“I’m sorry, Nate. I should have told you. I didn’t want to risk the contact, but I should have … told Hannah, and had her tell you. Something, I don’t know.”

“It’s…” Nate paced the narrow width of the hall. “I had no idea. It’s nothing like your other books, it’s—”

“Vulgar,” I murmured.

“That, too.” He rolled his eyes. “How could you publish such a thing? Did you spare one thought for Hannah?” Nate turned on me, his gaze hardening. “You didn’t even change her damn name. How could you?”

He took a swift step toward me and I moved to meet him. We bristled in silence, glaring into one another’s eyes.

“It’s my book. Our story. Don’t tell me what I should have done or shouldn’t have written. It’s my writing, Nate.”

“Oh, you and your precious writing.”

“What about it?” I got in Nate’s face. There was a time when Nate could beat me handily, but we were older now and equals. “I love Hannah. She knows I love her.”

“Does she?” Nate’s temper defused with a sigh. He backed down, and I backed down. He turned away. “Go see about it. I’ll call Shapiro tomorrow.”

“Don’t be angry with me.” I moved around to look at Nate. “You can’t be.”

He smirked and shook his head slowly. “Don’t I know it, brother.”

“I have to go, Nate. We’ll talk soon. Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

We embraced again.

“How do you plan to come back to life?” Nate said.

“I don’t know. With a bang?” I nudged him. “Nah, but really … I’ll contact Pam. If she doesn’t kill me or drop me, she’ll help me negotiate something with the press. She has all these”—I waved a hand—“connections. I’ll tell you, though, it’s going to be f**king painful.”

Nate nodded and smiled at me. So much emotion had boiled over in that hallway, it was hard to believe he was smiling again.

“You better get back to your boy,” I said.

We shook hands and Nate grasped my arm.

“And you get back to your girl,” he said.

I didn’t want to wait for the elevator; I didn’t want to watch Nate walk off. I took the stairs down to the lobby. As I breezed through the opulent space—white marble walls, high ceilings with gilt molding—my fingers went for the hat and sunglasses in my coat pocket.

I stopped my hand. No, no more of that.

I walked out into the bustle of Fourteenth Street. I searched for Mel’s bright blue car. People pushed around me. A show must have just ended at the arts center or opera house.

Before long, I heard a silvery giggle and a gasp float over from a group of women.

“It is!” one said, elbowing her companion.

“You’re crazy,” said another. “Stop staring.”

I glanced at them.

The bold one, the slender woman who spoke first, approached me.

“You’re M. Pierce,” she said. She pointed at me with her cigarette. “I know it’s you. I saw a thing about you in the Post.”

“In the flesh,” I said. I shook her hand and she laughed giddily.

“You’re terrible!”

“Quite.”

Mel’s car came around the corner. I excused myself and gestured for Mel to roll down the window. I leaned in. “Hey, kid.”

“You look smug,” Mel said. The noise on Fourteenth Street was outrageous. We shouted to one another.

“Well, I’m going to see Hannah. Going to fix everything. And it feels good to be alive. Pass me my duffel bag, will you?” I pointed to the bag at the foot of the passenger seat.

Mel wedged it out the window. I slung the strap over my shoulder.

“You’re going,” she said.

“We’re just a few blocks from here. I thought I’d walk.”

Melanie nodded and fluffed her hair. “Fine, get going.”

“Mel, it’s been real.” I held on to the edge of the window. “Look at me.”

She glared at me with bleary eyes. “It’s been surreal, Matt.”

I unzipped my bag and pulled out my notebook. I tossed it into the car.

“My next book,” I said. “It’s not complete, but you can review it for your blog, huh? Or put it all over the Internet, right? Mail it back to me.”

I couldn’t get a smile out of Mel. She hugged the notebook and drove away with big tears slipping down her cheeks. I turned and headed up Fourteenth Street. The crowd seemed to be moving against me, which made me laugh. People smiled as I passed. Everyone was in a great mood because it was spring and tomorrow was still the weekend.

