by M. Pierce
I realized I couldn’t live without you.
“What?” I steadied myself against the wall.
“Yeah. You’re fucking crazy. You … you put Night Owl online … and let some stranger publish it … to make my life hell? To make me so uncomfortable that I … would abandon my life and come live in the fucking woods with you like a fucking crazy person?” Hannah’s voice rose hysterically. “Fuck you, Matt Sky. Fuck you!”
“No. No, Hannah. Listen—” I shook my head.
“You listen.” Hannah’s quavering voice grew clear and diamond hard. “This is over.”
“What? I—”
“This. Is. Over. We. Are. Over.”
Above the sound of my booming heart, I missed the click of Hannah ending our call. I kept talking, my voice insistent and panicked. Angry. Then pleading. “It is not over! What do you mean, over? You don’t get to say that. I love you. You don’t understand…”
I panted in the silence. Jesus—she couldn’t be serious.
“Hannah? Hannah?”
I looked at my phone. She was gone.
My thumb hovered over the Send button, and then I lowered my cell. I knew this game. I would call; the call would go to voice mail. I would leave messages; she would delete them.
We’d been here before, and because of my lies.
Happiness is useless to me.
I focused on controlling my breathing, in and out, slowing my heart rate.
I slipped my phone into my pocket and flattened my hands against the wall.
I pressed my forehead to the wall, too, and stood entirely still.
And then I wound my arm back and slammed my fist into the wall—once, twice, harder each time—until I heard a low crack and felt the pain.
Chapter 35
HANNAH
I turned off my TracFone. I turned off my iPhone, too.
I unplugged the condo landline, shut down my laptop, and sat on the couch.
The couch Matt bought.
I gazed around the living room, and everywhere my eyes landed I saw something Matt had purchased … for us. A steady static buzz filled my mind.
Right now, I knew, he was calling and calling and calling. Or making lists. Or drinking. Or maybe driving off into the sunset with Melanie.
Or hell, maybe he was already conspiring with Nate to bribe me into forgiving him—which wasn’t happening. Not this time.
I scrubbed my face and hugged my legs to my chest, forehead on knees. There. Somehow, that tight, defensive posture would protect me.
My mind skipped over the last nine months, a stone touching memory. I thought of Matt at his best: watching me compulsively, smiling when I caught him staring, or looming over me in bed, moving with his trademark hunger and intensity. Hair wild. Skin gleaming.
His handsome face. His complicated heart.
And then I thought of Matt at his worst: drunk in New York, unable to meet my eyes, or hiding in our condo, disgusted by the world’s curiosity. Paranoid. Angry. Duplicitous. And now … shamelessly admitting that he put Night Owl online in a twisted effort to manipulate me.
Memory stopped, and I sank.
Tears threatened, hot with anger, and fear tightened around my heart. Matt … my Matt. No! Not my Matt. A liar. Always lying. Always hurting me to get what he wanted, even when I was the thing he wanted.
Despite my balled-up barricade of limbs, I began to tremble. Blindly, I felt for the nearest pillow and buried my face in it. Ribs of corduroy pressed back. I swear, that pillow smelled like Matt. A dry sob escaped me, and I screamed—the sound ugly and hoarse. It was over. We were over. I gave myself up to the rending panic of separation, the heart clinging to what it knows—Matt—and then I dropped the pillow and shuffled into the kitchen.
Painful hiccups constricted my throat.
But at least I wasn’t a crying, snotty mess. Sadness could wait until later. Right now, I needed anger.
After a few false starts, I wrote a note on our magnetic memo pad.
Matt,
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I tried to get close to you. I tried to know you. But you never let me in. You’re the lord of lies.
Don’t try to find me. Like I said—we’re over.
Hannah
I reread the note, then tore it from the pad and left it on the kitchen counter.
Like I said—we’re over.
The words became a rhythm, driving me forward.
If Matt wasn’t losing his mind right now, he was on his way here. I had two hours tops.
