Last Light (6 page)

Seth touched my shoulder and I looked at him sharply.

“Do you want to speak?” he whispered.

Matt’s uncle retook his place next to his wife, a petite woman with black hair. Was it my turn? I scanned the faces around me. Shapiro was there, a few cousins and other family members, my boss Pamela Wing, Nate and his family, and Seth. A pathetically tiny group. And almost everyone had said a word, except for me.

I shrugged off Seth’s hand.

The group parted for me and I moved to stand by Matt’s picture.

Again, I took stock of the faces before me—all eyes on me. How many of these people read
Night Owl
? How many thought I wrote it? And how many hated me for it?

I caught a small smile from Pam. God, at least I had one friend here.

“I lived with Matt,” I began, “for … for almost … two months.”

A patch of clouds closed over the sun. The graveyard dimmed.

“Two months. Two … of the happiest months … the two happiest months of my life.”

A day ago, I could recite this speech in my sleep. Now the words scattered.

“I … we met, um…”

A flash of movement caught my eye.

I looked toward the motion, which came from a figure standing apart from our group. It was a man. He seemed to be visiting a nearby grave, but as I focused I realized that he was watching our service. With a camera. What the hell?

He was taking a picture … of me.

“You motherfucker,” Seth growled.

“Seth!” Nate grasped his brother’s arm. Seth broke free and ran at the man with the camera. Owen began to cry.

The peace of the cemetery dissolved.

The other guests and I watched in a trance as Seth caught the man by the collar of his coat. “I’ll kill you!” Seth bellowed. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

The man’s arms flailed. The camera flew from his hand.

“Hannah Catalano!” he called to me. “Hannah! Aaron Snow! Please, we need to—”

His words cut away with a groan. Seth’s fist hit the man’s jaw with a dull thump. The reporter went down clutching his face. He curled on his side in the snow.

From where I stood, I could see the blood seeping from his cupped hands.

Chapter 8

MATT

I dyed my hair that night for the first time in my life. As I watched the charcoal swirls spin down the drain, I thought of Hannah.

Would Hannah like my hair black? It would be a surprise.

I slicked my fingers through my hair and shut off the shower.

I should prepare other surprises. I should have bought something special at Smart Mart—food for a nice meal or candles, maybe something sexy. Warming lube? A ribbed condom?

Ha¸
a condom. If Hannah and I didn’t use a condom the first time, we weren’t about to start now. And fuck if she wasn’t crazy to let me have her without a condom that night, IUD or no IUD. I knew I was clean, but Hannah couldn’t have known.

Sometimes, she was as reckless as I was.

I wiped fog from the mirror and inspected myself.

“Fuck,” I muttered. Black is … black. My skin looked pale against the wet spikes of hair. I needed a haircut. Long pieces matted against the back of my neck and across my brow.

But I looked less like Matt Sky, and that was the goal. Another way to hide. I dried my skin and padded out of the bathroom.

Most days, I didn’t give one fuck about how I looked. I looked damn good on my worst days. Hannah, though, made me want to look my best. I liked to make her stare. I liked the way she touched my body, with obvious appreciation.

The cabin had no treadmill, no pull-up bar, nothing—but I improvised. I had a one-hour routine of sit-ups, push-ups, crunches, and squats, plus the occasional jog through the woods and chopping firewood.

I pulled on jeans and built a new fire.

I wondered, not for the first time, if I would ever feel forgotten enough to stroll into a gym or barbershop. And if not, how would I live? What if I needed to go to the doctor? What if I needed a hospital?
What if, what if?

I studied my phone as I lay on the couch. Those moments were the worst, when I missed Hannah and the future felt impossible.

But the future feels impossible for everyone. That’s life, I told myself—a series of impossibilities ending in the greatest impossibility, death.

I waited for a call I had no reason to expect. Night thickened around the cabin. I turned out the lights and let the fire illuminate the main floor. Always, a fire. It was cheery and warm and it reminded me of—“Christmas,” I said aloud.

A broad smile spread on my face.
Christmas.
The perfect surprise for Hannah. We’d missed Christmas in December, so I would give her Christmas in February. Our own Christmas.

But how much time did I have?

I slid my finger along the kitchen calendar.

