Last Light (27 page)

“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 thanked 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.

“Best I can do for now. I’m not going to offer you pain meds.”

“Don’t want any,” I said. “How’s Hannah?”

“I don’t know, Matt. I saw her on Thursday. She left angry, like I said…”

“I need you to drop the lawsuit.”

Nate’s head came up. His face clouded with confusion. “She told you about that?”

“Of course.
I
wrote
Night Owl.
I wrote it. That girl who published it—Melanie—she did it because I asked her to. You can’t bring charges against her. It was my doing.”

“What?” Nate’s voice was breathless.

“I can’t explain it all now. Please, will you let it go?”

“Matt, of course … I…”

My words were a blow to Nate, I could see that. He reeled and touched the wall. And God, I felt like a criminal. All these months he’d been pursuing
Night Owl,
imagining he was doing me a favor, and probably focusing on the case in lieu of worrying about me. Now I yanked it out from under him.

“I’m sorry, Nate. I should have told you. I didn’t want to risk the contact, but I should have … told Hannah, and had her tell you. Something, I don’t know.”

“It’s…” Nate paced the narrow width of the hall. “I had no idea. It’s nothing like your other books, it’s—”

“Vulgar,” I murmured.

“That, too.” He rolled his eyes. “How could you publish such a thing? Did you spare one thought for Hannah?” Nate turned on me, his gaze hardening. “You didn’t even change her damn name. How could you?”

He took a swift step toward me and I moved to meet him. We bristled in silence, glaring into one another’s eyes.

“It’s
my
book.
Our
story. Don’t tell me what I should have done or shouldn’t have written. It’s my writing, Nate.”

“Oh, you and your precious writing.”

“What about it?” I got in Nate’s face. There was a time when Nate could beat me handily, but we were older now and equals. “I love Hannah. She knows I love her.”

“Does she?” Nate’s temper defused with a sigh. He backed down, and I backed down. He turned away. “Go see about it. I’ll call Shapiro tomorrow.”

“Don’t be angry with me.” I moved around to look at Nate. “You can’t be.”

He smirked and shook his head slowly. “Don’t I know it, brother.”

“I have to go, Nate. We’ll talk soon. Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

We embraced again.

“How do you plan to come back to life?” Nate said.

“I don’t know. With a bang?” I nudged him. “Nah, but really … I’ll contact Pam. If she doesn’t kill me or drop me, she’ll help me negotiate something with the press. She has all these”—I waved a hand—“connections. I’ll tell you, though, it’s going to be fucking painful.”

Nate nodded and smiled at me. So much emotion had boiled over in that hallway, it was hard to believe he was smiling again.

“You better get back to your boy,” I said.

We shook hands and Nate grasped my arm.

“And you get back to your girl,” he said.

I didn’t want to wait for the elevator; I didn’t want to watch Nate walk off. I took the stairs down to the lobby. As I breezed through the opulent space—white marble walls, high ceilings with gilt molding—my fingers went for the hat and sunglasses in my coat pocket.

I stopped my hand.
No, no more of that
.

I walked out into the bustle of Fourteenth Street. I searched for Mel’s bright blue car. People pushed around me. A show must have just ended at the arts center or opera house.

Before long, I heard a silvery giggle and a gasp float over from a group of women.

“It
is
!” one said, elbowing her companion.

“You’re crazy,” said another. “Stop staring.”

I glanced at them.

The bold one, the slender woman who spoke first, approached me.

“You’re M. Pierce,” she said. She pointed at me with her cigarette. “I know it’s you. I saw a thing about you in the
Post.
”