Last Light(46)

My pity turned to cold alarm.

“Get off me!”

With a violent shove, I launched myself out of Seth’s grip. I sprinted into the crowd. I crashed into a stranger and bleated an apology.

“I’m sorry!” Seth called after me. “Hannah!”

I glanced wildly over my shoulder. Seth stared at me, his face ashen. I couldn’t shake the sensation of him hardening against me. My panic. The serrated edge of adrenaline.

Seth wasn’t chasing me, but I felt like he was. I kept running and looking back and colliding with shoppers.

And that terror—the thrill of it—oh, it almost felt good.





Chapter 26


MATT


I waited for Melanie at the end of the drive.

“The cabin is on your left,” I told her. “It’s your first left coming up the hill. You can’t miss it, and anyway, I’ll be standing at the end of the driveway.”

I went out too early to wait.

I wasn’t nervous or worried that Mel would bring a fleet of reporters. I should have been nervous and I should have been worried, but once I make up my mind about something, a steadiness comes to me like a cold needle in my arm.

I lit a cigarette and checked my watch. Mel lived in Iowa City. She packed and left yesterday, just hours after I called, and spent the night in Omaha. She called to say she was leaving Omaha around 9 A.M. my time. I Googled her route—an eight-and-a-half-hour drive to the cabin—which should put her on my doorstep at 5:30.

At 5:45 I was still standing in the cold, waiting. I’d smoked three cigarettes and was lighting a fourth when I heard tires on the snow. I walked onto the road to watch.

An electric blue Corolla crept up the hill toward me. I shielded my eyes against the headlights. It had to be Mel; after half an hour, not another car had come up the road.

She waved through the windshield—a thin wrist moving energetically.

I nodded and pointed to the driveway.

The sun sat at the edge of the mountains. Soon it would fall behind them. Excitement ghosted through me—this was when Hannah always arrived—and I tamped it down. This was not Hannah. This was Melanie, whom I’d invited to Colorado to chauffeur me around. “I can’t drive,” I explained, “but you can, and you need a job.”

And you know my secret, and I know yours. That was the subtext of our arrangement.

Mel didn’t require much coercing. After a few quick questions about logistics—“Where will I stay?” and “What happens when Hannah’s around?”—she agreed.

She emerged from the car laughing.

First I saw her head. She had brilliant red hair, which she wore in a wavy bob. Her eyes were large and luminous, and looked larger for her small face. She was small all over. Petite shoulders, a slim torso, slender legs. A pixie.

She came bouncing over to me, the furred hood of her coat bobbing.

I stepped backward and nearly fell into a snowbank.

“This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done!” she shouted.

On the phone, Melanie gave an impression of polish and poise. Before me stood a girlish and excitable waif.

“Then I feel sorry for you,” I murmured.

“Oh, stop it. What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?”

I gave her a flat look. “Gee, Melanie, I dunno, that would be a close tie between acid and faking my own death.”

She beamed up at me.

I frowned down at her. “Look, how old are you anyway?”

“Twenty-two.” She arched a brow. “How old are you, old man?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Oh, dang.” She giggled. “Climbing the hill, old sport.”

Old sport? I cocked my head.

“Let me get your bag.”

“Bags,” she chimed.

Bags indeed. Two large, cheap suitcases and a duffel bag filled the trunk.

“Are you serious?” I hauled the suitcases to the front door. Mel brought the duffel. “I only need you for … a week or two, remember?”

Melanie hovered around the cabin. She ignored my remark and I dropped it. In truth, I had no idea how long I needed Mel, or how long I would want her around.

I paced behind the couch and watched her.

Unreal, to have another person in the cabin. And not Hannah, and not just any other person. The woman who published my book.

No, the girl who published my book.

She wore a fitted canvas jacket with fur trim, skinny jeans, and black Uggs. I really must not have lifted my head at the book signing, because Mel’s face was a stranger’s face.

At the moment, she was making a study of my desk. She smoothed a hand over my laptop, tapped the mouse, and then reached for my notebook.

“Don’t touch it,” I said quietly.

Melanie spun to face me. Her smile trembled and her voice faltered. “Sorry! So … curious about the writer’s cave.”

“The writer’s cave?”

“Yeah. Haven’t you heard that expression?”

“No.” I walked around the couch and settled down, my ankle propped on my knee, eyes on Mel. I forced a small smile, which only seemed to exacerbate her nerves.

“Well, it’s just a thing. Like, a thing people say.” She gestured frenetically. “I know because I seriously live on the Internet. I have a blog. I blog about my hobbies—gardening, cooking, reading, dance. Anyway, the cave, uh, your writing space. Stupid jargon, basically it—”