I yanked on my coat and headed for the door.

“No! I’m not going to tell you how he is. You can both go to hell. I feel so ridiculous, Nate. What was the point of this?”

Nate dragged a hand through his hair. He looked flustered, less dignified than I’d ever seen him. “Hannah—”

I went out before he could answer, and I slammed the door behind me.

Chapter 34

MATT

Hannah didn’t show on Friday. Our light—the last light of day—came and went. I called her prepaid cell and got no answer. I waited for her at the end of the drive.

I called again and again, though finally I got a grip and put my phone in my pocket.

After all, what if someone else had her cell? What if someone was visiting the condo?

As I walked back to the cabin, I envisioned Hannah’s car in a ditch. I envisioned her at St. Luke’s with postconcussive syndrome. I envisioned Seth returning to terrorize her.

Fuck.

“Where are you, bird?” I said into the silence of the cabin.

I’d sent Melanie away, as usual. She was going on four weeks in my service, and before she left for her motel that weekend I gave her a fourth envelope of three thousand dollars.

Maybe that explained why Mel kept coming back—not out of loyalty or interest, but because twelve thousand bucks in four weeks is damn good earnings.

I decided that Hannah was merely late and I resolved to wait for her. My panic waxed and waned as the hours passed. Hannah is fine. Hannah is in trouble. Hannah is busy. Hannah is lying in a ditch. Hannah is out with friends. Hannah is in the hospital.

I ran Google searches for Denver accidents, car crashes between Denver and the mountains, Hannah Catalano. I tried her cell a few more times. I swore and paced.

Morning light paled the sky.

I called Melanie, who picked up just as her cell was going to voice mail.

“Matt.” She coughed. “Six … six o’clock. Whyyy?”

“Hannah never arrived. Do you understand? She isn’t here.”

“Well … I’m sorry, Matt.”

“You’re sorry? What the hell could be happening? She comes every weekend, every Friday at the same time. When she couldn’t make it, she called. Something is wrong.”

“Did you try her cell?”

“Obviously!” I wrapped a throw around my shoulders, stuck my feet in boots, and yanked open the deck door. I lit a cigarette. So much for April’s warmth; a cold snap brought a new sheet of snow to the mountains. “Yes. Yes, I called her. I called her a few dozen times.”

“Okay, chill. Let’s think. Are you okay? Have you been up all night?”

“Do I sound okay? What do you think?” I kicked a clod of snow. It went soaring through the deck rails and broke into glittering pieces. “I’m freaking out. I don’t know what to do. She could be sick. She could be dead. I can’t calm down enough to figure out what to do.”

“There’s nothing you can do, Matt, short of having me drive you to Denver so you can check up on her. And that’s not tenable.”

“Not tenable,” I repeated.

Mel was using her mature phone voice, that deceptive tone I first heard in February, and right now I appreciated it. Right now, I could almost believe we were peers and that she might shed some light on my dilemma.

“Yeah. Because what if we go there and she comes here and … you know. Or what if we go there and she sees me? Then you’re really in trouble.”

“Right. So I do nothing?”

“You try to relax and stay positive. Try to get some sleep, too.”

“That’s not happening,” I said.

“Do you want me to come over?”

“No, God. What if she shows up? You stay put.”

“All right. I’m sure she’ll call. And I’m here if you need me, Matt.”

I thanked Mel and said I would keep her up to date. Nothing had changed, but the call served its purpose. I felt a shade calmer.

I tried writing, failed at that, stared at the TV for a while, and finally lay in bed. Fatigue and anxiety make a bad pair. I drowsed and woke depressed, my chest tight with unease.

I was still in bed at noon when my cell rang. I came fully awake in an instant and answered without looking at the caller.

“Hannah,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“God, it’s you.” I threw back the quilt and stumbled out of bed. “Are you okay?”

“No.” She paused, and then repeated firmly, “No.”

My stomach started to churn.

“What the hell is going on? I’ve been worried. Where are you?”

