I threw down the phone, which bounced off the floor with an unsatisfying pop. I drove my heel into it. The plastic plates snapped.
Implausibly, the mangled phone lit up. The cracked screen glowed with a new call.
I smashed my foot into it. I did it again.
Again, the frame cracking, fragments skittering across the floor. Shards of metal stabbed at my sole, but it didn’t hurt enough to make me stop. A mountain lion dragged my body off Longs Peak. That didn’t hurt enough to make me stop. I was living apart from the only woman I wanted. That didn’t hurt enough to make me stop.
When the phone was a shapeless mosaic of debris, I turned to the chair. I lifted it easily and swung it against the wall. I did it because I could, because I was as strong as any animal. A psycho, they called me. They were right. They were wrong. They couldn’t come close to my fire. They couldn’t touch my heart.
Chapter 15
HANNAH
When I strolled into work on Monday morning, I found my boss, Pam, dressed in a winter white skirt suit. I was wearing a too-bright blue turtleneck and dress slacks. Our outfits shouted: Not in mourning! I suppressed a grin.
Really, I was getting tired of being treated like a porcelain doll. The sad eyes, the lingering hugs, the artless dodges of Matt-related topics drove me crazy.
Maybe Pam knew the feeling.
“Come in here,” she called from her office to mine. “No, wait, stay there. One moment.” She typed and swore at her mouse. “There. Check your e-mail.”
Pam grinned and peered at me over her glasses.
I opened my work e-mail. A hideous number of queries loaded—my new duties included reading queries—and at the top was an e-mail from Pam: SURROGATE JACKET.
My heart skipped.
I opened the e-mail and then the attachment.
Pam moved to lurk in the doorway.
“Knopf sent it over this morning,” she said.
I took my first look at the book jacket for The Surrogate, Matt’s last novel. The title, in unadorned white type, hung on a backdrop of stars. Tall towers or tree trunks lined the sky like bars. Behind the bars, a dark figure. Visible and invisible. The surrogate. Matthew Sky.
Matt’s pen name was a splash of red, front and center. M. PIERCE. No blurbs busied the cover, no needless accolades announcing that Pierce was a bestseller everywhere.
I let out the breath I was holding.
“Beautiful,” I said.
“Yes.” Pam came to stand behind me and we admired the jacket in silence. After a time, she said, “This is the book jacket everyone will remember this year.”
I knew she was right.
I blinked rapidly to keep back tears.
Sometimes, I almost believed my own act.
“Well, it looks like you have your work cut out for you, Hannah.” Pam nodded at my in-box, then went clicking out of my office and closed the door.
The workday flew by. I had a sandwich delivered for lunch so that I could stay in my warm office. Besides, I was having fun. I worked at the center of a world I loved—the world of publishing—and I believed in the old romance of book writing, bookmaking, and bookselling.
I bundled up and left the office at six. I brought two manuscripts home with me.
My thoughts turned to the empty condo, and instead of driving home, I headed to Cherry Creek for a little retail therapy.
The mall was surprisingly busy. I smiled as I wandered through Macy’s and into the open shopping center. This almost made me feel less lonely. Almost …
I paused in front of Fragrance Hut and glanced at the rows of perfume and cologne. Hm. I should buy something for Matt. Something for … us.
I hesitated outside Victoria’s Secret. The windows displayed super-lean, leggy mannequins in getups that probably required instruction manuals. I swallowed and looked closer. Well, Matt did like me in lingerie …