Last Light (4 page)

Yours is the strongest case,
Nate said. He expected me to spearhead the lawsuit. Maybe no one else had a case.

After ten minutes, I began to scroll through pictures on my phone.

I opened my Matt album.

There was Matt on Thanksgiving, seated between Chrissy and me. He looked gorgeous in a dark cashmere sweater. And he looked adorable, hunched over his plate, staring at me.

I had a shot of Matt setting up the fake Christmas tree in our condo. I caught the picture just as he smiled over his shoulder at me. One of his rare relaxed smiles. The image had energy—a little blur, the twist of his body in motion.

Oh, yes … he got up, I remembered, and pushed me onto the couch.

I curled my toes in my boots.

I looked at the study door, then the clock, and opened another album. The “My Eyes Only” album.

I swallowed as the thumbnails loaded. Damn.…

It hadn’t been easy, convincing Matt to let me take those pictures. “What are you going to do with them?” he’d demanded. “Think about you,” I replied. He was still reticent. Then I reminded him how many pictures and videos
he
had of
me,
and he relented.

First, I opened a tame photo: Matt sleeping, the sheets tangled around his waist and his strong back bare.

In the next photo, I had tugged down the sheets to get a shot of Matt’s perfect ass. Then lower. His lean thighs.

The fourth photo made my heart quicken. Matt was sitting up halfway, his cock stiff. I recognized a telltale darkening of his eyes.

I squirmed on the armchair as the pictures got racier. My hand on Matt’s thigh. My hand around his cock. His hand around my hand. Then: a clumsy shot of our bodies, my sex sliding over his head. I was on top, a rare thing indeed.

Matt’s need for control showed in each successive image. Positioning himself. Spreading my lips. Tugging on my hips.

Holy hell.

My finger hovered over the next media, a video.

The study was exceptionally quiet. I heard no footfalls approaching. I thought I heard Valerie’s voice drifting through the house.

I hit Play.

The video wavered crazily with the motion of our bodies.

We leaned apart to make room for my iPhone and to get a clean shot of Matt’s cock drilling into me. In and out, slick with my desire.

I panted. Fuck … even watching was intense.

I risked a little volume. Tinny moans piped into the study. I heard Matt snarling my name, groaning it.
Hannah
 … like I was killing him.
Hannah … God, fuck …

The video didn’t capture the words Matt whispered in my ear, but I remembered them.

“Is this what you want?” he said. “You want a video of me fucking you, Hannah? You want pictures of me hard? Do you like this? Watch … watch me fuck you … watch my dick…”

He went on and on like that.

On and on.

I touched my forehead. God, I needed to take off my coat.

“Miss Catalano?”

My eyes shot up. I jammed my phone into my purse.

A slight man stepped into the study, paused, and closed the door.

“Do you mind?” he gestured to the door.

“Not at all. Call me Hannah.”

We shook hands—after I discreetly dried my palm.

“Very good. The boys call me Shapiro. You may do the same, if you like.” Shapiro took a seat behind the desk.

Shapiro must have been in his sixties, but his smiles were boyish and his quick eyes missed nothing. He wore a navy suit with subtle plaid and silver circle-frame glasses. His hair was gray and neatly combed.

“I won’t take much of your time,” he said, “and let me express how sorry I am for your loss, Hannah. That dear boy…”

Shapiro gazed at his lap. I watched him, trying to get a read.
Dear boy.
This house was full of people who knew Matt better than I did.

I, who was guarding Matt’s greatest secret, and who set the night on fire with him countless times, had known him for only nine months. And not nine solid months. Nine months of turmoil. Nine months of secrets and lies and now this—Matt’s vanishing act.

When would things be normal for us? When would it be my turn to truly know him?

“Thank you,” I said. “My condolences to you.”

“Thank you, Hannah.” Shapiro riffled through a leather folio. “So, let’s get to it. I’m pursuing this case on Nate’s behalf. The charge will be libel, defamation of character. Shall we review the facts?”

“Sure.” I fiddled with a button on my coat. “Will I have to testify at a trial?”

“Most likely not. When we present our material, after we locate the defendant—ah, the original author—he or she will surely settle.”

