by M. Pierce
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.
“Stupid,” I muttered, hiking faster. It was stupid to go out so late. Soon it would be dark; night comes early in the mountains.
But if I survived my own fake death, I could survive anything.
I guzzled half a bottle of water as I hiked. I checked my watch: 4:30, 6:30 on the East Coast. The memorial would be over by now. Even if Hannah stayed for the collation, which I hoped she didn’t, she should be back at her motel. Why didn’t she call?
I paused to check my phone. Nothing.
“Whatever.” My breath steamed in the air. No big deal. Hannah could hold her own on the East Coast, and I would see her soon. I would see her in just a few days.
It was February 8, 2014, and I hadn’t seen Hannah since the day I staged my death, December 14 of last year.
I’d spent exactly fifty-six days without Hannah. Fifty-six days without her smile. Fifty-six days without her body. But who was counting?
My breath grew ragged as I trekked up a snowy incline.
Whenever I missed Hannah like that, I remembered the last time. The last time we lost our minds together.
It was Friday night—Friday the 13th—the night before the day we drove out to Longs Peak. Hannah would see me off at Glacier Gorge Trailhead. Then she would drive to Kevin’s cabin, turn on the cellar freezer, and drop off my food and supplies. We already had a key to the cabin courtesy of Kevin, for an innocent “weekend getaway.”
My Jeep would remain at the trailhead lot.
Hannah would return to Denver and stay away until the search cooled.
We went over and over the plan until there were no holes, no questions.
We were mentally exhausted, but neither of us could sleep.
“We should turn in early,” I said. “Big day tomorrow.”
“Are you having second thoughts?” Hannah came to sit on the edge of the bed with me. I pressed a hand to her thigh and she smiled feebly.
“No,” I said. “Are you?”
“No. I’ll miss you, but…” She watched my hand. Her eyes glistened in the dark and her milky skin was lambent. “This is about your writing, and I know I come second to that.”
“Hannah—”
“No, listen. I’m okay with that, Matt. I don’t…” She traced her fingers over my knuckles and pursed her lips as she thought.
Reflexively, my fingers stirred against her thigh. We should turn in early. Yeah … right. Hannah was wearing a tiny turquoise nightie and I was in nothing but lounge pants. And after almost two months of living with Hannah, I still felt crazy when I looked at her.
“I don’t want to be the sun in your sky,” she continued. “Do you get what I mean? I’m happy being the moon. I’m happy coming second to your writing. I don’t want to be your whole life. And if this—” She kissed my shoulder. The imprint of her lips burned on my skin. “If this crazy thing we’re going to do is what it takes to protect your first love, then I’m game. We’re in this together, Matt. You can count on me.”
“Hannah.” I spoke her name slowly. I dragged my fingers up her inner thigh. “You’re stronger than I am. Do you know that?”
She shivered. “We’re different…”
“Night and day,” I murmured. The air between us was charged. A few touches, a kiss—that was all it took.
My fingers reached the top of her thighs and brushed bare skin. No panties.
“Hannah,” I growled.
I wanted that pleasure to go on forever. Never to say good-bye to it. That heat, her nails digging into my ass, the frantic union of our bodies.
She drove me mad. She knew how to do it. One look from those dark eyes, her soft face framed by a spill of curls. I was powerless.
When we were spent, I sank against her.
I curled her hair around my hand and kissed her ear. “Think … of me,” I said, gulping in air between words, “when you do it … alone. Me. My body. This.”
“I will. I will. I love you, Matt.”
I lifted myself enough to gaze down at her. I stripped off her nightie so that we could be naked together, and I pulled the covers over us. In a moment like that, it would have been easy to say Hannah was my sun—my whole life. But that was a feeling, and I know a feeling from a truth. The truth was that I loved Hannah, but I loved my writing more, and what I would do the following morning was the surest testament to that fact.
Faking my death. Separating us for months. Reclaiming my anonymity while Hannah played out our lie and bore the guilt alone.
That night, I had walked through our condo and brooded over the memories it held.
Our Christmas tree stood in the living room. We would spend Christmas apart. There was the deep-button sofa where we cuddled and watched movies, and our small kitchen crowded by an island and breakfast nook. I often sat there, staring at Hannah’s backside while she cooked.
