Last Light (18 page)

She emerged from the car laughing.

First I saw her head. She had brilliant red hair, which she wore in a wavy bob. Her eyes were large and luminous, and looked larger for her small face. She was small all over. Petite shoulders, a slim torso, slender legs. A pixie.

She came bouncing over to me, the furred hood of her coat bobbing.

I stepped backward and nearly fell into a snowbank.

“This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done!” she shouted.

On the phone, Melanie gave an impression of polish and poise. Before me stood a girlish and excitable waif.

“Then I feel sorry for you,” I murmured.

“Oh, stop it. What’s the craziest thing
you’ve
ever done?”

I gave her a flat look. “Gee, Melanie, I dunno, that would be a close tie between acid and faking my own death.”

She beamed up at me.

I frowned down at her. “Look, how old are you anyway?”

“Twenty-two.” She arched a brow. “How old are you, old man?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Oh, dang.” She giggled. “Climbing the hill, old sport.”

Old sport?
I cocked my head.

“Let me get your bag.”

“Bags,” she chimed.

Bags indeed. Two large, cheap suitcases and a duffel bag filled the trunk.

“Are you serious?” I hauled the suitcases to the front door. Mel brought the duffel. “I only need you for … a week or two, remember?”

Melanie hovered around the cabin. She ignored my remark and I dropped it. In truth, I had no idea how long I
needed
Mel, or how long I would want her around.

I paced behind the couch and watched her.

Unreal, to have another person in the cabin. And not Hannah, and not just any other person. The woman who published my book.

No, the girl who published my book.

She wore a fitted canvas jacket with fur trim, skinny jeans, and black Uggs. I really must not have lifted my head at the book signing, because Mel’s face was a stranger’s face.

At the moment, she was making a study of my desk. She smoothed a hand over my laptop, tapped the mouse, and then reached for my notebook.

“Don’t touch it,” I said quietly.

Melanie spun to face me. Her smile trembled and her voice faltered. “Sorry! So … curious about the writer’s cave.”

“The writer’s cave?”

“Yeah. Haven’t you heard that expression?”

“No.” I walked around the couch and settled down, my ankle propped on my knee, eyes on Mel. I forced a small smile, which only seemed to exacerbate her nerves.

“Well, it’s just a thing. Like, a thing people say.” She gestured frenetically. “I know because I seriously
live
on the Internet. I have a blog. I blog about my hobbies—gardening, cooking, reading, dance. Anyway, the cave, uh, your writing space. Stupid jargon, basically it—”

I held up a hand. “I understand. Thank you.”

Mel laughed too loud. She shifted her weight from foot to foot and avoided my stare.

“Are you hungry?” I said.

“No.”

“Thirsty?”

“Nope nope nope.”

“Suit yourself. There’s food and drinks in the fridge.” I pointed. “And the pantry. Cups are there, plates there. I won’t cook for you, so make yourself at home.”

Melanie nodded. She went to her duffel bag and began rummaging through it. I watched her with interest.

“Are you afraid to be here with me?” I said after a while. “You can stay at a hotel.”

“No, I’m fine.” She removed a book from her bag, then another, building a pile.

“Do your parents know you’re out here?”

She snorted. “I’m twenty-two. I have an apartment with friends. My parents don’t need to know everything I do anymore.”

“You say twenty-two like that’s old. You’re a child to me.”

“You’re only seven years older.” Melanie set the books on the coffee table, and I saw that they were … mine.

There was
Ten Thousand Nights
with its handsome jacket, and
Harm’s Way, Mine Brook, The Silver Cord
, all in hardcover.

“You’ll be surprised how much older you feel in seven years,” I said. I leaned over the books and inspected them, smiling. “The gravity of living”—I flipped open
Mine Brook
—“increases exponentially.”

Mel thrust a pen at me. I smirked and took it.

“You signed my paperbacks in Denver,” she said, “and you didn’t give me the time of day. I’m your biggest fan. So I’m trying again.”

“Fair enough.” In
Mine Brook,
I wrote:
For Melanie, my driver. M. PIERCE.

“Sign your real name,” she said.

I opened
Ten Thousand Nights
and scribbled:
For the persistent Melanie. W. PIERCE.