“But money isn’t going to change anything.”

Shapiro gave me a withering glance.

“Here we are.” He withdrew a sheet from his folio. “If you would, Hannah, correct me where you hear inaccuracies, if any. I’ll read the highlights.” His eyes skipped over the page. “The text titled
Night Owl
first appeared online in a forum on January first of this year, 2014, approximately seventeen days after Matthew Sky went missing.”

Shapiro paused and eyed me.

“Right,” I said.

“Very good. About two weeks thereafter, the text was uploaded to several online vendors and sold in e-book format with the author cited as W. Pierce.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“To the best of your knowledge, the author of the text titled
Night Owl
is unknown to you, and is not Matthew Sky.”

“No. I mean, yes, to my knowledge. It’s not Matt. He didn’t write it.”

Shapiro scribbled on his page.

“Hannah, have you been negatively impacted by the dispersion of the text titled
Night Owl
? Has your work or personal life been compromised in any way? The text is very ribald. I assume you read it, at least in part.”

I twisted the button on my coat. Shapiro’s legalese was driving me crazy.
The text. The defendant. Libel.

“I read it, yes. A few people have made the connection … that I’m, you know, the Hannah in the book. Some people came to the agency wanting to meet me.” I shrugged. “They were fans of the story. They weren’t mean.”

“Readers came to your workplace?” Shapiro peered at me over his glasses.

“Yeah, but they weren’t rude or anything.”

He took more notes.

“Have you been harassed subsequent to the text’s appearance? Have you received any communications with violent or sexual implications?”

“God, no.” I glared at the floor. Where was this going? “Hey, do you know who wrote it yet? Do you know who published it?”

“Not yet, Hannah. We can’t compel the original Web site owner to divulge user information until our suit is under way. The same goes for the online vendors. We’ll subpoena the records, but first we need to build a case.”

“I see,” I said, but I didn’t see. I didn’t want to see.

Nate assumed I would help with the case and Shapiro assumed I would
make
the case. It was time for me to let them down.

I cleared my throat.

“To be honest, Mr. Shapiro, I feel very … overwrought, I mean with Matt’s death and all, and now the book.” I wiped at the corner of my eye. “Of course I want to protect Matt’s legacy and defend his name, but I have to protect my emotional well-being. I don’t believe I can—”

“She probably wrote it, Doc.”

I jumped at the voice. Matt!

No …
Seth.

Seth Sky loped into the study. He leered at me.

“I did
not
write it,” I said.

“But it makes you look like such a vixen.” Seth draped his arms over the back of my chair and grinned down at me. Close, I saw that his hair was not black but a very dark brown, like mine. It moved fluidly with the tilt of his head.

“Seth, Miss Catalano and I are having a meeting.”

“Actually, we’re done.” I clutched my purse and made for the door. Seth’s intrusion was a perfect excuse to bail.

“Seth makes a fair point,” Shapiro said. “We assume the author was someone close to Matthew and close to the events described in the text.”

I paused in the doorway. My hands shook. Instinct told me to deny it again—I didn’t write
Night Owl
—but if Shapiro suspected me, maybe he didn’t suspect Matt.

“Whatever,” I said. “I’m done talking about this.”

“Then we’ll be in touch.”

“Maybe.”

I hurried out of the study and through the house. I ducked around Valerie in the kitchen. She had placed framed pictures of Matt all over the house—here on a coffee table, there on a shelf. Inescapable, beautiful Matt.

I stumbled into a long room dominated by couches and a baby grand. More pictures of Matt stood on the piano. I picked up a frame.

I was still shaking, and a kernel of dread was growing in my stomach. A young Matt beamed at me from the picture frame. He was crouched in a shed with three large dogs fussing for his attention. His eyes were alight.

When would it be my turn to truly know him?
Fear answered:
Never. You’ll never know him. You can’t hold on to a man like that.

“So, did you?”

I spun.

Seth grasped my arm and shook me. I met his eyes. Wild eyes … storm dark.

“Did you write it?” he said. I tried to yank my arm out of his grip. His fingers tightened until they hurt.