“Well, Matt, I know your little private driver published Night Owl. And I know Nate was in on your fake death, and that’s why he offered me your money. All part of your plan, huh?” Hannah’s voice shook.

I shook, too—an irrepressible tremor starting in my hands and working down my arms. Fuck. Fuck. She knew.

“Hannah, let me explain—”

“No!” Her shriek pierced my ear. “You always have an excuse. I don’t understand—why—why you would keep me in the dark—”

“I didn’t ask Melanie to publish Night Owl. Listen to me.” I collapsed into an armchair and wiped a clammy hand across my brow. “She—well, I—” The facts scattered. How much did Hannah know? What should I explain? And how did she even find out? “Let me—”

“No! No, no, no. I don’t care, Matt. I’ve known since yesterday. I spent the night trying to calm down, and I can’t.” Hannah laughed miserably. “God. Our relationship started with lies. I don’t know why I thought you’d changed. Is she still there? Is Melanie still driving you around?”

I opened and closed my mouth. I thought if I spoke, I might throw up.

Finally I whispered, “Yeah.”

“Of course. Are you f**king her?”

My thoughts flashed to the nighttime drive in Denver and Mel’s hand on my thigh, then on my dick. Revulsion rolled through me. “No.”

“Well, I wish I could believe you,” Hannah said.

I gripped my skull and felt the thick nausea that comes with anxiety. Oh, yes, this was familiar. I lied to Hannah and she caught me in the act. I should have known better, but I never learned, and I wondered at myself as I waited for Hannah to say more. Why did I always do the worst things? Why did I always arrange my life so that it was on the brink of collapse?

The answer came to me as if it had only been waiting for the question.

Because happiness is useless to me. Because I need agony and heat in my life.

I swallowed. My saliva was bitter.

“I thought the book would bring you back to me,” I said. “Say something.”

“The book? What do you mean?”

“Night Owl. I posted it…” I rose and began to pace, cutting back and forth across the room. Surely Hannah would understand that everything I had done, I did to bring her closer to me. “I posted it on that site. The Mystic Tavern. And Melanie, she just … found it and published it. Do you understand? I had no idea, but I wanted—”

“Then how … do you know her?” Anger rippled through Hannah’s voice. She sounded raw, on the brink of screaming or tears. “And why the f**k did you put the book online?”

“I didn’t know her. I found her on the forum. Doesn’t matter. I called her…” I waved my hand. God, nothing was coming out right. None of this really mattered. The only thing that mattered was that … “I did it for us,” I hissed. “The book. I wanted everyone to know about us. I thought if you understood how it felt, when the whole world can see the most private parts of your life, that you’d finally get how it is for me, Hannah … and that you’d leave all that behind.”

Hannah said nothing.

I stopped pacing and listened to the fast, heavy beat of my heart.

“Hannah?”

She giggled. I smiled uneasily, one corner of my mouth quirking up.

“You see?” I said. “I missed you so much. When I got out here, I realized I couldn’t—”

“You really are insane,” she whispered.

I realized I couldn’t live without you.

“What?” I steadied myself against the wall.

“Yeah. You’re f**king crazy. You … you put Night Owl online … and let some stranger publish it … to make my life hell? To make me so uncomfortable that I … would abandon my life and come live in the f**king woods with you like a f**king crazy person?” Hannah’s voice rose hysterically. “Fuck you, Matt Sky. Fuck you!”

“No. No, Hannah. Listen—” I shook my head.

“You listen.” Hannah’s quavering voice grew clear and diamond hard. “This is over.”

“What? I—”

“This. Is. Over. We. Are. Over.”

Above the sound of my booming heart, I missed the click of Hannah ending our call. I kept talking, my voice insistent and panicked. Angry. Then pleading. “It is not over! What do you mean, over? You don’t get to say that. I love you. You don’t understand…”

I panted in the silence. Jesus—she couldn’t be serious.

