“Yeah, same,” said Seth.
Something in Seth’s voice made me want to look at him, but I didn’t. I wouldn’t gratify him. Still, and I hated to admit it, Seth reminded me of Matt more than Nate ever would. The sneering tone, the lanky frame, and the way I felt his stare glued to me … it was Matt through and through. Also, the asshole demeanor.
“Hannah, can I get your coat?” Nate moved behind me. I hugged myself. All of a sudden, I didn’t want to be seen in my dress.
I wanted layers.
When I prepared for the memorial, I assumed every guest would know about Night Owl. Thus, my goal was to look as wholesome and nonslutty as possible. I wore a black dress with lace sleeves, midheel boots, and my hair clipped at the crown of my head.
“Hannah?” Nate touched my shoulder. I lurched away.
“I’m cold. I’ll keep it on.”
“All right. Would you like to have a seat in the study? I can send Shapiro your way.”
“Uh, sure. The study.”
“Off the living room. Thank you, Hannah. This means a lot to me. To us. I know the timing isn’t ideal.” He grimaced. Poor Nate; he was so sincere.
“Ciao, bird,” Seth called as I moved away.
I glanced over my shoulder to see Nate gesturing at Seth, his face like thunder.
Great. I was already a source of contention.
The main hall of Nate’s home bristled with flowers. White lilies, white roses, white orchids. All white. I flinched as a waxen petal brushed my hand.
Valerie, Nate’s wife, greeted me in the kitchen. Her eyes filled with tears as soon as she saw me. “Oh, Hannah,” she said. “Oh, God, darling.”
We hugged, and she dug her long nails into my back.
When I left her, she dried her eyes efficiently and resumed lecturing the caterers.
I found the study and dropped into a leather armchair. One tall window stood behind the desk. Bookshelves covered two walls and Vermeer’s The Geographer hung on another.
I got up and closed the study door, then retook my seat.
I slouched in the chair.
I sighed. A moment’s peace.
As I waited for Shapiro, an antique mantel clock ticked off the seconds.
How was I going to handle the lawyer? I wanted to know who published Night Owl as much as the next person, but Night Owl couldn’t afford a legal level of scrutiny. I couldn’t afford it. Matt especially couldn’t afford it.
Yours is the strongest case, Nate said. He expected me to spearhead the lawsuit. Maybe no one else had a case.
After ten minutes, I began to scroll through pictures on my phone.
I opened my Matt album.
There was Matt on Thanksgiving, seated between Chrissy and me. He looked gorgeous in a dark cashmere sweater. And he looked adorable, hunched over his plate, staring at me.
I had a shot of Matt setting up the fake Christmas tree in our condo. I caught the picture just as he smiled over his shoulder at me. One of his rare relaxed smiles. The image had energy—a little blur, the twist of his body in motion.
Oh, yes … he got up, I remembered, and pushed me onto the couch.
I curled my toes in my boots.
I looked at the study door, then the clock, and opened another album. The “My Eyes Only” album.
I swallowed as the thumbnails loaded. Damn.…
It hadn’t been easy, convincing Matt to let me take those pictures. “What are you going to do with them?” he’d demanded. “Think about you,” I replied. He was still reticent. Then I reminded him how many pictures and videos he had of me, and he relented.
First, I opened a tame photo: Matt sleeping, the sheets tangled around his waist and his strong back bare.
In the next photo, I had tugged down the sheets to get a shot of Matt’s perfect ass. Then lower. His lean thighs.