Hannah filled that place. Hannah laughing, Hannah in my arms … every room, Hannah.
I had ached for her suddenly—a hot stab of sorrow that nearly doubled me over. What the fuck? I missed her, and she was only one room away.
God … I was having second thoughts.
I returned to bed and found Hannah still awake. She wiped her eyes on the sheets. I climbed over her, entangling our limbs and kissing her longingly.
“Brave bird,” I whispered as our lips parted. “Come with me. Please.”
I had made this case before, and a familiar look of fatigue came over Hannah’s face. It was my first idea—my best idea. Why die, after all, when I could escape the public with Hannah? We could drop off the grid together. The hope of it rose inside me again.
“Please,” I repeated. “Let’s go somewhere no one knows me. We can disappear; there’s no law against that. I’ll take care of you. I have enough money—we’d never need to work—and we wouldn’t have to leave this.” I emphasized my point by pressing my long, firm body against hers. She responded with a sigh. “This is my life. You’re my life, Hannah…”
“No, Matt.” Her fingers slid through my hair. “You know I’m not. You’ve got cold feet. We’ll get through this, but don’t—” She turned her head away, resting her cheek on our pillow. “Don’t ask me to leave my life. My job, my family…”
I tried to turn Hannah’s face toward me, but her neck stiffened.
She sniffled, and a bright tear rolled from her eye.
It broke my fucking heart.
Freezing wind whipped through the woods. Flecks of ice stung my cheek. I rose from that memory like a ghost.
Through the dark, I saw a light glowing in the cabin. I imagined Hannah was there, though I knew I’d left the light on for myself, and I hurried toward it.
Chapter 7
HANNAH
I stood shivering on the front steps of Nate’s house, waiting for the driving arrangements to be settled.
Valerie was inside giving last-minute instructions to the caterers.
Madison and Owen huddled close to me and I held their small hands. Madison was quiet, buried in a book, and Owen seemed cowed by the somber atmosphere.
“Are you warm enough?” I said. I squeezed his hand. He was adorable, a miniature Nate.
“It’s cold.” Owen kicked a clump of snow with his little boot. Then he lowered his voice and fixed me with his serious dark eyes. “I don’t like Uncle Seth,” he whispered.
I glanced toward the brothers. They were conferring at the end of the driveway. Nate gestured to the road. Seth shrugged. His posture said they were having an argument.
A pearly white Bentley was parked in front of the house. Seth’s car? Rich asshole …
“Why not?” I said, smiling down at Owen.
I was shaken by my exchange with Seth and I almost told Owen that I didn’t like Uncle Seth either, but nine-year-olds have a habit of broadcasting secrets.
“He’s mean,” Owen said. No kidding, I thought. I trembled as I remembered the force of Seth’s grip and the crazed look in his eyes.
“She can come with me.” Seth’s voice cut through the air. “Let’s go, Hannah.”
I blinked at Nate and Seth. They were both staring at me.
“Excuse me?”
“I said let’s go. You’re riding with me.” Seth strolled toward the Bentley.
I shot a pleading look at Nate. Fuck, what could I say? I don’t want to ride with your sociopathic brother who assaulted me in your house?
Nate was oblivious to my discomfort. He breezed up the driveway and took Owen’s hand.
“How did it go with Shapiro?”
“Fine, it … went fine.” I forced a smile. It went terribly. I needed to call Matt ASAP and tell him about the lawsuit. But right now, I had more pressing problems, like psycho Seth.
Valerie swept out of the house and took Madison’s hand. She smiled at me. I smiled back, but I felt queasy. I was trapped—again.
“Well, we’ll see you there,” Nate said.
“Yeah … see you.”
Seth stood by the passenger-side door of his car and gazed at me. I stalked over and climbed in without looking at him.
“My lady,” he quipped.
Seth smiled as he got in.
“It’ll warm up in here soon,” he said. His leather gloves creaked on the wheel.
I stayed quiet as he spoke, and after he spoke. I planned to stay quiet the whole way. Don’t engage him. Don’t look at him. Get a ride back with Nate.
We wound through Nate’s neighborhood and I tried to focus on the mansions instead of the oppressive silence in the car.
“I hope you’re not waiting for an apology,” Seth said.
I closed my eyes and clutched my purse.