We’re over. I dragged my suitcase out of the closet. It’s over. I began to pack, grabbing clothes and toiletries. We’re over. My laptop, my purse, work-related papers. It’s over.
I took nothing Matt had given me. I took only what I needed.
A wide-eyed Laurence watched me dash through the condo.
When my suitcase was full, I plunked it down by the door, my car keys jangling in my hand. Ready to go. My heart thudded crazily. A sweat-soaked curl stuck to my temple. In my head, the voice of reason said: Get out! Get away from this unhealthy situation. Get away from this unhealthy man. Matthew Sky.
“Matt,” I whispered, and his name summoned the memory of him, tall and moody, demanding, passionate, green eyed. My own personal monster of jealousy. I winced. Another girl might have found Matt’s devotion compelling—he was willing to do anything to have me—but it frightened me. He frightened me.
I had called him the lord of lies, and that title seemed more and more appropriate.
“Good-bye,” I said. The word slipped off my tongue, into our quiet condo, which held our hundreds of memories. Please, I thought, let me go this time. And even as I issued that silent plea, I knew he wouldn’t. How could I make him let me go?
My heart hurt—that tight, ironic pain localized in the chest.
I fished a pen out of my purse and walked back to the kitchen counter.
I knew how to make Matt let me go, and it was terrible.
I had to hurt him. I had to lie. I had to get on his level, and make him know this pain.
My hand shook above the note on the counter. After all these lies, what was one more? I swallowed, and then I scribbled a line at the bottom of the page:
P.S. I slept with Seth.
Chapter 36
MATT
Mel followed me through the cabin as I packed.
I didn’t have much—just a duffel bag of clothes and toiletries, a few books, my laptop, and my writing supplies. I moved the perishable food to the freezer. I made my bed.
In my mind, I said good-bye to each room.
The master bathroom where I fucked Hannah in the tub.
The bedroom where we made love all night.
The guest bedroom, which I considered “Mel’s room.”
The cellar where I hid Kevin’s broken chair.
Good-bye.
I lingered in the open main room, the kitchen and living room with its many windows. Afternoon sunlight lay along the floor. It glanced off the counters and gleamed on my desk, which was not really my desk.
But it had been my desk, as much as anything belongs to anyone. I sat there and did good work. And when I needed a break …
I walked out onto the deck. Mel lurked, my petite shadow.
“Your hand,” she whispered.
I glanced at my hand. Something was broken; I’d made sure of that. Maybe a knuckle. Maybe one of those long fine bones between the joints. Nate would know, though I didn’t particularly care. I just wanted the pain—hard and real and punishing.
A pain to keep me in the present moment.
A pain to keep me from losing it, because losing it is the easy way out.
“It feels fine,” I lied.
I adjusted the bandage around my palm. It was Mel’s handiwork, a bulky mess of gauze and medical tape. I’d called Mel as soon as I got off the phone with Hannah. I said we needed to get to Denver—now—and then I started packing with one hand, swearing every time my swollen
knuckles grazed a wall.
By the time Mel arrived, my hand was puffy and wine red.
“You’re sad,” Mel insisted, her small voice bringing me back to reality.
I shrugged. It seemed like a good sign that I wasn’t manic with urgency, and it also seemed like a bad sign. Like I was resigned. Like I was going back to Denver the way people return to a burnt home—not to salvage it, but to wade through the wreckage and suffer.
This. Is. Over. We. Are. Over.
“Not sad, Mel. Just saying my good-byes.”
I looked to the mountains, which were magnificent with snow and sunlight. They were horrible, too, because I almost died there. Good-bye. Good-bye to the aching silence and this white, unembellished peace. The incredible wind. The night full of coyotes, their ululating cries like laughter, and owls calling in the dark. Good-bye.
Melanie joined me at the railing.
That day, she wore her boots with fur flaps and her fur-trimmed canvas jacket.
“I thought you were scared of good-byes,” she said.
“I’m not scared of them. Why are you so happy? Don’t you know what this means?”
“I’m not happy.” She hunkered into her jacket. “I’m … accepting, I guess. I knew you couldn’t pay me to keep you company forever.”
