Last Light

by M. Pierce

  I skimmed the Night Owl review. It raved about the hot sex and “unputdownable” nature of the book. I sighed.

  “I hate to tell you this, Nate, but reviews like this are all over the Internet.”

  “Yes, but not by users who also have accounts at the Mystic Tavern, the site where—”

  “I know, I know.”

  “And not by users who check the book’s rank on the bestseller list dozens of times a day, Hannah. This is the one.”

  I shuffled to the next page and stopped. This is the one. Who is the one? I stared at the printout of Melanie’s profile. “Impossible,” I whispered.

  “She looks so young, I know.”

  I began to laugh. The sound was hysterical and unstoppable. Melanie. Alexis Stromgard. Matt’s “private driver” stared at me from the page. There was her unmistakable hair, the short red waves surrounding her face. She grinned at me like she’d grinned at Matt while I watched from the bedroom window.

  “Hannah?”

  My laughter rose and rose, and then it stopped. I felt nauseous.

  “She’s just … so young,” I stammered. No—what did this mean? It couldn’t be a coincidence. The girl who published Night Owl couldn’t work as a private driver for hire on Craigslist and just happen to be working for Matt.

  Matt lied to me. Again.

  Matt knew who she was and he lied to me.

  All this time, he knew who put Night Owl online. While I dodged Shapiro and Nate and Aaron Snow. While I lied for him, he lied to me.

  Questions swarmed my mind. I covered my mouth and pressed my forehead against the car window. Tears threatened, stinging in my eyes.

  “Hannah, please. Talk to me.” Nate touched my shoulder. He always touched my shoulder, my elbow, somewhere chaste and safe. After a moment, his hand slid to the middle of my back. “I shouldn’t have brought this up. It makes you miserable. God, I’m so insensitive.”

  Nate loosened the papers from my hand and shoved them back in the glove box.

  “I’m fine,” I mumbled.

  “No, you aren’t. I can’t imagine how horrible it’s been for you—this book circulating—after everything that happened. Forget this, please. Look at me.”

  I swiped my coat sleeve across my face and turned to Nate. I almost started to cry again when I saw his worried gaze.

  “Do you seriously”—I sniffled—“think she wrote it?”

  “I think she published it. Did she write it? Maybe not. She’s legally liable for distributing it, though—and more so if it’s not her own work. But that doesn’t matter, Hannah.” Nate tilted my chin up. I flinched at the touch. His long, elegant hand was exactly like Matt’s, but his eyes were far kinder. Why didn’t guys like Nate ever fall for me? “The lawsuit, I can see how much it bothers you. If you wanted me to drop it, you only ever had to ask.”

  Nate’s words settled on me slowly.

  He would drop the lawsuit for me, which Matt and I wanted all along.

  “No,” I said. I buckled my seat belt and steadied my breath. “I don’t want you to drop it, Nate. I want you to ruin that girl’s life. And I want a drink.”

  *

  Nate was staying in the Chancellor’s Suite at the Hotel Teatro.

  “I have a bottle in the room,” he told me, which turned out to be two bottles—Johnnie Walker Quest and Balvenie. (And “the room” turned out to be three rooms—a bedroom, boardroom, and living room—with wood-paneled walls, European furniture, a table for ten, and a limestone fireplace. Damn.)

  “Too early for this?” He lifted the Balvenie. “I like to bring something nice when I travel. I’d rather not be at the mercy of wet bars, if you know what I mean.”

  Nate seemed altogether comfortable with me in his hotel room, maybe because Owen was present. After Nate carried him up, Owen went straight to the bedroom. I heard the TV.

  I checked my watch. “It’s past noon. A good time for a drink.”

  “Agreed, Miss Catalano. Single malt or blend?”

  I blushed. Scotch whiskey was all Greek to me.

  “Whatever you’re having,” I said. I draped my coat over the couch and sat, my fingers fidgeting on the damask fabric.

  “Single malt, then. The Quest was a gift.” Nate smiled and poured a small amount of alcohol into two tulip-shaped glasses. “Did you know I have friends in Denver? Old college friends. I’ve had a chance to visit with them this week.” He brought the glass to me and sat near the arm of the couch, putting a few feet between us.

