The fourth photo made my heart quicken. Matt was sitting up halfway, his cock stiff. I recognized a telltale darkening of his eyes.
I squirmed on the armchair as the pictures got racier. My hand on Matt’s thigh. My hand around his cock. His hand around my hand. Then: a clumsy shot of our bodies, my sex sliding over his head. I was on top, a rare thing indeed.
Matt’s need for control showed in each successive image. Positioning himself. Spreading my lips. Tugging on my hips.
Holy hell.
My finger hovered over the next media, a video.
The study was exceptionally quiet. I heard no footfalls approaching. I thought I heard Valerie’s voice drifting through the house.
I hit Play.
The video wavered crazily with the motion of our bodies.
We leaned apart to make room for my iPhone and to get a clean shot of Matt’s cock drilling into me. In and out, slick with my desire.
I panted. Fuck … even watching was intense.
I risked a little volume. Tinny moans piped into the study. I heard Matt snarling my name, groaning it. Hannah … like I was killing him. Hannah … God, fuck …
The video didn’t capture the words Matt whispered in my ear, but I remembered them.
“Is this what you want?” he said. “You want a video of me fucking you, Hannah? You want pictures of me hard? Do you like this? Watch … watch me fuck you … watch my dick…”
He went on and on like that.
On and on.
I touched my forehead. God, I needed to take off my coat.
“Miss Catalano?”
My eyes shot up. I jammed my phone into my purse.
A slight man stepped into the study, paused, and closed the door.
“Do you mind?” he gestured to the door.
“Not at all. Call me Hannah.”
We shook hands—after I discreetly dried my palm.
“Very good. The boys call me Shapiro. You may do the same, if you like.” Shapiro took a seat behind the desk.
Shapiro must have been in his sixties, but his smiles were boyish and his quick eyes missed nothing. He wore a navy suit with subtle plaid and silver circle-frame glasses. His hair was gray and neatly combed.
“I won’t take much of your time,” he said, “and let me express how sorry I am for your loss, Hannah. That dear boy…”
Shapiro gazed at his lap. I watched him, trying to get a read. Dear boy. This house was full of people who knew Matt better than I did.
I, who was guarding Matt’s greatest secret, and who set the night on fire with him countless times, had known him for only nine months. And not nine solid months. Nine months of turmoil. Nine months of secrets and lies and now this—Matt’s vanishing act.
When would things be normal for us? When would it be my turn to truly know him?
“Thank you,” I said. “My condolences to you.”
“Thank you, Hannah.” Shapiro riffled through a leather folio. “So, let’s get to it. I’m pursuing this case on Nate’s behalf. The charge will be libel, defamation of character. Shall we review the facts?”
“Sure.” I fiddled with a button on my coat. “Will I have to testify at a trial?”
“Most likely not. When we present our material, after we locate the defendant—ah, the original author—he or she will surely settle.”
“But money isn’t going to change anything.”
Shapiro gave me a withering glance.
“Here we are.” He withdrew a sheet from his folio. “If you would, Hannah, correct me where you hear inaccuracies, if any. I’ll read the highlights.” His eyes skipped over the page. “The text titled Night Owl first appeared online in a forum on January first of this year, 2014, approximately seventeen days after Matthew Sky went missing.”
Shapiro paused and eyed me.
“Right,” I said.
“Very good. About two weeks thereafter, the text was uploaded to several online vendors and sold in e-book format with the author cited as W. Pierce.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“To the best of your knowledge, the author of the text titled Night Owl is unknown to you, and is not Matthew Sky.”
“No. I mean, yes, to my knowledge. It’s not Matt. He didn’t write it.”