Last Light (30 page)

I was no longer hiding and running.

I was simply lying on the tracks, waiting for the next stray train to take me out.

After three cigarettes and a parade of questions, I said, “Look, I’ve got to go.”

“Can I get a picture?”

“Sure.”

I remained seated on the stairs—it seemed fitting—and Snow crouched on the pavement to get a good angle. “Do I look like a writer?” I said.

He laughed. “You do. Can I have a formal interview sometime?”

“Mm. But don’t run this story tomorrow, Snow. Let me chat with Pam first.”

“Your agent.”

“That’s right.” We walked back around the condo together.

“I’m surprised she kept you on.”

“Are you?” I smiled and we shook hands. Snow seemed very young then, and guileless.

As I was heading for the door, he said, “Hannah Catalano is the girl, right?”

I turned sharply.

“Back off,” I growled, and Snow recoiled.

My anger faded as fast as it flared, but it stunned me. That fire. That fight I thought I’d lost.

Chapter 39

HANNAH

On Monday morning, I fortified my nerves with a smart outfit—a taupe square-neck pencil dress, nylons, and black heels—and marched into the Granite Wing Agency.

Yes, I took a week of vacation. And a week of sick leave. And another unexplained personal week. But I deserved it, which Pam would understand.

I shuffled up the winding stone stairs to the third floor. At the landing, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, and then I opened my eyes and stepped toward …
Matt.

I teetered on my heels.

He walked briskly toward the staircase, his hand gliding along the balcony railing. He appeared unaware of me—for now.

Relief flooded my system at the sight of him. He was doing okay. He was sober and sane … and ridiculously gorgeous in dark jeans and a fitted black T-shirt.

Ugh, I wanted to slap myself.
Anger. You are angry with him. Green-eyed liar.

Matt’s gaze focused on me, finally. His face paled and he twisted away like he might turn to stone if he looked too long. And I stared at his back, which I had touched a hundred times.

Yes—I smoothed my hand up his spine months ago in a storage room in Flight of Ideas.

Before all this craziness.

When he was mine, and I was his.

Matt visibly regained control. He tousled his hair, cleared his throat, and turned to face me. “Hannah,” he said. “It’s great to see you.”

Great to see me? Matt stared at the wall beyond me—easy for him, because he towered over me. I fought the urge to grip his jaw and force him to look me in the eye.

He was clean shaven, another good sign. I studied the fine golden hair on his forearms, the veins atop his hands, and the soft, comfortable-looking flip-flops he wore.

“You look good,” he said, still staring at a point above my head.

“So do you,” I whispered.

His eyes lit up briefly and sought mine, then swerved away. God … my heart hurt. This poor beautiful fucked-up boy—I’d made him feel undesirable, made him doubt his incredible magnetism, with my stupid lie about Seth.

He draws people in without even trying. Puts them under a spell …

Seth was right about that.

“I need to go,” Matt said. “Things to do.”

He moved past me and I wanted to scream.
Things … like what?
Microwave dinners to make? Tears swarmed my eyes.
Fuck.
I was
not
becoming one of those weepy women.

I leaned against the railing and let him go. His sandals went slapping down the stairs behind me, the sound fading rapidly. I watched him cross the lobby far below. Black hair that should be blond. Broad shoulders I used to grip as he rode me. Not my Matt anymore.

Something less than Hannah proceeded to Pamela Wing’s office.

I knocked and she called, “Come in.”

I opened the door.

“Well, Hannah,” Pam said, not rising from her desk. She shifted her glasses down her nose and gazed at me over the frame. “Good to finally see you.”

My thoughts remained with Matt. How perfect that black shirt looked with his black hair. The subtle tawny tone to his skin. He’d gotten sun.

“Ms. Wing, I—”

Pam lifted a hand.

“No explanation needed,” she said, “but you will never do this again. I, too, have a personal life, Hannah. We all do. Personal struggles do not entitle us to shirk responsibility.”

I straightened my back. “I understand. Thank you.”

“And Matthew Sky is my client,” she went on. “Will this be a conflict?”