I smirked and turned to really look at Melanie. Silly girl.
“I paid you to drive me,” I said. “The company, I hope, was free of charge.”
She smiled. “Yeah. It was.”
“Mm … I thought so.” Because we would be parting ways soon and there would be nothing more between us, I slid my fingers into Mel’s hair. The red mop felt as I’d imagined: heavy and glossy. She laughed while I fluffed her hair, but I could see her disappointment.
“This is all I get, huh?” She rolled her eyes up toward my hand.
“Yes.”
“You won’t kiss me?”
“No.”
“How about a hug?”
I tilted my head, frowned, and then I pulled her little body to mine. She wrapped her arms around my waist. She felt smaller than she looked. Fragile. “Listen, Mel. After you drop me off, I want you to go home. You understand that?”
“Yeah.” She buried her face in my coat.
“No more of this. Don’t come back to the cabin; it’ll be locked. Don’t stay in Denver. Go home. Do you have all your things?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Hannah knows you published Night Owl. I think my brother knows, too.”
Mel flinched in my arms. Her head shot up. “He does?”
“Yes. Just listen to me, Mel.” I gripped her shoulder, my bandaged hand hanging uselessly at my side. “If anyone calls or e-mails you about the book, you don’t speak to them. Soon it will be over. And remember, I told you to put Night Owl up for sale.”
Mel’s brow creased. “No, you d—”
“Yes,” I said, “I did. Are you not hearing me? I contacted you online in January. I didn’t reveal my identity to you, but I gave you a link to my story on the Mystic Tavern and I gave you permission to publish it as an e-book, and so you did. I told you to keep the earnings, which you did. You’ve done nothing illegal, and you didn’t know I was Matthew Sky. We never met.”
“Why?” Mel said.
“Do you want my brother to sue you? He just might, Mel, even if he knows I wrote the book. What I told you is your story. Tell it to me.”
Mel looked at her feet. God, what a child she was. She only saw me erasing her from my life. She didn’t see that I was protecting her.
“You … contacted me online—”
“Not me,” I snapped. “A stranger. Via the forum. Start again.”
“Okay, okay. A stranger contacted me on the forum. Gave me a link to the story and told me to publish it and keep the money, so I did.”
“There’s my Alexis Stromgard.” I forced a smile, which felt thin and defeated. “Oh, and I told you what pen name to use. I told you to use W. Pierce, didn’t I?”
Mel nodded. I paused, considering her face.
“Why did you use W. Pierce, anyway?”
“I wanted to give you some credit,” she said. “I knew you wrote it, Matt. I just knew it; I could tell. And so I knew you had to be alive. I wanted to get your attention.”
I laughed suddenly, although I wasn’t happy. She wanted to get my attention?
“Well, Melanie vanden Dries.” I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “That you did.”
*
Every bump in the road sent a pulse of pain through my hand.
Mel kept glancing at me—I felt her anxious stare—but I watched the passing scenery.
Mel didn’t play music. I barely let myself think. If I thought, after all, my mind ran in circles. Why am I even going to Denver? It’s over with Hannah, and I should have stayed at the cabin. I need a new plan. I need …
What?
The winding mountain road cut through one-street towns, and soon we were on the highway and I felt the unavoidable pull of the city. I slouched in my seat. Exit ramps and neighborhoods went zinging past. The world that wanted to stare into this car, and into my life.
Soon it would get its wish.
About half an hour from Denver, I dialed Nate on my prepaid cell.
We hadn’t spoken in months. I’d decided we should avoid contact after I staged my death—but that didn’t matter now.
Several long rings sounded on the line.
Then, my brother’s voice. “Hello?”
“Nate, it’s me.”
“Oh…” He went quiet. I knew emotion had a hand around his throat.
“It’s good to hear your voice, Nate.”
“Matt. How are you?”
“I’m all right. Don’t worry, I’m all right.”
