Mel didn’t leave on Monday, and I said nothing about it.
She drove into town on Tuesday morning, bought groceries, and made us a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and Belgian waffles. I ate too much and had to lie on the couch.
From her bag, she produced a brand-new copy of The Surrogate.
“Really?” I laughed. It was release day, and I’d forgotten.
The book was larger than I had imagined—a Clancyesque monstrosity. I examined the jacket, spine, and flaps. I rolled my eyes at the author blurbs.
A chilling meditation on the human condition, said an author I disliked.
Still, here was my book, the sixth in my repertoire (counting Night Owl), and I smiled as I studied it. All was as I liked: Thick creamy paper, stylish drop caps, wide margins.
“Thank you, Mel,” I mumbled belatedly. “Get a pen and I’ll sign it for you.”
Mel was clearing dishes. “For me? It’s for you.”
“I don’t want my own book. What, do you think I’m going to reread it, or put it on the shelf and gaze proudly at it?” I chuckled. “No, but I appreciate this. My only author copy.”
Mel brought me a pen. I wrote: For Alexis Stromgard, a spirited private driver. MR. CALLAHAN, AKA THE SURROGATE, AKA MATTHEW ROBERT SKY JR.
After my breakfast settled, I wrote. Melanie disappeared into her room. When I finished writing some hours later, she presciently reappeared. She trailed me outside and watched me split firewood. I let her have a try, but her toothpick arms couldn’t heft the axe.
Wednesday followed suit, then Thursday. She scrammed while I wrote; she came around at dusk, just as I got begrudgingly lonesome.
“What’ve you been up to?” I’d say, and Mel would say blogging or reading or walking. Sometimes she left the cabin by the back door and drove off, and as I heard her car receding I thought, Ah, there goes Mel, back to Iowa and I won’t see her again.
But she always returned.
We celebrated the first day of spring with an ambling walk through the woods. It was Thursday, so I said to Mel, “You really have to get lost this weekend.”
“All right,” she said.
I folded my arms and frowned at her. Sometimes, I felt she didn’t take me seriously. Other times, she seemed intimidated by me.
“I’m serious,” I said. “You can’t be here. If Hannah sees you—”
“I got it, I got it. I’ll find a motel.”
“Good. And clean up after yourself. I can’t have any trace of you here. Nothing in the bedroom, nothing anywhere. It needs to look like you were never here.”
“I can do that. Lean down, will you?”
I sighed and leaned down. She put her hands in my hair and sifted through it like a primate, peering at my scalp.
“Your roots are showing. It looks hilariously bad.”
I snorted. “Fine.”
“And you really need a haircut, Matt. You’re starting to look like a mountain man, minus the beard and flannel.”
I stroked my smooth jaw. “I could grow a beard.”
“Oh, please don’t!” Mel laughed and I laughed with her.
“Buy me some black dye, then. And buy shears, while you’re at it. Put it on my tab. And Mel…” I dropped the smile. Whenever I showed Mel a little kindness, I instantly worried it was going to her head. “I’m serious about this weekend. I want you gone like you never existed.”
“Yes, sir.” She saluted.
I rolled my eyes and walked back toward the cabin.
Chapter 33
HANNAH
We’re never going to get away with this.
The thought plagued me.
The thought? No, the knowledge. Matt’s visit to Denver was like a revelation, and I saw our castle of lies crumbling.