  I tried not to frown at the tiny amount of booze. I wanted to get drunk. Seriously drunk. I wanted to turn off my brain and stop picturing Matt and Melanie and wondering what the hell I should do about Matt’s latest lie. Or lies. What else was Matt hiding? Were Melanie and Matt in cahoots, publishing Night Owl together? Were they fucking? Had he even sent her away?

  I shuddered.

  I wanted to shoot my drink, but I glanced at Nate and followed his lead. He gave his glass a swirl, gazed at the film of scotch, and then brought it to his nose and inhaled. I did the same.

  Nate lowered the glass, lifted it again, smelled the booze. I sighed and copied him. The second whiff of whiskey was lighter. A complex, peaty aroma filled my nostrils. “Tastes even better,” Nate murmured. I flinched. He was grinning at me.

  “Ugh. Nate, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

  He chuckled. “I can tell. What do you smell?”

  “Wood…” I sniffed at my glass again. “Smoke? A little … fruitiness.”

  “Very good. Have a taste.”

  We sipped our scotch. The mellow flavor filled my mouth and went down like silk.

  “And enjoy the finish,” Nate said. He smiled and leaned into his corner of the couch. He watched me with obvious enjoyment. “This visit with you has been by far my most pleasant in Denver.” When he took another sip, I took another sip.

  I didn’t have the guts to tell Nate that I wanted to get drunk off his expensive scotch, but he refilled our glasses twice, and by my third glass I was feeling good. Thoughts of Matt and Melanie drifted off on an amber river. I felt happy and warm in Nate’s company, and he was all good-natured smiles and easy conversation.

  Owen wandered out of the bedroom to announce that he was watching The Crow. Nate, obviously ignorant of the dark cult classic, said, “Fine, just keep the volume down.”

  Nate moved constantly when he spoke. He leaned back with his laughter and motioned as he explained things, his animated body so graceful. I watched him in a daze. Early afternoon turned to midafternoon, and mid to late. We each had a fourth glass of scotch.

  That day reminded me vividly of my early days with Matt—when he took me to a restaurant in Boulder, and when he visited my family on the Fourth of July. Matt, like Nate, was a natural gentleman in public. I missed that side of him. He denied me that side of him—any side of him—with his insistence on anonymity, his lies, his obsession with writing.

  Nate’s voice broke into my reverie.

  “Being with you reminds me of Matt,” he said.

  I looked up into Nate’s face.

  “That’s funny. Being with you reminds me of him, too. I was just thinking of him.”

  “Were you?” Nate tilted his head. Black hair flopped across his brow and his dark eyes roamed my face. “About what in particular?”

  “About how he loved to write,” I said. “How he loved to write more than anything.”

  “He loved you, Hannah. He loved you more than anything. Don’t you know that?”

  “No,” I said, “I don’t know that.”

  “You must know that, though. He loved you. Are you falling out of love with him now that he’s gone? You can’t do that.” Nate touched my arm. “You can’t be angry with him for leaving. He’s the golden boy, you see? We always forgive him.”

  Forgive him?

  The cold finger of presentiment ran up my spine.

  “You know,” I whispered.

  Nate held my gaze without flinching.
/>
  “You know. You know…” I searched Nate’s face for confirmation of the fact—but his calm stare was confirmation. My world tilted on its little axis.

  Confusion struggled over Nate’s expression, and then he said very softly, “I’m my brother’s keeper, Hannah.”

  I staggered off the couch and fell. Nate moved to help me, but I scrambled away from his hands. “Don’t touch me!” I said. “You knew. All this time. You knew he was alive. You lied to your own parents. You—”

  “They’re not my parents,” he murmured.

  I gripped the arm of the couch and pulled myself to my feet. I had the sense of falling, as if the world were rushing past at great speed.

  Could this be?

  Nate’s tearful eyes before the memorial, his offer of his portion of Matt’s inheritance, even his showing up in Denver to watch over me—it was all part of an elaborate act.

  “Oh, my God.” I covered my mouth.