“No.” I shook my head hastily.

“Did you know he was alive?” Pam’s shrewd eyes narrowed.

“No.”
Yes.
But I couldn’t dispute the story Matt told the papers. He wanted to take the fall alone. “I only found out when he showed up at the condo. I … moved out.”

I chewed my lip while Pam digested my lie.

“Smart girl,” she said. “He’s absolutely insane. Absolutely.”

“Are you going to drop him?”

I held my breath.

Pam’s brassy laughter filled the office.

“Drop him? Please, Hannah. I think his little cult following tripled in light of this stunt. Americans love their deranged artists. I could almost kiss him, if I weren’t so furious.”

I waited for Pam to say more. I wanted to hear
why
she was furious: because she missed Matt, because she’d grieved for him, because she loved him, in her way.

Matt and Pam never said that, though. They refused to acknowledge any feelings for one another.
She’s a shark,
said Matt.
He’s insane,
said Pam. But together, they were almost like family, and I envied their closeness.

“At any rate,” Pam said, “you have a lot of catching up to do.”

I know a Pam Wing dismissal when I hear it. I nodded and moved toward my office, but Pam spoke again as I reached the door.

“Ah, speaking of Matthew—he’s scheduled to appear on the
Denver Buzz
in May. May fourteenth. Gail made a special opening for him.”

I tried to picture Matt surviving a major talk show, and I felt a fierce, reflexive protectiveness.
Leave him alone.

“Great,” I said. “That’ll be invaluable exposure for him.”

“Yes, exactly. We chatted about it this morning. I’ve e-mailed you his talking points, and I need those on index cards by the end of the day. He’ll pick them up tomorrow.”

“Sure. Of course.” I thought about Matt saying he had
things to do,
and I knew he was lying. Pretending he had a life outside of his writing. “I … still have a key to our mailbox at the condo, actually.” I made my voice indifferent. “I could drop them off tonight.”

“Even better,” Pam said.

*   *   *

I left work at seven thirty.

I could have spent another hour in my office—I was way behind—but I wanted to catch Matt when he came down to check the mail. An ambush. I needed to see him again.

I drove to the complex and let myself into the lobby, which was quiet and smelled of linoleum. For twenty minutes, I dawdled by the wall of mailboxes. I jingled my keys and paced.

Ideally, Matt would find me here, as if we met coincidentally the moment I entered the lobby. Better than Matt finding me opening his mailbox. If this was still his mailbox. What if he’d moved out? God, he probably moved out. Or maybe he’d already checked the mail.

Maybe. What-if. So many possibilities.

I wiggled the mailbox key into the lock on box seven.

I tapped the packet of index cards against my thigh.

The longer I waited for Matt, the more miserable I felt, because I couldn’t remember the simplest details of his routine. When he picked up the mail. When he ate dinner or worked out.

And I wanted to know those things.

I wanted to forgive him and be his little bird, but I’d alienated him completely with my lie about Seth. Then, to make matters worse, I went ahead and hooked up with Seth.

God, what had I done?

With a whimper, I wrenched open the mailbox.

A small voice in the back of my head reminded me that tampering with mail is a federal crime. I almost laughed. It would serve me right, ending up in court for this.

I flipped through Matt’s mail without removing it from the box. Okay, he still lived here. He had two bills, a book of coupons, the latest issue of
Poetry
magazine, and a padded manila envelope. I pinched the corner of the package and slid it out enough to read the return address.

My eyes didn’t get past the sender name:
Melanie vanden Dries
.

A chill rippled through me.

What in the actual fuck?

My propriety—and any concern for legality—vanished. I yanked the envelope from the mailbox and tore it open. Bubble padding snapped in the silence.

The package contained a marble composition book and a letter.

They’re keeping in touch. Matt and Melanie. Lovers. Of course. Of course!

I shook open the letter with unsteady hands.

Dear Mr. Sky,

Thank you so much for the opportunity to review LAST LIGHT. Unfortunately, after carefully reviewing your material, I’ve determined that this particular project isn’t the right fit for me. I wish you all the best in your publishing endeavors.