“Let me go. I’ll scream.”

“
Très dramatique.
” Seth drew closer to me.

“Let me
go.
”

“You are every bit as feisty as the book makes you out to be.”

“I didn’t write it. What the hell is wrong with you? Get away from me.”

“You sure that’s what you want? Rumor has it you like pushy men.”

My eyes darted around. Where was Nate? With my back to the piano and Seth’s death grip on my arm, I was trapped.

“What do you want?” I whispered.

“I don’t know.” Seth searched my expression. “You seem fun. A fun diversion from my … mourning.” His voice dried with humor.

“You’re sick.”

“Runs in the family. You aren’t being very sympathetic, Hannah. My brother is dead. I need someone to talk to.”

“Not me.” I wrenched my arm uselessly.

“No? Then how about a quick fuck before the service?”

My heart stuttered and began to thud. In that moment, I wanted to run back to Shapiro babbling about
Night Owl
and sexual harassment—and then I felt ill. This was Seth Sky. Shapiro was on his side, not mine.

Seth leaned in and brushed his lips to my cheek. I gathered a breath to scream. Seth shoved me, and the force of his push sent the air out of my lungs.

“Don’t be so damn dull,” he muttered, and he left me reeling against the piano.

Chapter 6

MATT

Radiant black. Midnight black. Jet black.

Soft black, blue black, silken black. Black with highlights. Black with lowlights. Black with three tones for more natural color.

I shuffled up and down in front of Smart Mart’s hair dye section, glaring at the boxes.

Gorgeous models with glossy hair smiled back at me. One resembled Hannah—pale skin, smoky eyes, and curling black-brown locks—and I lingered over that box.

How are you surviving without her?

Melanie had no right to ask me that. So what if she read
Night Owl
? That didn’t mean she understood me—or me and Hannah.

Finally, I chose a L’Oréal blue-black hair dye kit because it cost more than the others.

I loitered in Smart Mart, enjoying the warmth.

I’d spent the better part of an hour hiking from the cabin into town. I wore sunglasses, a North Face jacket with a high collar and hood, a wool hat, gloves, scarf—the whole nine yards.

Concealing my face was priority number one.

Staying warm came in at a close second.

I carried a day pack with some cash, water, two granola bars, a compass, and my phone. No one looked at me twice. In Colorado, things like me materialize out of the woods every day.

I wandered to the
SUPER SALE
section at the back of the store. A woman was studying the discount pastries, which were ninety-nine cents because they sat out for days. I watched her.

Damn, did it ever feel good to be out in public and not M. Pierce. When people know you’re an author, they turn into weirdos. I swear. A woman who would normally spit in your coffee is suddenly quoting Whitman and reminiscing about AP English, or a guy who would try to cut you in line instead harangues you with the story of his third divorce.

You can’t see the real world anymore. Everyone becomes a caricature.

“Anything good?” I asked the woman perusing the pastries.

She gave me a wary look. “They’ve got doughnuts,” she mumbled. “And the bear claws.”

I smelled alcohol on her breath.

“Huh, yeah.” I picked up a container of cinnamon buns, pretended to inspect them, and smiled at the woman. I felt such pity for her, and such gratitude, too—because she let me be nobody. She let me be a stranger, and not M. Pierce. “These look decent. Thanks.”

I browsed the books and magazines. I sneered at the bestsellers. There were a few young adult series, a legal thriller, a thick fantasy. The usual suspects.

The Surrogate,
my last novel, would be “posthumously published” next month, in March. It would be a bestseller. It would sit on the list for months. It would do so not because it’s good, though it is, but because my name is on the cover—and because I just died from a rare puma attack while attempting a solo ascent of Longs Peak.

Brilliant. I’d have a cult following.

I couldn’t find any John le Carré, so I grabbed the latest Jack Reacher novel.

I paid for the hair dye, pastries, book, and a pack of beef jerky with cash. I carried no ID and no cards of any kind. Driving was out of the question.

I hiked out of town by the shortest route. I avoided the roads and popular trails, instead retracing my path through the woods. It was four in the afternoon.

The air chilled as evening approached and shadows fell long through the forest.