  “Steady now, Hannah.”

  “Why couldn’t I know? Why couldn’t you tell me? Why couldn’t he tell me?”

  “This was the way he wanted it.” Nate hesitated. Even now, he was reluctant to betray Matt. “It had to be believable, down to the last detail. But Matt needed money to live on. My job was simply to … ensure that you received his inheritance.”

  Nate’s job.

  The word pierced me.

  Nate … so generous, so good, so thoughtful … was only doing Matt’s bidding when he offered me Matt’s money. And Matt was only ensuring he retained control over his money. Matt planned all this without telling me, letting me believe we were the closest of coconspirators.

  But I was not instrumental in Matt’s plan. I was incidental to it. A footnote.

  I stumbled away from Nate and clutched my purse.

  “Have you talked to him?” I said.

  “No. We’ve had no means of communication.” Nate wrung his hands. “Can you tell me how he is, please? Hannah, I’ve had no idea. It wasn’t until I called you last month and you said you were at the cabin … that I knew things had gone as planned.”

  I yanked on my coat and headed for the door.

  “No! I’m not going to tell you how he is. You can both go to hell. I feel so ridiculous, Nate. What was the point of this?”

  Nate dragged a hand through his hair. He looked flustered, less dignified than I’d ever seen him. “Hannah—”

  I went out before he could answer, and I slammed the door behind me.

  Chapter 34

  MATT

  Hannah didn’t show on Friday. Our light—the last light of day—came and went. I called her prepaid cell and got no answer. I waited for her at the end of the drive.

  I called again and again, though finally I got a grip and put my phone in my pocket.

  After all, what if someone else had her cell? What if someone was visiting the condo?

  As I walked back to the cabin, I envisioned Hannah’s car in a ditch. I envisioned her at St. Luke’s with postconcussive syndrome. I envisioned Seth returning to terrorize her.

  Fuck.

  “Where are you, bird?” I said into the silence of the cabin.

  I’d sent Melanie away, as usual. She was going on four weeks in my service, and before she left for her motel that weekend I gave her a fourth envelope of three thousand dollars.

  Maybe that explained why Mel kept coming back—not out of loyalty or interest, but because twelve thousand bucks in four weeks is damn good earnings.

  I decided that Hannah was merely late and I resolved to wait for her. My panic waxed and waned as the hours passed. Hannah is fine. Hannah is in trouble. Hannah is busy. Hannah is lying in a ditch. Hannah is out with friends. Hannah is in the hospital.

  I ran Google searches for Denver accidents, car crashes between Denver and the mountains, Hannah Catalano. I tried her cell a few more times. I swore and paced.

  Morning light paled the sky.

  I called Melanie, who picked up just as her cell was going to voice mail.

  “Matt.” She coughed. “Six … six o’clock. Whyyy?”

  “Hannah never arrived. Do you understand? She isn’t here.”

  “Well … I’m sorry, Matt.”

  “You’re sorry? What the hell could be happening? She comes every weekend, every Friday at the same time. When she couldn’t make it, she called. Something is wrong.”

  “Did you try her cell?”

  “Obviously!” I wrapped a throw around my shoulders, stuck my feet in boots, and yanked open the deck door. I lit a cigarette. So much for April’s warmth; a cold snap brought a new sheet of snow to the mountains. “Yes. Yes, I called her. I called her a few dozen times.”

  “Okay, chill. Let’s think. Are you okay? Have you been up all night?”

  “Do I sound okay? What do you think?” I kicked a clod of snow. It went soaring through the deck rails and broke into glittering pieces. “I’m freaking out. I don’t know what to do. She could be sick. She could be dead. I can’t calm down enough to figure out what to do.”

  “There’s nothing you can do, Matt, short of having me drive you to Denver so you can check up on her. And that’s not tenable.”

  “Not tenable,” I repeated.

  Mel was using her mature phone voice, that deceptive tone I first heard in February, and right now I appreciated it. Right now, I could almost believe we were peers and that she might shed some light on my dilemma.

  “Yeah. Because what if we go there and she comes here and … you know. Or what if we go there and she sees me? Then you’re really in trouble.”

