Funeral talk.
Now and then, laughter flared and died fast. Probably someone was reminiscing about Matt. A funny anecdote, I imagined.
I wanted to hear those stories, but I couldn’t be up there. I couldn’t stand another condolence for my loss; I couldn’t hug another tearful cousin who believed the lie of Matt’s death. More—I couldn’t handle another look of contempt.
During the memorial, I caught Matt’s aunt eyeing me with a gaze that said: slut.
But I had bigger problems than that.
What did it mean, that Night Owl first appeared on the Web site where Matt and I met? Who else knew about that? How were we going to handle Shapiro’s lawsuit? And what the fuck did that reporter want? Aaron Snow. His name rang a bell.
I shrugged off my coat and draped it over the bed in the guest room. I smiled as I touched the comforter. Once, Matt and I slept in this bed.
After a moment, I drew back the sheets and slipped under them. I closed my eyes and reached out. Soon I would be with him. Soon my hand would find his skin, the body I loved. And the voice, the mind, the soul.
A light came on in the basement. I scrambled off the bed.
“You’re in the dark,” said someone who sounded just like Matt, but this time I wasn’t fooled. Psycho Seth.
Another light came on in the main room. I stepped out of the bedroom.
“I was lying down,” I said.
“Hell of a time for a nap.” Seth glanced at his watch. He still wore his leather jacket. I saw a strip of medical tape around his knuckles. “Who drove you home?”
“I have a headache. And one of your cousins drove me. What do you want?”
“I brought you some food.” He held out a plate. “Peace offering.”
I took the plate and retreated to a couch.
“No peace offering needed. We’re not at war. Earlier, the way you”—the way you assaulted me?—“the way you approached me about the book, that was … unacceptable. But I get it. Matt’s your brother and you think I wrote that book, but I didn’t. And if Shapiro has his way, we’ll all know who wrote it soon enough.”
I picked at a glorified piece of toast.
“Olive tapenade,” said Seth. “And egg. On the toast. It’s good. That’s a … cupcake.” He pointed, keeping his distance.
“Thanks, I see that.” I stuffed the tiramisu cupcake in my mouth.
I chewed and swallowed, and Seth stared at me.
“I like your dress,” he said.
“Uh … thank you. Yeah.” I jammed the toast in my mouth. I wanted my coat. I also wanted more food to stick in my mouth to avoid speaking.
I knew Seth’s eyes were strafing along my lace-covered arms. Something about skin peeking through lace is always sensual. I tucked the hem of the dress over my knees.
“I get what Matt saw in you,” he said.
I frowned and brushed crumbs from my lap.
“What is your deal?” I stood and moved away from Seth. “Have you been drinking? Because I haven’t, okay? I don’t really know anything about you, but it seems like you’re trying to make me uncomfortable … again. So please stop. Please leave me alone.”
“What did you see in Matt?” Seth took a step back. A laughable amount of space stood between us, plus a couch.
“I love him.”
“Loved.”
“I love him,” I said. “That doesn’t change because he’s gone.”
Seth smiled wolfishly. He sauntered over to a bookshelf and touched a spine. His posture was relaxed, his tone far cooler than mine. “I get it, Hannah. ‘Love is as strong as death,’ right?” After a space, he added, “Song of Solomon.”
“I know,” I snapped, but I didn’t. The reference was lost on me.
“You’re like a cornered animal. So defensive. I guess I deserve that. I’m not attacking you, though. I brought you some food, and I’ll go away soon, if that’s what you want.”