Also, please find attached Chapter 4, for your reading pleasure.

Matt

Attachment: UNTITLED.doc

I started to read Matt’s chapter before I even glanced at the listings. Priorities.

He began with a transcript of that racy journal entry, EXHIBITIONISM, which made me feel fluttery and aroused and alarmed. And he wrote about … I frowned and reread. Hm, something he felt when we drove past my parents’ house? It was the night he proposed to me. Something between the lines.

I closed the Word document with the definite sense that I was missing something.

Or worse, choosing to ignore something.

The homes listed in Marion’s e-mail ranged from suburban to country, two-bedroom to ten-, and affordable to impossibly expensive.

But impossibly expensive was affordable for us.

Still, I couldn’t help but notice more seven-figure listings than not. In fact, Marion included only three houses that looked reasonable for a two-person family.

Matt’s chapter loitered in my mind for the rest of the day. As I read queries and responded to e-mails, I thought about that word—“exhibitionism”—and how we might go about attempting such a thing.

Why am I considering this? I tried to ignore the thought, but it kept creeping back.

The logistics of it.

Who watches other people having sex? Voyeurs, that’s who. But they watch in secret.

My mind drifted to the Dynamite Club, where a year ago, Matt had watched a stripper give me a lap dance. I shivered. That was hot.

A bulb winked on in my brain.

The club. The strippers! Surely one of those dancers, at least, was into exhibitionism. I knew some stripped because they’d hit rock bottom, but others seemed to revel in the work—the exposition of the body, the tease and play of it.

I was muddling over how my request might go—“So, heh, me and my fiancé”—when I snapped out of it. The hell? Was I planning this for real?

I stared at my lap and questioned my sanity. I could no longer tell where Matt’s desires ended and mine began, or what I wanted and what I just wanted to give him.

I put in eight hours that day, making up for lost time in April.

Matt sent a volley of filthy texts: I know you’re alone at the agency. You are alone, right? Remember, it’s the Fourth. My hands have plans related to your—

Oh my God. Matt!

The building was eerily quiet as I left. My sneaker squeaked in the lobby and I jumped.

On my way home, I texted Matt.

Outside, wind tore along the sidewalk and ripped at the manuscripts wedged under my arm. A slate of blue-black cloud hung over the city. The smell of ozone filled the air.

I jogged the half block to my car, but a few yards from it, I stopped sharply.

What … the fuck?

White spray paint spelled the word SLUT clear across the windshield of my Civic.

Bethany.

I knew her handiwork immediately, but embarrassment blotted out my anger. I glanced around. Thank God for the holiday and the gathering storm. The street was empty.

I edged toward the car and slicked my thumb over the paint. It was dry, but recent, judging by the lingering chemical odor.

My heart squeezed. I touched the door and hesitated. What if she’d done something more? Cut the brake line, or worse?

A drop of rain hit my forehead.

I pulled out my phone and forced myself to relax. If I called Matt, we would spend the rest of our night at the police station, Matt on the phone with Shapiro, me filling out endless paperwork while strangers took pictures of my car.

The SLUT-mobile.

No … fucking … way.

I found Chrissy in my contacts and hit her number.

*   *   *

Seth’s rental car, a silver Lincoln, slid up to the curb.

He leapt out.

I didn’t see Chrissy in the passenger seat, which, strangely, was a relief.

“Just me,” Seth said, his voice breathless. Fifteen minutes had passed since I’d called Chrissy and she’d promised to catch a cab over. She didn’t mention last night. Her voice was papery and faint: Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out.

“Where’s Chrissy?”

“We were at the house.” Seth coughed into cupped hands. His black T-shirt and dark jeans emphasized the ashen tone of his skin. “She wanted to tell your parents. You know, about…”

“Did she?” I frowned. No wonder Chrissy sounded off.

“We did. That’s why she stayed. She wants to have it. The baby.”

“Are my parents okay?”

The rain began to pelt, frizzing my curls. The wind sucked our voices up the street.

“I think so,” Seth shouted. “Don’t worry about it now.” He glanced at my car, then dashed to the Lincoln and lifted a plastic jug and a sponge off the seat. He sloshed soapy solution over my windshield and began to scrub.

Nothing happened.

He grimaced and ground the sponge in circles. The white curve of the S flaked away.

“Thank God,” I said. “Can I help? Let me help.”

“Just get in the car. You’re getting soaked.”

“So are you.”

“Get in the fucking car, Hannah.” He coughed into his shoulder.

Get help, Seth.

He looked strung-out and edgy, a shadow of the man I’d met five months earlier.

And I remembered that man. I remembered him sneering at me in Nate’s house, charging across the graveyard to deck Aaron Snow, playing the piano onstage, singing with a rough, beautiful voice. I remembered the goodness and fierceness in him, which reminded me of Matt.