Now and then, I heard my names in the crowd. Matthew Sky. M. Pierce.

I let the people get a good look at my face, which is just another mask for the heart.

I remembered what I said to Mel when we shared a smoke in her car.

That’s how it goes, right? You are who people decide you are.

So let them talk. Let the rumors fly.

Around four, I reached our street and jogged toward the condo. I felt good—hopeful, warmed by the April sun—and I knew I shouldn’t feel so good. Not an hour ago, I was sick with worry. Dangerous … these changeable moods.

As I bounded up the complex steps and let myself into our condo, I remembered Mom and Dad again, and I remembered Nate inspecting my hand, and the day felt full of consequence and significance. I dropped my duffel in the doorway. I scanned the kitchen and living room. Silence. No sign of Hannah.

Unease prickled through my blood.

Without checking the other rooms, I suddenly knew she was gone. I saw signs of a hasty departure: The cupboard hanging open, Laurence’s hay dish newly filled, an uncapped pen on the counter. And a note.

I walked into the kitchen and read the note.

I reached the last line—P.S. I slept with Seth—and nodded slowly, my hand rising to my mouth. Of course. Seth and Hannah. Of course.

She wanted me to know that we were really over.

She told me the truth to help me let go.

It was a kindness, really.

And tomorrow, and the next day, there would be time for me to be strong. Time for me to handle this like an adult.

But for now—I sat on the kitchen floor and cried like a child.

Chapter 37

HANNAH

“Yeah, the three cheese.” My sister squinted, chewing her gum with a loud snapping sound. “And pepperoni, sausage, um … onions?” She gave me a thumbs-up. I gave her a thumbs-down. “Nix that, no onions.”

Chrissy went on talking into her cell, and I turned my attention to the TV.

My head felt stuffed with cotton. Too many gin and tonics.

On the screen, a couple kissed and music swelled. Roaming hands. Grasping and grinding. I changed the channel.

“Misery food successfully ordered,” Chrissy announced. “What are we watching?”

“Nothing.” I shut off the TV. “But you know—” My voice slurred. “Thank God for hotels. Even cheap hotels.” I waved the remote like a wand. “Just the necessities, right? You’ve got your … scoliosis-inducing bed.” I slapped the mattress. “TV. Crappy coffeemaker. And let’s not forget…” I groped at the bedside table drawer. “The good old Book of Mormon.”

Chrissy scooted closer to me on the bed.

She smiled uneasily and glanced around my room—Econo Lodge, downtown Denver, eighty dollars per night—where I’d been staying for the past three weeks. I refused to run home and hide. I refused to repeat last summer. This time, I had money saved and didn’t need to lean on my parents. I also didn’t want Matt to find me, if he was even looking.

P.S. I slept with Seth.

I winced and shook my head.

No, he probably wasn’t looking.

“Have you been back to work?” Chrissy said.

“Nope.” I sipped my drink and eyed Chrissy over the glass. She’d been keeping me company some nights—or checking up on me. No one else knew that I’d broken up with Matt, but everyone else knew Matt was alive.

The day I moved out of our condo, the Internet exploded with M. Pierce news:

Unstable author back from the dead.

Did anyone believe he was gone?

More publicity stunts from M. Pierce.

I didn’t read those stories or watch the news.

I kept expecting a phone call from Nate, but it never came.

I took a week of vacation from work, called in sick the following week, and was rapidly running out of excuses to avoid the agency. But Pam didn’t call or e-mail. Dead air.

“I’m going to,” I said. “Probably, um, on Monday.” If I still have a job.

“Great. You need a wake-up call?”

I rolled my eyes. “What I need is for our pizza to get here.”

“Your pizza, Han. I’ve got a date.” Chrissy hopped off the bed and stretched like a cat. A tight black skirt inched up her thighs. Her lashes were spiky with mascara and a stud glinted on her nostril. Huh. She did look more dressed up than usual, which I’d failed to notice in my gin and tonic haze.

I glanced down at my sweatpants.