Sincerely,

Melanie vanden Dries (:

P.S. I bet you haven’t gotten a letter like this in a while. Keeping you humble, Mr. Sky.

My brow furrowed.

Again, I thought,
What the fuck? Is this some kind of inside joke?

I slumped onto the ground, clutching the notebook. I felt sure that what I was about to read would break my heart—and I was right, as it turns out.

I flipped open the cover.

On the first page, I recognized Matt’s unambiguous handwriting. Black ink. Slanting letters crammed together. The words pressed hard into the paper:

December is the cruelest month to die in …

Chapter 40

MATT

I ran right up to the complex, holding on to that heart-stopping sensation until the last moment. I unlocked the lobby door and jogged in. My sneakers squeaked on the linoleum.

I almost missed her.

She made no sound, only sat crumpled below the mailboxes.

A torn yellow envelope lay across her lap, and on top of that, my notebook.

I breathed deep and fast. Acid burned in my legs and sweat poured down my face. I barely heard my voice above my heart.

“Hannah…”

Red puffiness rimmed her eyes.

As I got closer, I saw tear tracks on her cheeks.

“For … the talk show,” she mumbled. She thrust a bundle of index cards up at me.

“Ah.” I wiped my hand on my shirt, which was plastered to my torso. My basketball shorts were sweat soaked, too. “These must be … my talking points?”

I scanned the scene, starting to understand. Hannah brought the notecards to my mailbox. She still had a key. Maybe she meant to return the key.

She opened the box, saw Melanie’s envelope, and …

“You read it,” I said. “My new book.”

“Some of it. I skimmed the whole thing.”

I watched her fight a wave of emotion—she was beautiful, strong and proud—and she lifted her head in a simple gesture of defiance.

“Take the cards,” she whispered.

I shook my head.

“You bring them up. I’m covered in sweat.” I turned and headed to the stairs, listening for Hannah behind me. I can’t say what I felt—I don’t know. Was it anger, anticipation, gladness? Tonight, my little bird flew home.

When I opened our door, she stood behind me.

I flicked on a light in the kitchen.

I’d put away Hannah’s good-bye note—thank God—and kept the place clean. I’d changed nothing in her absence, though the pantry contained chips and ramen instead of real food.

I brushed my finger splint from the counter into a drawer. No point explaining about that.

What now?

Hannah placed my mail and the index cards on the island. I wanted to touch her—to lift her dress—and then I thought about Seth and felt ill.

“I’m glad you read it,” I said. “Now you know.”

“What do I know?” She lingered by the counter.

That I love you,
I thought,
and that I didn’t sleep with Mel, and how everything slid out of control.
But all I said was, “I need a shower. I won’t be long. Stay if you want.”

I left her standing in the kitchen.

And I knew she’d be gone when I got back.

Chapter 41

HANNAH

Matt disappeared around the corner and soon I heard water jolting the old pipes. Jeez, he was dripping sweat. He never ran like that when we were together.

I drifted through the kitchen and living room. I trailed my fingers over Matt’s marble notebook.
Last Light.
It was a sequel to
Night Owl.
More of our story. And what a story it was.

Why didn’t he tell me about it?

I spent a moment in front of the hallway mirror, blew my nose and dried my eyes, and then I settled on the couch. Laurence watched my benignly.

If Matt’s story was true, and I believed it was, then he never slept with Mel. He also spared me the harrowing details of his fall and the mountain lion attack.

And, though I hated to admit it, reading Matt’s version of events helped me understand why he put
Night Owl
online—just a little. I still thought it was wrong, but at least I understood.

I stared into space until I heard the whine of our bedroom door.

Oh …

Matt was getting dressed.

I could walk into that room right now and find him peeling off his towel, naked, clean …

“You’re still here.”

I started. Heat rushed to my cheeks when I laid eyes on him. Good Lord. His towel-dried hair spiked in every direction. His handsome face was somber, eyes glowing. Dark lounge pants and a T-shirt clung perfectly to his stunning body.