“You know, it’s forty minutes to the cemetery. At least.”
I sneered. Did this asshole think I couldn’t freeze him out for forty minutes? I could freeze him out for a lifetime.
“Presbyterian cemetery,” he went on. I opened my eyes and watched him on the edge of my vision. He didn’t look psychotic. He looked tired and irritable and bored. He watched the road as he rambled. “Oak Grove Presbyterian Cemetery. Our parents have headstones there. Just markers. I’ve got a plot, too.”
Seth grinned at me suddenly. I flinched and pressed against the door. Panic flooded me. I gripped the door handle.
“Please.” Seth shook his head. “Don’t jump from my moving vehicle, okay? I don’t need that shit. I’ll happily let you out at the next stoplight.”
I swallowed.
“No,” I said. “Just drive.”
“She speaks.” He chuckled. “Happy to ‘just drive.’ Call me Chauffeur Seth. Oh—Shapiro wanted me to give you this.” He dug in his jacket pocket. “He’s leaving right after the service, otherwise I’m sure the good doc would give it to you himself.”
Seth produced a folded paper and tossed it onto my lap.
“The doc?” I unfolded the page. The car had warmed and my heart rate slowed. Maybe I was freaking out about nothing. Sure, Seth had acted crazy back at the house, but he was probably trying to scare the truth out of me. He probably really believed I wrote Night Owl and that I was turning a profit at his dead brother’s expense.
I would be just as harsh if someone used Jay or Chrissy like that.
“Yeah, the doc. Doctor Shapiro. He makes our problems go away.”
“Lucky you.” I scanned the printout. It listed details of the case—the time line of events, dates, and Web sites. “It must be nice to have a lawyer on call whenever you get into trouble.”
“Hey, whatever you say, Hannah. Maybe we have a lot of trouble.”
I rolled my eyes. I was about to reply—maybe you wouldn’t have so much trouble if you didn’t go around assaulting strangers—when my eyes stopped dead on the page.
What the hell?
Shapiro had listed the Web sites where Night Owl appeared—mostly blogs and forums.
The first line of the list read: ORIGINAL FORUM POST OF “NIGHT OWL”—themystictavern.com.
Seth was saying something, but I didn’t hear him. The landscape of the highway swirled into a blur. I pressed a hand to my head.
The Mystic Tavern was the Web site where Matt and I first met. We connected on the forums. We were strangers then, anonymous writing partners.
The Mystic Tavern was the beginning of everything.
And no one knew that except us.
What was happening? What did this mean?
“Hey, you all right, kid?”
With shaking hands, I pushed the paper into my coat pocket. Seth’s eyes flickered between the road and my face.
“Fine, I’m … I get dizzy reading in the car.”
“Yeah? Anything on that paper ring a bell? Shapiro is damn sure the author is someone close to you two, maybe someone who—”
“No. Nothing rings a bell, and I don’t want to think about it now.” I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the car door. Seth took the hint. He flicked on the radio and we drove the rest of the way to the cemetery with a meandering jazz melody filling the car.
*
“I remember our first winter ascent of Longs Peak.” Matt’s uncle leaned back as he spoke, rocking on his heels. He was a powerfully built man with salt-and-pepper hair and dark Sky eyes. “That boy loved to climb, and he was a great climber.”
He actually laughed, the sound ringing in the cemetery.
Oak Grove Presbyterian Cemetery in winter was the quietest place I had ever been. Snow muffled everything. Bare oaks surrounded our small group and drifts gathered on the graves.
Under any other circumstances, I would have loved that place.
But not now.
Matt’s uncle stood beside a picture of Matt.
Floral arrangements clustered around the stand.
Matt was giving the assembled mourners one of his million-dollar smiles—a little wry, a little secretive. The photo must have been candid. His dirty blond hair was wild and he looked entirely at ease, which was rare.
“Solo ascents,” his uncle boomed. “They test a man. They demand all a climber’s skill, all his focus. Matt soloed the Diamond twice and summited both times.”
I tried not to scowl as I listened to Matt’s uncle. I was getting an annoying manly-man vibe. No grief. No real memories. Just this blather about dangerous, testosterone-fueled climbs.
If Matt were really dead, I thought, I’d deck this guy.
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.