“Running at night?” Nate said.

“Yeah. Running at night, not drinking, not drugging, not calling Hannah, not stalking her sister, not driving by her parents’ house. Anything else you need to know?” I felt instantly cruel for snapping at Nate, who loved me beyond reason.

Nate, of course, laughed good-naturedly.

“That about covers it,” he said. “You get some sleep, Matt. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. You, too.”

I ended the call and took a quick shower. I ran the water cold.

Afterward, as I dried myself and dressed, I considered calling my old therapist, Mike. He would prescribe something to get me out of my head, and he would help me understand this dual anger and longing for Hannah.

Anger. She f**king cheated on me. With my f**king brother.

Longing. I miss her so f**king much.

Fuck.

I dismissed the idea quickly. I didn’t need Mike to hold my f**king hand.

I went out on the balcony for a smoke.

Denver was alive and alight. As I ashed my cigarette onto the street below, I glimpsed a flash from a parked car. I smirked and waved.

The car window slid down and a camera protruded. I smoked listlessly while the photographer got a few more shots. Then the car door opened and a familiar figure stepped under the streetlight: Aaron Snow. I would have recognized him anywhere.

I gave another little wave. He beckoned. I held up a finger—give me a moment—and put out my cigarette. I left the condo quietly and lit another smoke as I stepped outside.

“Matt Sky.” Snow advanced. “Aaron Snow with No Stone Unturned.” His eyes were bright. He looked no older than I was, maybe even a little younger. He offered a hand.

“Hello there, Snow.” I shook his hand. “Would you like a smoke?”

“Ah—” He lowered his camera. “Could I?”

“Of course.” I passed the pack and lighter to him. As Snow lit his cigarette, I noticed his hands were shaking. “It’s all right,” I said. “You know, I wasn’t myself last year.”

Snow puffed on his cigarette and coughed.

How strange, to be having civil words with Aaron Snow. In his articles and his pursuit of me, he gave an impression of cunning. Now he looked like a lost boy.

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry; you’ve caught me off guard by coming down.”

“Caught myself off guard. Let’s sit.” I walked to the back of the condo and took a seat on one of the steps. Snow perched beside me. Waves of nervous energy came off him. “Calm down, would you? You’re making me anxious.”

Snow couldn’t meet my eyes. Improbably, I felt sorry for him, and now that I didn’t hate and fear him, I thought I understood him. He was a young journalist trying to make his way. M. Pierce presented a puzzle and Snow solved it. Then Matthew Sky disappeared: a new puzzle for Snow’s able mind. “You’re quite a journalist,” I said.

“Why did you come back now?”

“Off the record?”

“Of course,” he said.

“A girl.” I glanced up at my bedroom window, which was dark. The whole condo was dark. I should have moved out, but I stayed in that place full of things I bought to make Hannah happy. Now it was like an abandoned circus—all color and ornament, no laughter, no life.

And here I was, speaking calmly with the reporter Aaron Snow—not because I was lonely, but because I had no fight left in me. Snow seemed to sense it. We watched one another through the dark, and he appeared defeated rather than elated.

“A girl,” he said. “I guess there’s always a girl.”

“I suppose so.” I turned on the stair to face Snow. “Don’t you have more questions?”

“Many,” he said. “On the record now?”

I nodded. “On the record.”

Snow got his bearings and began to ask about my disappearance. Where did I stay? Was my “death” a publicity stunt, a warped promotion for The Surrogate? Did I have a breakdown?

And he asked about Night Owl. Did I write it? When did I write it? Did I publish it? Other papers had asked and printed the answers to these questions, but Snow seemed to want personal satisfaction. He wanted the whole truth, which I would never tell.

I fed him the story about Melanie—how I found her online and compelled her to publish Night Owl on my behalf. It wasn’t news. Pam had already arranged phone interviews with the Denver Post, the Los Angeles Times, and the New York Times. Everyone knew what I’d done, and why, and everyone believed I orchestrated it alone.

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 f**ked-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 f**k?

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,