Hannah flew back to Denver tomorrow. I knew she wouldn’t take a week off work, meaning she would drive up to see me … on Friday, the 14th. Valentine’s Day.

How strange.

How perfect.

I jumped when my phone rang.

“Matt.” It was Hannah. I could barely hear her above what sounded like music and a crowd. “Are you there?”

“Bird, hey. God … I’m glad you called. I was just—”

“Matt, listen. We have a problem.”

Chapter 9

HANNAH

Noises from the main floor filtered to the basement. Classical music, muted steps, a hum of chatter. And the tone: cautious.

Funeral talk.

Now and then, laughter flared and died fast. Probably someone was reminiscing about Matt. A funny anecdote, I imagined.

I wanted to hear those stories, but I couldn’t be up there. I couldn’t stand another condolence for my loss; I couldn’t hug another tearful cousin who believed the lie of Matt’s death. More—I couldn’t handle another look of contempt.

During the memorial, I caught Matt’s aunt eyeing me with a gaze that said:
slut.

But I had bigger problems than that.

What did it mean, that
Night Owl
first appeared on the Web site where Matt and I met? Who else knew about that? How were we going to handle Shapiro’s lawsuit? And what the fuck did that reporter want?
Aaron Snow.
His name rang a bell.

I shrugged off my coat and draped it over the bed in the guest room. I smiled as I touched the comforter. Once, Matt and I slept in this bed.

After a moment, I drew back the sheets and slipped under them. I closed my eyes and reached out. Soon I would be with him. Soon my hand would find his skin, the body I loved. And the voice, the mind, the soul.

A light came on in the basement. I scrambled off the bed.

“You’re in the dark,” said someone who sounded just like Matt, but this time I wasn’t fooled. Psycho Seth.

Another light came on in the main room. I stepped out of the bedroom.

“I was lying down,” I said.

“Hell of a time for a nap.” Seth glanced at his watch. He still wore his leather jacket. I saw a strip of medical tape around his knuckles. “Who drove you home?”

“I have a headache. And one of your cousins drove me. What do you want?”

“I brought you some food.” He held out a plate. “Peace offering.”

I took the plate and retreated to a couch.

“No peace offering needed. We’re not at war. Earlier, the way you”—
the way you assaulted me?
—“the way you approached me about the book, that was … unacceptable. But I get it. Matt’s your brother and you think I wrote that book, but I didn’t. And if Shapiro has his way, we’ll all know who wrote it soon enough.”

I picked at a glorified piece of toast.

“Olive tapenade,” said Seth. “And egg. On the toast. It’s good. That’s a … cupcake.” He pointed, keeping his distance.

“Thanks, I see that.” I stuffed the tiramisu cupcake in my mouth.

I chewed and swallowed, and Seth stared at me.

“I like your dress,” he said.

“Uh … thank you. Yeah.” I jammed the toast in my mouth. I wanted my coat. I also wanted more food to stick in my mouth to avoid speaking.

I knew Seth’s eyes were strafing along my lace-covered arms. Something about skin peeking through lace is always sensual. I tucked the hem of the dress over my knees.

“I get what Matt saw in you,” he said.

I frowned and brushed crumbs from my lap.

“What is your deal?” I stood and moved away from Seth. “Have you been drinking? Because I haven’t, okay? I don’t really know anything about you, but it seems like you’re trying to make me uncomfortable … again. So please stop. Please leave me alone.”

“What did you see in Matt?” Seth took a step back. A laughable amount of space stood between us, plus a couch.

“I love him.”

“Loved.”

“I
love
him,” I said. “That doesn’t change because he’s gone.”

Seth smiled wolfishly. He sauntered over to a bookshelf and touched a spine. His posture was relaxed, his tone far cooler than mine. “I get it, Hannah. ‘Love is as strong as death,’ right?” After a space, he added, “Song of Solomon.”

“I know,” I snapped, but I didn’t. The reference was lost on me.

“You’re like a cornered animal. So defensive. I guess I deserve that. I’m not attacking you, though. I brought you some food, and I’ll go away soon, if that’s what you want.”

“Why did you hit the reporter?”

