“Well … I’m sorry, Matt.”
“You’re sorry? What the hell could be happening? She comes every weekend, every Friday at the same time. When she couldn’t make it, she called. Something is wrong.”
“Did you try her cell?”
“Obviously!” I wrapped a throw around my shoulders, stuck my feet in boots, and yanked open the deck door. I lit a cigarette. So much for April’s warmth; a cold snap brought a new sheet of snow to the mountains. “Yes. Yes, I called her. I called her a few dozen times.”
“Okay, chill. Let’s think. Are you okay? Have you been up all night?”
“Do I sound okay? What do you think?” I kicked a clod of snow. It went soaring through the deck rails and broke into glittering pieces. “I’m freaking out. I don’t know what to do. She could be sick. She could be dead. I can’t calm down enough to figure out what to do.”
“There’s nothing you can do, Matt, short of having me drive you to Denver so you can check up on her. And that’s not tenable.”
“Not tenable,” I repeated.
Mel was using her mature phone voice, that deceptive tone I first heard in February, and right now I appreciated it. Right now, I could almost believe we were peers and that she might shed some light on my dilemma.
“Yeah. Because what if we go there and she comes here and … you know. Or what if we go there and she sees me? Then you’re really in trouble.”
“Right. So I do nothing?”
“You try to relax and stay positive. Try to get some sleep, too.”
“That’s not happening,” I said.
“Do you want me to come over?”
“No, God. What if she shows up? You stay put.”
“All right. I’m sure she’ll call. And I’m here if you need me, Matt.”
I thanked Mel and said I would keep her up to date. Nothing had changed, but the call served its purpose. I felt a shade calmer.
I tried writing, failed at that, stared at the TV for a while, and finally lay in bed. Fatigue and anxiety make a bad pair. I drowsed and woke depressed, my chest tight with unease.
I was still in bed at noon when my cell rang. I came fully awake in an instant and answered without looking at the caller.
“Hannah,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“God, it’s you.” I threw back the quilt and stumbled out of bed. “Are you okay?”
“No.” She paused, and then repeated firmly, “No.”
My stomach started to churn.
“What the hell is going on? I’ve been worried. Where are you?”
“Well, Matt, I know your little private driver published Night Owl. And I know Nate was in on your fake death, and that’s why he offered me your money. All part of your plan, huh?” Hannah’s voice shook.
I shook, too—an irrepressible tremor starting in my hands and working down my arms. Fuck. Fuck. She knew.
“Hannah, let me explain—”
“No!” Her shriek pierced my ear. “You always have an excuse. I don’t understand—why—why you would keep me in the dark—”
“I didn’t ask Melanie to publish Night Owl. Listen to me.” I collapsed into an armchair and wiped a clammy hand across my brow. “She—well, I—” The facts scattered. How much did Hannah know? What should I explain? And how did she even find out? “Let me—”
“No! No, no, no. I don’t care, Matt. I’ve known since yesterday. I spent the night trying to calm down, and I can’t.” Hannah laughed miserably. “God. Our relationship started with lies. I don’t know why I thought you’d changed. Is she still there? Is Melanie still driving you around?”
I opened and closed my mouth. I thought if I spoke, I might throw up.
Finally I whispered, “Yeah.”
“Of course. Are you fucking her?”
My thoughts flashed to the nighttime drive in Denver and Mel’s hand on my thigh, then on my dick. Revulsion rolled through me. “No.”