“You’re a dork.”

“All right, all right.” I laughed and rolled my eyes. I signed
The Silver Cord
and
Harm’s Way
MATTHEW R. SKY JR.

Melanie traced her finger under the scrawl. “Junior,” she said.

“Yes. Matthew was my father’s name.” I rose and moved away from the couch. “You can sit there, if you like. Before I forget—”

In the desk drawer was an envelope containing three thousand dollars, which I’d separated from my funds last night. I handed it to Mel. Her eyes widened at the feel of it; three thousand in fifties is quite a wad. “There’s that. It’s the amount I mentioned on the phone, and it should cover your travel expenses to and around here, and back to Iowa, with money to spare. If you stay on another week, I’ll pay you again.”

She fumbled with the envelope before shoving it in her duffel bag.

“You can count it,” I said. I fetched a bottle of water from the fridge and set it on the coffee table. “Please drink that. You look pale.”

“
You
look pale.” She plopped onto the couch. “Your hair…”

“What about it?”

“It’s so black. It makes you look a little pale.”

“You’re one to talk about hair color.” I gestured to Mel’s wild red locks. “That cannot humanly be natural.”

She shrugged.

We stared at one another in a silent deadlock.

My God, a twenty-two-year-old. I wanted to kick myself. Had I known Mel was so young, I would never have invited her. It felt weird—wrong, almost—to have this girl at the cabin. I should keep my distance. Keep this as professional as possible.

I cleared my throat.

“I’m going to my room,” I said. “Your room is down the hall to the left. Knock if you need anything.” I checked my watch. “I was hoping to go to Denver tonight, but it’s getting late and I’m sure you’re tired of driving. We’ll head down tomorrow.”

“Sure thing.” Mel began to unpack her duffel. I loitered and watched as she got out an iPad and a laptop and turned them on.

“What are you doing?”

“Making a hotspot.” She grinned at me. “You know, so I—”

“I know what a fucking hotspot is. I mean
why?
”

“I have to update my blog.”

“You can’t blog about this!” I towered over Mel and glared at her laptop.

“Down, boy. I’m not blogging about
this.
I’m just writing about my trip.”

“Typical.” I threw up my hands. “Typical.”

Melanie began to laugh, the sound high and fluting.

“What are you laughing at?” I snapped.

“If—if you could see yourself.” She was breathless with laughter. “Oh, my gosh. You looked so mad just then, like you were going to attack my laptop.” She gulped down another laugh. “Oh, wow. I’m sorry. Please don’t have a heart attack.”

“You know I trust you, Melanie.” I stabbed a finger at her. “Don’t fuck me over.”

That chastened her. She frowned and looked at her feet.

I stalked toward the bedrooms, then doubled back to collect my notebook. I glanced around. “And don’t … try anything funny. Don’t make any trouble in here.”

I closed the bedroom door behind me. I stood with my ear pressed against it.

No sound.

I stood like that for fifteen minutes. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Mel had deceived me. She wasn’t simply a fan of my writing. She had an online presence, some silly blog. If she wanted to out me as the author of
Night Owl
—and as being alive, for that matter—she had an audience ready to listen. Fuck.

Plus, she acted like a thirty-year-old on the phone. I’d been duped.

The smell of garlic drifted down the hall.

I stormed back out of my room.

Mel stood at the stove humming and doing salsa steps, her hips swaying. I blinked. She’d removed her coat and wore a tight black sweater with a silver skull on the back.

“Stop dancing.”

She whirled. A piece of scrambled egg flew from her spatula.

“Unless your name is Hannah, this is a no-ass-shaking zone.” I padded over to inspect Mel’s cooking—a heap of scrambled eggs.

“Want some?” she said.

“No.” I popped a piece of egg into my mouth. “Yes.”

She made two plates. I pulled out a chair for Mel and took the opposite seat. As I was shoveling a forkful of eggs into my mouth, she said, “Do you mind if I say grace?”

I paused and regarded Mel from across the table. She held out her hand. After a space, I nodded and took it.

Her hand was tiny and feverishly hot.

For the first time in a long time, I lowered my head for prayer.

Mel began. “God is great, God is good. Let us thank Him for our food. Amen.”