“He was taking pictures at my brother’s funeral.” Seth’s lips curled. Fire glimmered in his eyes. “I split his lip. And you ought to know he’s upstairs right now, receiving care from the good Doctor Nate. In return for not making trouble for me, the reporter gets to talk to you, just as soon as Nate finishes stitching him up.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Nate struck that deal. Obliging, huh? I knew you wouldn’t be happy about it. You weren’t happy about talking to Shapiro, either. Pretty fucking tense in that study. You going to thank me for giving you an excuse to bolt?”

Seth drifted into the guest bedroom and emerged with my purse and coat.

“Thanks,” I muttered.

“You’re welcome. And I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“You know what.” Seth glared at the wall, struggling with his apology as Matt always did. “For earlier. For what I said. What I did…” He flexed his long fingers, and I remembered the force of his grip on my arm. Then I remembered him plowing across the cemetery to punch the reporter who dared to take pictures at Matt’s memorial, and my anger faltered.

“Apology accepted, Seth.”

“Nate and Snow will be looking for you in about … five minutes, Hannah.” He offered my coat and purse, and he gazed at me earnestly. “You want to get lost?”

*   *   *

Seth drove too fast and I didn’t care.

We made our escape by the patio door. I actually laughed as we rushed across the snowy lawn. Seth almost fell. So did I.

“What’s so funny?” he said when we were on the road.

“I feel like we’re bad children.”

“Oh, I
am
a bad child.” He grinned.

I hadn’t thought about where we would go, and though I was alone with Seth, I wasn’t frightened. I just wanted to get away from Nate and the reporter.

I needed to talk to Matt before I answered any more questions about
Night Owl.

Besides, Matt and Nate were fundamentally good guys, and I assumed Seth was, too.

As if reading my mind, Seth said, “You’re not scared of me, are you?”

“No.”

“Good. I was rude earlier, I know. I wanted to see what kind of person you are. I thought you wrote that book, but you say you didn’t, and I believe you now.”

“Good.” I gave him a small smile. He looked ahead into the frozen night. He was part Nate, part Matt, part something of his own. The white tape on his knuckles shone in the dark.

“Where to, Miss Catalano?” Seth withdrew a flask from an inner coat pocket.

I laughed. “Wow, really?”

“Not for me. Not yet.” He offered the flask without taking his eyes off the highway.

“I have a plane to catch tomorrow. And my motel is … in the exact opposite direction, just FYI.” I took the flask and twisted off the cap. I sniffed the mouth. Vodka.

“You want me to take you back to your motel?” Seth glanced at me. His face was a mask of shadows.
Yes. No. I want you to be Matt asking me that question, Matt driving me back to a roadside motel to do bad things to me.

“Whatever,” I said. I took a pull off the flask. The vodka was surprisingly smooth and pooled warm in my belly.

“You can come with me if you want. I’ll get you back to the motel later.”

I checked the time: 6:15
P
.
M
., too early to be alone in my motel, aching for Matt.

“Okay, where are we going?”

“Surprise,” said Seth.

I tried to return the flask. He shook his head, so I took another slug. I felt like I was in college again, going wherever the hell with people I barely knew, a little buzzed, happy and trusting. I remembered my cigarettes.

“Mind if I smoke?”

“You’re endlessly surprising, Hannah. Go on. Light one for me.”

“Only when I’m buzzed,” I explained. I lit two cigarettes and passed one to Seth. We smoked with the windows down and threads of icy air cutting through the car. I didn’t care. The cold, the buzz, the way Seth pushed his Bentley to eighty—none of it bothered me. I needed a release after the memorial.

Matt was right. That had to be the toughest part of our whole charade. And it was over.

“DJ, will ya?” Seth tossed a white jack onto my lap. I plugged the cord into my phone and searched for a good song. Was it wrong to listen to something happy?

I chose “Nara,” the theme to
Cold Case.
No vocals, just a haunting melody that spiraled upward and almost out of control.

That was how I wanted to feel: almost out of control.

“Too cold?” said Seth.

“I like it.”

“Good, me too.”

We smoked second and third cigarettes. I finished off Seth’s flask. He laughed when I returned it empty.

I was in the zone, playing all my favorite songs by Radiohead and Elliott Smith, and I barely noticed when we pulled into a crowded parking lot.