Shapiro scribbled on his page.
“Hannah, have you been negatively impacted by the dispersion of the text titled Night Owl? Has your work or personal life been compromised in any way? The text is very ribald. I assume you read it, at least in part.”
I twisted the button on my coat. Shapiro’s legalese was driving me crazy. The text. The defendant. Libel.
“I read it, yes. A few people have made the connection … that I’m, you know, the Hannah in the book. Some people came to the agency wanting to meet me.” I shrugged. “They were fans of the story. They weren’t mean.”
“Readers came to your workplace?” Shapiro peered at me over his glasses.
“Yeah, but they weren’t rude or anything.”
He took more notes.
“Have you been harassed subsequent to the text’s appearance? Have you received any communications with violent or sexual implications?”
“God, no.” I glared at the floor. Where was this going? “Hey, do you know who wrote it yet? Do you know who published it?”
“Not yet, Hannah. We can’t compel the original Web site owner to divulge user information until our suit is under way. The same goes for the online vendors. We’ll subpoena the records, but first we need to build a case.”
“I see,” I said, but I didn’t see. I didn’t want to see.
Nate assumed I would help with the case and Shapiro assumed I would make the case. It was time for me to let them down.
I cleared my throat.
“To be honest, Mr. Shapiro, I feel very … overwrought, I mean with Matt’s death and all, and now the book.” I wiped at the corner of my eye. “Of course I want to protect Matt’s legacy and defend his name, but I have to protect my emotional well-being. I don’t believe I can—”
“She probably wrote it, Doc.”
I jumped at the voice. Matt!
No … Seth.
Seth Sky loped into the study. He leered at me.
“I did not write it,” I said.
“But it makes you look like such a vixen.” Seth draped his arms over the back of my chair and grinned down at me. Close, I saw that his hair was not black but a very dark brown, like mine. It moved fluidly with the tilt of his head.
“Seth, Miss Catalano and I are having a meeting.”
“Actually, we’re done.” I clutched my purse and made for the door. Seth’s intrusion was a perfect excuse to bail.
“Seth makes a fair point,” Shapiro said. “We assume the author was someone close to Matthew and close to the events described in the text.”
I paused in the doorway. My hands shook. Instinct told me to deny it again—I didn’t write Night Owl—but if Shapiro suspected me, maybe he didn’t suspect Matt.
“Whatever,” I said. “I’m done talking about this.”
“Then we’ll be in touch.”
“Maybe.”
I hurried out of the study and through the house. I ducked around Valerie in the kitchen. She had placed framed pictures of Matt all over the house—here on a coffee table, there on a shelf. Inescapable, beautiful Matt.
I stumbled into a long room dominated by couches and a baby grand. More pictures of Matt stood on the piano. I picked up a frame.
I was still shaking, and a kernel of dread was growing in my stomach. A young Matt beamed at me from the picture frame. He was crouched in a shed with three large dogs fussing for his attention. His eyes were alight.
When would it be my turn to truly know him? Fear answered: Never. You’ll never know him. You can’t hold on to a man like that.
“So, did you?”
I spun.
Seth grasped my arm and shook me. I met his eyes. Wild eyes … storm dark.
“Did you write it?” he said. I tried to yank my arm out of his grip. His fingers tightened until they hurt.
“Let me go. I’ll scream.”
“Très dramatique.” Seth drew closer to me.
“Let me go.”
“You are every bit as feisty as the book makes you out to be.”
“I didn’t write it. What the hell is wrong with you? Get away from me.”