aroused. And livid.

  I called Matt in the early morning. I was shaking, shouting into my cell. “How could you put it online? How could you publish that book without asking me?”

  “What?” he said. “What book, what fucking book? Where?” Panic bled into his voice. My God, I realized then, he has no idea.

  “Hannah?” Nate waved a hand before my eyes.

  “Huh? Sorry. Uh, the book. It’s … just so disturbing. So embarrassing.”

  “I can only imagine.” Nate was suddenly upbeat, talking hurriedly. “The audacity. It’s absolute filth. Dragging my brother’s name through the mud, and yours. You know, it follows the whole episode in Geneva with alarming accuracy. Matt had a local friend there, at a farm up the road. Could be her. Who knows what he told people when he was in that frame of mind? Whoever it is, they know about my house, my family, our—”

  “Excuse me? Could be … who?”

  “The woman at the farm. She could be the author.” Nate nodded. “Someone close to him, definitely. His psychiatrist? That’s almost too sick to consider, but who knows? People are so depraved, so desperate for money. They’ll take advantage of anyone, Hannah. Predators.”

  Nate took my shoulder and steered me toward the house.

  “Don’t worry, though,” he went on. “I’ve invited Shapiro. Ah, George Shapiro. Have I mentioned him? I’m sure Matt did. The family—”

  “Lawyer,” I said. My voice shrank with dread. “The family lawyer.”

  “Yes, that’s right. It’s libel, that book. Defamation … whatever they call it. Shapiro is prepared to bury the author. I know you’ll talk to him.” Nate squeezed my shoulder. “Yours is the strongest case. Never mind the expense, this is important. For you, for Matt’s legacy.”

  We were stalled at the front door. Nate held me by both shoulders and gazed earnestly at me, confident in my compliance. What could I say? Actually, Nate, Matt wrote Night Owl. He’s been chilling at our friend’s cabin, pretending to be dead. Sorry about that.

  Fuck.

  I gathered a breath and opened my mouth. Say something! Stop this ridiculous manhunt for “the author.” For Matt. “I—Nate, it’s so soon after Matt’s passing—”

  The front door swung open.

  The odor of potpourri and seasonal candles hit me.

  “This must be the infamous little bird,” said a voice thick with cynicism.

  I looked up, and up, at the tall figure standing in the doorway. We had never met, but he was unmistakable.

  The middle brother.

  Seth Sky.

  Chapter 4

  MATT

  I sprinted up the cellar steps and rushed to my phone. I quickly checked the caller’s number. It wasn’t Hannah.

  “Hello?” I let out a shaking breath. “Hello?”

  Nothing. And yet I knew someone was there, sentience in the silence on the line.

  “Please, don’t hang up,” I said. “I told you, you’re not in trouble. Talk to me.” I began to pace. “Come on. Icarus on fire, right? Clever name. I’m glad you called.”

  I waited then, because I had said enough. I even smiled. Life is stranger than fiction.

  “So, you’re alive,” said a voice. It was a female voice, smooth and cultured.

  I paused in front of the fireplace. As I watched, a castle of cinders collapsed.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re alive,” she said.

  You’re alive. The words should have worried me, but I felt safe in my fortress in the forest. Far from the world. As good as dead. I laughed and roamed around the couch.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  “I met you, but you wouldn’t remember. It was at the book signing in Denver. You had your face in your hands. Of course, I had this carefully prepared speech.” She chuckled. “And you … you didn’t even look at me. You looked pretty pathetic, Sky.”

  Pathetic? What the hell? I opened my mouth to snap, then shut it.

  “Are you recording this call?”

  “No,” she said, “but I doubt you believe me.”

  “Mm, you’re right about that. And let me just say—if you are recording it, if you make a move with your crazy theory about who I am, I will come after you. I don’t care who you are. I have the resources to find out, and I’ll come after you with all my family’s formidable power, so don’t fuck with me. Understand? Don’t fuck with me.”

  “And here I thought I wasn’t in trouble.” She chuckled again.

  I frowned.

  Okay, the stranger had a point.

  “You’re not in trouble,” I said. “Look, let’s start again. Hello.”

  “Hello.”

  I perched on the arm of the couch. “Have you got a name?”

  “Melanie.”

  “Anything to go with that?”

  “Yeah. Like most humans, I have a last name. Should I give it to the strange man threatening me with his family’s … formidable power?” She wanted to giggle again; I heard the humor simmering in her voice. She was laughing at me. She found me comical and pathetic.

  “Fine,” I snapped. “Do whatever the fuck you want.”

  “Fine. My last name is vanden Dries.” She pronounced it Dreese. “It’s Dutch. It means ‘of the shore.’ I’m telling you that as a good-faith gesture, Sky. Let’s not—”

  “Stop calling me Sky.”

  “Then what do I call you?”

  “You don’t call me anything.” I smiled and ran a hand through my hair. There. I’d regained control. “Melanie vanden Dries. Melanie of the Shore. Sounds good.”

  “Yeah, I like it.”

  “Convenient. Okay, Melanie vanden Dries, let’s get to the point. Why did you turn my forum post into an e-book?”

  “I never said I did.” Now Melanie was on the defensive. The humor faded from her voice. Good girl, I thought—you ought to take this seriously.

  “Assuming you did. Why would you?”

  “Fine. Assuming I turned your forum post into an e-book, which would make me insane, I might have done it because … the story deserved to be shared.”

  “Deserved to be shared?” I laughed. “You are insane. Have you heard of this thing called copyright infringement? You are selling my story, my words. How much have you made?”

  Melanie went quiet.

  Her answer could condemn her.

  Meanwhile, I said nothing to condemn m
yself—but I was guilty. I wrote Night Owl and I posted it on an Internet forum. Worse, I told Hannah I had no idea how the story “leaked online.” Someone must have hacked my e-mail, I said. I e-mail all my writing to myself, for backup.

  Hannah believed me.

  And why wouldn’t she believe me? Who could imagine that I, so obsessed with privacy that I faked my own death, would write that intimate and honest novel and throw it on the Internet for the world to see?

  But that is exactly what I did.

  I yanked open the sliding door and strode barefoot onto the deck. Winter air swirled around me. The snow quickly numbed my feet.

  I lifted the cell.

  “You are insane,” I repeated, this time in a softer voice. “So am I. You know I am. What I’m doing—it’s insane. Icarus on fire? I get it, Melanie. You’re flying too close to the sun, but I’m not going to be the one who burns you. I’m right up there with you. Now be honest with me, please. I just want to understand…”

  I began to shiver. Gooseflesh rose along my arms, and my teeth chattered.

  After a long gap, Melanie said, “Ten thousand. I’ve made about ten thousand dollars. I’m selling it cheap. Do you want the money? It’s yours. I don’t care.”

  “Ten grand? I don’t want your lunch money, Mel. Thanks, though. Keep it.”

  “Then what do you want? Do you want me to take it down? It’s all over the Internet.”

  I hugged myself, pinching the TracFone between my jaw and shoulder. The absolute silence rang in my ears.

  What do you want? Do you want me to take it down?

  I hesitated, as if I were considering.

  “No,” I said. “Quite the opposite.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Keep selling the book. That’s all.”

  “But why?”

  I smirked. “Why should I explain myself to you?”

  “I … I dunno.”

  “I’m sure you don’t, Melanie. Maybe you published my story to make some cash, or”—she butted in to disagree, but I talked right over her—“maybe you published it on a whim, because you wanted to share what doesn’t belong to you. People like you act without thinking, but don’t for one moment imagine that I am so simple.”

  Melanie made a small, hurt sound.