After Dark (The Night Owl Trilogy #3)(25)

And nothing has changed, I realized as I emerged into the crowds of Penn Station. For me, the city still rumbled with madness. A sea of tourists. The end of the line.

My phone rang for the seventh time—Hannah and Nate were alternating calls—and I shut it off. They knew what I was up to, clearly. Hannah must have mentioned my “business in the city,” Nate must have remembered my desire to “smooth things over” with Seth, and together they must have realized …

I caught a cab to the Plaza Hotel, where Nate had told me Goldengrove was staying.

As the cab inched through traffic, I stoked my anger. Seth got Chrissy pregnant. Seth f*cked Chrissy. Seth pursued Hannah. Seth f*cked Hannah’s hand.

Seth came in her hand.

Seth tried to sleep with her.

Last month, when Hannah and I got back together, I’d made her explain what happened with Seth—in great detail. Then I wrote the scene into Last Light. Then I asked her to tell me again and again, until she lost her temper. You’re obsessing, she’d said. You’re scaring me.

She was right—and no matter how many times she painted that scene in the Four Seasons suite, describing her agency and guilt, I saw her as a victim. She was my sweet little bird, addled by our breakup, drunk, drugged, falling into Seth’s clutches.

A victim of circumstance.

Just like Chrissy.

“Happy summer,” said the cabbie as I climbed out of his car, and I registered vaguely that it was the first day of summer. I shrugged off my thin blazer and slung it over my shoulder. Hannah and I should have been celebrating summer together. Good wine for her, a nice meal for both of us, outdoor sex. I wasn’t upset with Hannah for keeping the truth from me. Not very upset, at least. She must have been worried about my reaction.

She was right to be worried.

My brother seemed to be waiting for me, standing by the Pulitzer Fountain. His hair looked lank, disheveled. He wore torn jeans and a T-shirt. I drew closer.

Tourists shuffled around, taking pictures and heading toward the park.

I watched sunlight shimmer in the fountain.

I watched Seth.

He scanned the crowd, missed me, and checked his phone. He was perspiring lightly.

“You’re high,” I said.

His eyes jerked to mine. Cocaine, I guessed, because New York is a blow town, and because Seth had the jagged, jittery look of one-too-many mornings spent getting high before coming down. He pocketed his phone and shrugged.

“Mm, you can’t really hide that from me.” I stood close to him so that no one else could hear us. I took him by the shoulder—gently, kindly—and turned him toward the fountain, buying us time. How long before someone recognized M. Pierce, the author, or Seth Sky, the lead singer of Goldengrove?

“Were you high when you f*cked Chrissy Catalano? When you got her pregnant? No protection handy, or were you too far gone to care?”

My voice came out soft and sickeningly warm. My fingers tightened on his shoulder.

“I know,” he said. “Nate called me. I just found out. I know she’s pregnant.”

So it was true—or it might be true—that mysterious e-mail I received yesterday. Who’s the proud daddy? It’s Seth Sky!

“Why couldn’t you stay away from them? Hannah, her sister.”

“You’re no f*cking saint.” He tried to jerk his shoulder from my grip, but I held on tight. And he was weak. He’d lost weight since I’d seen him last, three months ago. Even his anger was diminished. I smiled and rubbed my mouth. I let him go. I tried to unbutton my cuffs, with some passing idea of rolling up the sleeves, and then I hit Seth in the face.

He sank, catching himself on the edge of the fountain. Bystanders danced away like startled pigeons. Get the f*ck out of here, I thought, and I hit my brother again.

This bastard. This f*cking bastard. He twisted and scrabbled at my neck, sputtering. He kicked my legs out from under me and the ground rushed up. My cheekbone grated on stone.

Get the f*ck out of here.

This f*cking bastard.

With one powerful hand, I grasped Seth’s hair and dunked his head in the fountain. I leaned my weight against his body and held him under. His arms surged wildly. He tore at me and at the fountain ledge. Bubbles billowed around his face.

I should kill you, I thought. I could. Adrenaline welled in my body. My face throbbed; something wet dribbled down my cheek. Water splashed my shirt, my hair, and it felt good.

Seth’s body went slack slowly.

My rage grasped at thin air.

If I summoned the image of Hannah and Seth, the way I did sometimes when I wanted to feel angry, I might have held him under too long. But I wanted a fight, and the fight was gone. I dragged his wiry body back. He gasped and crawled away from me, over the heated stones. Just like an animal.

I left before I could feel pity.

I jogged away from the hotel, tasting iron and salt, turned onto Eighth Avenue and ran all the way back to the station, back into its cement belly, into a crowded train.





Chapter 13





HANNAH


Matt returned to the hotel at five.

I was there, sitting on the couch, watching the door.

I heard the metallic slip of the key card. The mechanism unlocked with a clack.

“Fuck,” I whispered as he stepped into the room.

Dark blood congealed around a gash on his cheek. His shirt was halfway untucked, clinging to his torso, his blazer nowhere to be seen. Sweat matted his hair.