“Hannah? Hannah?”

I looked at my phone. She was gone.

My thumb hovered over the Send button, and then I lowered my cell. I knew this game. I would call; the call would go to voice mail. I would leave messages; she would delete them.

We’d been here before, and because of my lies.

Happiness is useless to me.

I focused on controlling my breathing, in and out, slowing my heart rate.

I slipped my phone into my pocket and flattened my hands against the wall.

I pressed my forehead to the wall, too, and stood entirely still.

And then I wound my arm back and slammed my fist into the wall—once, twice, harder each time—until I heard a low crack and felt the pain.

Chapter 35

HANNAH

I turned off my TracFone. I turned off my iPhone, too.

I unplugged the condo landline, shut down my laptop, and sat on the couch.

The couch Matt bought.

I gazed around the living room, and everywhere my eyes landed I saw something Matt had purchased … for us. A steady static buzz filled my mind.

Right now, I knew, he was calling and calling and calling. Or making lists. Or drinking. Or maybe driving off into the sunset with Melanie.

Or hell, maybe he was already conspiring with Nate to bribe me into forgiving him—which wasn’t happening. Not this time.

I scrubbed my face and hugged my legs to my chest, forehead on knees. There. Somehow, that tight, defensive posture would protect me.

My mind skipped over the last nine months, a stone touching memory. I thought of Matt at his best: watching me compulsively, smiling when I caught him staring, or looming over me in bed, moving with his trademark hunger and intensity. Hair wild. Skin gleaming.

His handsome face. His complicated heart.

And then I thought of Matt at his worst: drunk in New York, unable to meet my eyes, or hiding in our condo, disgusted by the world’s curiosity. Paranoid. Angry. Duplicitous. And now … shamelessly admitting that he put Night Owl online in a twisted effort to manipulate me.

Memory stopped, and I sank.

Tears threatened, hot with anger, and fear tightened around my heart. Matt … my Matt. No! Not my Matt. A liar. Always lying. Always hurting me to get what he wanted, even when I was the thing he wanted.

Despite my balled-up barricade of limbs, I began to tremble. Blindly, I felt for the nearest pillow and buried my face in it. Ribs of corduroy pressed back. I swear, that pillow smelled like Matt. A dry sob escaped me, and I screamed—the sound ugly and hoarse. It was over. We were over. I gave myself up to the rending panic of separation, the heart clinging to what it knows—Matt—and then I dropped the pillow and shuffled into the kitchen.

Painful hiccups constricted my throat.

But at least I wasn’t a crying, snotty mess. Sadness could wait until later. Right now, I needed anger.

After a few false starts, I wrote a note on our magnetic memo pad.

Matt,

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I tried to get close to you. I tried to know you. But you never let me in. You’re the lord of lies.

Don’t try to find me. Like I said—we’re over.

Hannah

I reread the note, then tore it from the pad and left it on the kitchen counter.

Like I said—we’re over.

The words became a rhythm, driving me forward.

If Matt wasn’t losing his mind right now, he was on his way here. I had two hours tops.

We’re over. I dragged my suitcase out of the closet. It’s over. I began to pack, grabbing clothes and toiletries. We’re over. My laptop, my purse, work-related papers. It’s over.

I took nothing Matt had given me. I took only what I needed.

A wide-eyed Laurence watched me dash through the condo.

When my suitcase was full, I plunked it down by the door, my car keys jangling in my hand. Ready to go. My heart thudded crazily. A sweat-soaked curl stuck to my temple. In my head, the voice of reason said: Get out! Get away from this unhealthy situation. Get away from this unhealthy man. Matthew Sky.

“Matt,” I whispered, and his name summoned the memory of him, tall and moody, demanding, passionate, green eyed. My own personal monster of jealousy. I winced. Another girl might have found Matt’s devotion compelling—he was willing to do anything to have me—but it frightened me. He frightened me.

I had called him the lord of lies, and that title seemed more and more appropriate.