I heard a muffled, choked sob. God, it really fucked me up when Nate cried. I turned away from Mel as best I could and lowered my voice.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m coming back to Denver, okay? It’s over.”
“Thank God. Can I see you?”
Nate told me he was in Denver then. “Checking up on Hannah,” he explained, and he talked about Hannah in his hotel room and their argument and her departure. I ground my teeth as I listened. Nausea roiled in the pit of my stomach. Of course, I thought. This is how Hannah found out about Melanie. Nate’s lawsuit. Nate’s involvement in my phony death. All of it.
“Matt?”
“I’m here. Sorry.” I leaned my head against the window and exhaled a patch of fog. It was too late to get upset with my brother. Everything was crumbling. “I’d like to see you, yes.”
“She guessed … about me. I couldn’t say no. She looked me right in the eye and told me I knew. I’m sorry…”
“Don’t be, Nate. Don’t worry about it. I should have told her from the start.”
“I’ve got Owen with me. Meet me in the hallway?”
“Yeah, sure.” I eyed my bandaged hand. “And hey, I could use your orthopedic skills, if you’ve got the time.”
“What happened? What’s going on?”
“It’s no big deal. A minor accident. I’ll be there in twenty minutes or so.”
Nate said good-bye and I ended the call.
“Problems?” said Mel.
“No.” I swiped her phone from the console and changed our destination to the Hotel Teatro. “Slight change of plans, that’s all.”
*
Melanie dropped me off in front of the hotel.
There was no parking on the street, so I told her to circle back in fifteen minutes.
I knew my way around the Hotel Teatro. The concierge barely glanced at me as I headed to the elevator.
I rode up alone to the Chancellor’s Suite, and when I stepped into the hallway, I saw Nate in front of the door. He stood with his head inclined toward it, probably listening for Owen, but when he saw me he came running.
“There you are,” he called.
We clasped one another in a hug. Nate kissed my neck and t
hanked God. I clung to him with one arm.
“Brother,” I said, and I squeezed him with all my might.
“How are you? God, look at you. Look at this.” He ruffled my hair.
“I know.” I smiled bleakly. “Disguise, you know?”
“Sure. Of course.” He patted my cheek.
We held on to one another, and Nate’s eyes shone with tears, and my voice kept catching with emotion. The last year had been so mad. I regretted dragging Nate into my messes, but he couldn’t be kept out. He came willingly, forcefully. He’d been that way since we were boys.
“I can’t stay long,” I said. “Gotta find Hannah.”
Nate drew back, held me at arm’s length, and scrutinized me. His eyes paused on my bandaged hand, continued down my legs, then tracked back up to my face. Searching for signs of damage, physical or mental. Always the doctor.
And I closed my eyes, because looking at Nate then felt too much like looking at Dad. He knelt to study my hand, and memories drowned me. Dad’s dark head bent over my boyhood scrapes. Dad laughing, scolding me, smoothing a Band-Aid across my leg. Or Mom with her heavy auburn hair and delicate body, saying good-bye before they left for Brazil.
I don’t remember my parents. Another lie I told Hannah.
Nate chuckled, the sound jarring with my thoughts.
“I don’t want to leave Owen alone much longer myself,” he said. “Don’t want him barging out here, you know? But let’s take a quick look at this hand.”
Nate unwound the tape around my knuckles. I didn’t open my eyes. I felt dull pain and a small dislocated sensation, and then a sharp flash of hurt as Nate applied pressure.
“Fuck!” My eyes flew open.
“Okay, it’s okay.” Nate smiled up at me. I gave him an anguished look, because every fucking thing hurt. Memory hurt, my heart hurt, my hand hurt, and I needed to get to Hannah. “It feels like you’ve got a boxer’s fracture. I won’t ask how this happened”—his eyes narrowed—“though I think I know. The good news is, it doesn’t feel too displaced. You’ll need X-rays. I’m going to buddy tape it, but don’t use this hand until you see a doctor.”
“I am seeing a doctor,” I muttered, and Nate ignored me.
He reused the medical tape to bind my middle and ring fingers.
