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 na**d 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 f**k? 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 f**king 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 ass**le …

“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 ass**le 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.”