“Amen,” I said, and I finally smiled.

Chapter 27

HANNAH

Chrissy dropped me off at the condo. We had a tense, silent ride home after I bawled her out for bailing on me. “Did something happen with Seth?” she said. I told her no. I told her it was the “principle of the matter.”

My heart was still speeding.

I climbed the steps to my door and fit the key in the lock. I wondered how much longer Seth would be in town. He had a gig, he said. Singular. One gig. If I had to guess, it would happen tomorrow or Saturday.

So I needed to sneak into the agency by the back door tomorrow, get to the release party on Saturday, stay in on Sunday, and hope to hell that Seth was out of town by Tuesday.

Then I would spend the week watching
The Surrogate
destroy the bestseller list.

I smiled as I let myself into the condo. Yes, and then Friday would arrive and I would see Matt, and forget about all this confusion with Seth.

“You look happy.”

I jumped and screamed, the sound somehow airless.
Oh, God. Oh, my God
. There was a voice, a figure where none should be—a man in my condo—
this is happening, this is happening.

All my instincts for self-preservation fled.

“Hannah, it’s me.”

My eyes adjusted marginally.

Matt stepped in front of a window and a streetlamp lit his profile.

I couldn’t suppress my panic.

Matt … he shouldn’t be here.

“It’s me,” he said again. “I didn’t want to turn on any lights.”

“How?” I said.

“I got a cab. Hannah, relax. I just got a cab. I had to see you.”

I flattened myself against the wall. Adrenaline stormed through me and I laughed. God, I felt strange and wonderful. Terror mingled with desire, mingled with happiness.

Matt advanced, tugging me into his arms. I wriggled in his hold. Helplessly, I remembered the way Seth felt as he pressed me close—the way my struggling excited him.

Matt tilted his head. His eyes flashed in the dark.

I kissed him, my tongue lashing across his mouth.

“Do it,” I whispered. “I want to fight it.”

Understanding dawned on Matt’s face. A smile moved his lips. My heart thumped, and I felt his beat harder against my chest.

“You remember our word?” he whispered.

I nodded. He meant our safe word,
peaches,
which I chose not long after we moved in together. Matt worried
peaches
might sound too much like
please,
but I wanted peaches, and so it was peaches.

Besides, I never needed the word. Not yet.

“Say it,” he murmured.

“Peaches.” I tried to pull out of his arms. They tightened around me and I gasped.

“Run away,” he whispered in my ear. “Make this good for me, Hannah. Make me believe you don’t want it. Fight me.”

He gave me a push and I stumbled into the wall. My purse fell.

I was viscerally reminded of Seth’s force, and of Nate with his black hair.
This hour is dreamlike,
Matt once said when I arrived at the cabin,
and nothing feels real in this light.
I understood as we faced off in the condo. Nothing feels real. The light goes out. We can be whatever we want to be.

I sprinted past Matt, my boots sliding on the hardwood.

The bitter taste of panic coated my tongue.

My night picked up where it left off at the mall. I was being chased. A stranger wanted me. He wanted to touch me in the most intimate way, and I wouldn’t let him.

I flew into the office and locked the door. Papers rustled in the dark. I never worked in this room, never sat in this room. The memory of Matt lived here.

I crouched in a ball behind the desk, my breasts pressed into my knees.

And I waited.

In the silence, I heard the loud rush of my breath and hammering heart.

“Come out, come out,” Matt called, “wherever you are.”

His voice echoed eerily through the condo. His footfalls sounded in the hall.

I scooted under the desk.

He tried the knob—lightly at first, then harder, the brass rattling.

He pressed against the door. “In here, is it?”

Then came a long, weighted silence, and a
crack
like a shot. I yelped and scrambled out from under the desk. The door hung open at a slant. Matt stood in the frame rubbing his shoulder. When he saw me, his eyes widened.

I leapt past him.

He caught me, and the air burst out of my lungs. We went down struggling.

I didn’t need to remember Matt telling me to fight him. I felt real fear—cold terror.

I twisted onto my stomach on the floor and scrabbled at the wood, but I couldn’t crawl away. Matt pinned me with his body. His strong legs locked against mine, and with one powerful hand he held down my neck. Air whistled through my windpipe.