A surge of self-pity went straight to my eyes and I blinked quickly, looking away.

“A date. Cool.”

“Yup. Working, dating, showering … things people do in the land of the living.”

I glared at my sister and she arched a brow. Maybe this was why I reached out to Chrissy and no one else. Because I knew Chrissy wouldn’t let me wallow.

“I guess I should … grab a shower,” I murmured.

“Probably, yeah.” My sister preened in front of the bureau mirror. She fluffed her thick short hair and checked out her ass. Looking at her, I felt grimier by the moment. When had I last shaved, washed my face, moisturized? “Then you can get dressed and come with me.”

“Excuse me? I’m not feeling that ambitious, Chrissy.”

“It’s not a date date, okay? You won’t be third-wheeling it. I’m—” My sister paused and sniffed, still studying her reflection. All the vanity I lacked, Chrissy possessed. “I’m just going to hang out with Wiley and the band guys,” she said hurriedly.

“Wiley and the…” My mouth fell open. The band guys?

Goldengrove.

Seth.

Unwelcome memories rushed over me. Seth Sky driving his Bentley, sneering and staring into the dark. Bringing me a little plate of food in Nate’s basement. Barging through my condo doorway, his hungry tongue in my mouth.

And then … standing beside my hospital bed, holding my hand as I coasted in and out of consciousness. All night.

“Yeah, I’m totally a groupie now.” Chrissy laughed.

I bit my lip and searched for words. Clearly, Chrissy had no idea about my brief and sordid history with Seth. And to be honest, I had no idea about it, either.

A few weeks ago, Matt Sky was my lover, Nate Sky was my friend, and Seth Sky was my enemy. But now? Now I envisioned Matt and Nate together, closing ranks. How had I missed the deceit in Nate’s smile and the lie in Matt’s gaze?

And Seth, who seemed so unwelcome before, now stood clearly in my mind’s eye. Vulnerable. Honest. A casualty of Matt’s game.

I slid my drink onto the bedside table, ice jostling in the glass.

“Isn’t Goldengrove in New York?” I managed.

“They were. Like, a few weeks ago. They’re on tour—got here yesterday. Wiley called me.” Chrissy grinned and buffed her nails on her shirt. “So I’m crashing their suite at the Four Seasons, which is, like, five minutes from here.”

Five minutes from here, and about five steps from the Hotel Teatro.

But Nate should be back in New Jersey by now, unless he stuck around to take care of Matt. If Matt needed taking care of. If Matt was going crazy like he did last year.

I huffed and pushed myself off the bed. Why did I even care?

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll go.”

“You will?” Chrissy danced over and prodded me toward the bathroom. “Awesome. You grab a shower; I’ll cancel the grease pie.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, my sister and I strolled arm in arm along Fourteenth Street. It was busy for a Thursday, car horns and voices ricocheting in the April night.

I was still buzzed, or still drunk. The city lights blurred beautifully.

“This might be the worst idea ever,” I said as we walked.

I kept mentally reviewing my last encounter with Seth—when he wheeled me out of St. Luke’s, down the long antiseptic hospital halls.

At the time, I had wondered if he was angry or hurt … or still in shock. And finally he’d said, “Why are you with him?”

He stopped pushing my wheelchair and I swallowed noisily.

“I love him.”

Seth came around and crouched in front of me, resting his hands on my knees. Hands like Matt’s, strong and elegant. A face pale with fatigue.

“Do you?” he said. “Or did he force you into this? Matt is a master manipulator, Hannah. And you’re not a cruel person, I can tell. Now I understand why you were so high-strung at the memorial. You didn’t want to do any of this, did you? The lying. The sneaking around.”

My eyes misted—I get emotional at the worst times—and I glowered at my lap.

“Please, just take me to my car.”

“Hannah…” Seth’s fingers tensed on my knees.

“Are you going to tell anyone? I mean … that he’s alive.”

Seth’s expression darkened. He rose and resumed pushing my chair. “He disgusts me, but I’m not going to tell.”