Last Light(63)

*

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.

My black eye resolved quickly. Pam, the epitome of professionalism (or the embodiment of indifference), didn’t ask about it. She was in high spirits on Tuesday. The Surrogate was everywhere. She had a phone interview with the Denver Post at noon and a face-to-face with Gail Wieder of Denver Buzz, a morning talk show, on Wednesday.

“If only Matthew could see all this,” Pam said. She avoided my gaze and my purple-yellow eye. “But he would have hated it, wouldn’t he? The attention.”

“Yeah.” I sighed. Poor Matt, fame is so rough. I winced at my uncharitable thought. Jeez, where did that come from?

Maybe I was still upset about Alexis the private driver from Craigslist. I didn’t care what Matt said; that business smelled funny.

But—the girl was gone. Out of state. Miles from Matt. I smiled and booted up my work computer. I’m not a jealous girlfriend, not really, but it didn’t take a genius to see that the redhead wanted to put her paws all over my man.

Over my dead body.

On Friday, I wore a special springtime set of lingerie—a sheer floral bra from Fox & Rose and lacy crotchless panties—and I drove out to the cabin. Matt took me from the car to bed. Mmm, I loved having that effect on him.

“I’m crazy about things that don’t hide you,” he told me. “Things that show me your body—like this.” He bit my nipple through my bra and pushed a finger into my sex. He f*cked me while I wore the lingerie, and he made me say I wanted it and that I wore the panties so he could put it in me easily, and that I wanted it in me all the time—which I said with pleasure.