  “Right. So I do nothing?”

  “You try to relax and stay positive. Try to get some sleep, too.”

  “That’s not happening,” I said.

  “Do you want me to come over?”

  “No, God. What if she shows up? You stay put.”

  “All right. I’m sure she’ll call. And I’m here if you need me, Matt.”

  I thanked Mel and said I would keep her up to date. Nothing had changed, but the call served its purpose. I felt a shade calmer.

  I tried writing, failed at that, stared at the TV for a while, and finally lay in bed. Fatigue and anxiety make a bad pair. I drowsed and woke depressed, my chest tight with unease.

  I was still in bed at noon when my cell rang. I came fully awake in an instant and answered without looking at the caller.

  “Hannah,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “God, it’s you.” I threw back the quilt and stumbled out of bed. “Are you okay?”

  “No.” She paused, and then repeated firmly, “No.”

  My stomach started to churn.

  “What the hell is going on? I’ve been worried. Where are you?”

  “Well, Matt, I know your little private driver published Night Owl. And I know Nate was in on your fake death, and that’s why he offered me your money. All part of your plan, huh?” Hannah’s voice shook.

  I shook, too—an irrepressible tremor starting in my hands and working down my arms. Fuck. Fuck. She knew.

  “Hannah, let me explain—”

  “No!” Her shriek pierced my ear. “You always have an excuse. I don’t understand—why—why you would keep me in the dark—”

  “I didn’t ask Melanie to publish Night Owl. Listen to me.” I collapsed into an armchair and wiped a clammy hand across my brow. “She—well, I—” The facts scattered. How much did Hannah know? What should I explain? And how did she even find out? “Let me—”

  “No! No, no, no. I don’t care, Matt. I’ve known since yesterday. I spent the night trying to calm down, and I can’t.” Hannah laughed miserably. “God. Our relationship started with lies. I don’t know why I thought you’d changed. Is she still there? Is Melanie still driving you around?”

  I opened and closed my mouth. I thought if I spoke, I might throw up.

  Finally I whispered, “Yeah.”

  “Of course. Are you fucking her?”

  My thoughts flashed to th
e nighttime drive in Denver and Mel’s hand on my thigh, then on my dick. Revulsion rolled through me. “No.”

  “Well, I wish I could believe you,” Hannah said.

  I gripped my skull and felt the thick nausea that comes with anxiety. Oh, yes, this was familiar. I lied to Hannah and she caught me in the act. I should have known better, but I never learned, and I wondered at myself as I waited for Hannah to say more. Why did I always do the worst things? Why did I always arrange my life so that it was on the brink of collapse?

  The answer came to me as if it had only been waiting for the question.

  Because happiness is useless to me. Because I need agony and heat in my life.

  I swallowed. My saliva was bitter.

  “I thought the book would bring you back to me,” I said. “Say something.”

  “The book? What do you mean?”

  “Night Owl. I posted it…” I rose and began to pace, cutting back and forth across the room. Surely Hannah would understand that everything I had done, I did to bring her closer to me. “I posted it on that site. The Mystic Tavern. And Melanie, she just … found it and published it. Do you understand? I had no idea, but I wanted—”

  “Then how … do you know her?” Anger rippled through Hannah’s voice. She sounded raw, on the brink of screaming or tears. “And why the fuck did you put the book online?”

  “I didn’t know her. I found her on the forum. Doesn’t matter. I called her…” I waved my hand. God, nothing was coming out right. None of this really mattered. The only thing that mattered was that … “I did it for us,” I hissed. “The book. I wanted everyone to know about us. I thought if you understood how it felt, when the whole world can see the most private parts of your life, that you’d finally get how it is for me, Hannah … and that you’d leave all that behind.”

  Hannah said nothing.

  I stopped pacing and listened to the fast, heavy beat of my heart.

  “Hannah?”

  She giggled. I smiled uneasily, one corner of my mouth quirking up.

  “You see?” I said. “I missed you so much. When I got out here, I realized I couldn’t—”

  “You really are insane,” she whispered.