That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I kept replaying my conversation with Hannah.
“We have a problem,” she said. She hiccupped in my ear. “I—I just—today—”
“Slow down, bird. I can hardly hear you. Where are you?”
“At a bar. Er, a club … thingy.”
“A bar?” I frowned. Maybe Hannah needed a drink after the memorial. Understandable, but … “Did something happen? Are you okay?”
“It’s about the book. Night Owl.”
I stilled, and then I smiled slowly. This is it, I thought. Hannah went to my memorial … and everyone knew about Night Owl. I could easily imagine her embarrassment. I felt the same embarrassment when Fit to Print exposed my identity last year, and the media ran with it, and suddenly the whole world knew the most private details of my life.
Night Owl had become a phenomenon, just as I was a phenomenon. And Hannah was the star of Night Owl.
Soon, I knew, she wouldn’t be able to stand it. The gossip. The speculation. The way my family must have treated her. She would understand how cruel the media can be. She would fear the public, with its vulgar curiosity and sickening sense of entitlement.
And then she would come to me. Then, finally, we could leave the country together. Disappear … start over … be free … just as I’d hoped and planned.
Hannah’s voice broke into my thoughts.
“Matt, it was posted on the Mystic Tavern. Like, first. What the hell?”
My heart stammered. What? No, this wasn’t in my plan. How did she find out?
“The Mystic Tavern,” I repeated.
“Yes! You know, the site where we—”
“I know.” I rubbed my mouth. “That … that’s…” That’s something you weren’t supposed to figure out.
“That’s fucking insane, is what it is,” she said. She sounded breathless. “Who else knows about that site? I mean, who—”
“A couple people, actually.” I got up from the couch. Get a grip, Matt. Get control of this situation. “Yeah. Mike, my psychiatrist … he knew. I think I told Kevin, too. And Hannah, let’s be logical here. Whoever put the story online must have hacked my e-mail, like I said. We’re talking about a…” I closed my eyes. My lies sounded truly ridiculous. “A really tech-savvy person,” I mumbled. “Someone who could trace me to that Web site … no problem.”
“Yeah … I guess.” Hannah sniffled.
“Babe, are you crying?”
“No. I’m in the lobby. It’s cold. I just … stopped for a drink before heading to the motel.”
“Hannah, how do you know it was posted on the Mystic Tavern first? I mean, it’s all over the fucking Internet. Maybe it got posted there randomly … a coincidence.”
Hannah told me about the lawsuit then. She told me about her meeting with Shapiro and Nate’s minor obsession with Night Owl. I gave her hollow reassurances. They have nothing. The book doesn’t prove I’m alive. Refuse to cooperate and Nate will drop the lawsuit.
Now I was lying for both of us.
I checked the bedside clock: 2:49 A.M. The gears in my mind wouldn’t quit turning. Night Owl … Shapiro … the Mystic Tavern … Melanie.
I told Melanie she wasn’t in trouble—but she was, apparently, and so was I. Night Owl pointed to Melanie. Melanie pointed to me.
I took my phone to the deck and sat on a snow-coated chair. The cold and damp quickly crept through my lounge pants. I lit a cigarette.
When the day’s first light hit the treetops, I flipped open my cell and called Melanie.
“Hello?” Her voice was muzzy.
“Hey. It’s me.”
Melanie coughed and went quiet for a moment. I heard water running. “Jesus. It’s like … six in the morning.”
“I know. It’s also Sunday. I assume you don’t have work.”
“I’m between jobs. But if I were working, I think I’d want to sleep—”
I barked out a laugh. “Between jobs. That kills me, that phrase.” I waved my hand. “Like the next job is right around the corner.”