Last Light(72)

“Matt. How are you?”

“I’m all right. Don’t worry, I’m all right.”

I heard a muffled, choked sob. God, it really f*cked me up when Nate cried. I turned away from Mel as best I could and lowered my voice.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m coming back to Denver, okay? It’s over.”

“Thank God. Can I see you?”

Nate told me he was in Denver then. “Checking up on Hannah,” he explained, and he talked about Hannah in his hotel room and their argument and her departure. I ground my teeth as I listened. Nausea roiled in the pit of my stomach. Of course, I thought. This is how Hannah found out about Melanie. Nate’s lawsuit. Nate’s involvement in my phony death. All of it.

“Matt?”

“I’m here. Sorry.” I leaned my head against the window and exhaled a patch of fog. It was too late to get upset with my brother. Everything was crumbling. “I’d like to see you, yes.”

“She guessed … about me. I couldn’t say no. She looked me right in the eye and told me I knew. I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be, Nate. Don’t worry about it. I should have told her from the start.”

“I’ve got Owen with me. Meet me in the hallway?”

“Yeah, sure.” I eyed my bandaged hand. “And hey, I could use your orthopedic skills, if you’ve got the time.”

“What happened? What’s going on?”

“It’s no big deal. A minor accident. I’ll be there in twenty minutes or so.”

Nate said good-bye and I ended the call.

“Problems?” said Mel.

“No.” I swiped her phone from the console and changed our destination to the Hotel Teatro. “Slight change of plans, that’s all.”

*

Melanie dropped me off in front of the hotel.

There was no parking on the street, so I told her to circle back in fifteen minutes.

I knew my way around the Hotel Teatro. The concierge barely glanced at me as I headed to the elevator.

I rode up alone to the Chancellor’s Suite, and when I stepped into the hallway, I saw Nate in front of the door. He stood with his head inclined toward it, probably listening for Owen, but when he saw me he came running.

“There you are,” he called.

We clasped one another in a hug. Nate kissed my neck and thanked God. I clung to him with one arm.

“Brother,” I said, and I squeezed him with all my might.

“How are you? God, look at you. Look at this.” He ruffled my hair.

“I know.” I smiled bleakly. “Disguise, you know?”

“Sure. Of course.” He patted my cheek.

We held on to one another, and Nate’s eyes shone with tears, and my voice kept catching with emotion. The last year had been so mad. I regretted dragging Nate into my messes, but he couldn’t be kept out. He came willingly, forcefully. He’d been that way since we were boys.

“I can’t stay long,” I said. “Gotta find Hannah.”

Nate drew back, held me at arm’s length, and scrutinized me. His eyes paused on my bandaged hand, continued down my legs, then tracked back up to my face. Searching for signs of damage, physical or mental. Always the doctor.

And I closed my eyes, because looking at Nate then felt too much like looking at Dad. He knelt to study my hand, and memories drowned me. Dad’s dark head bent over my boyhood scrapes. Dad laughing, scolding me, smoothing a Band-Aid across my leg. Or Mom with her heavy auburn hair and delicate body, saying good-bye before they left for Brazil.

I don’t remember my parents. Another lie I told Hannah.

Nate chuckled, the sound jarring with my thoughts.

“I don’t want to leave Owen alone much longer myself,” he said. “Don’t want him barging out here, you know? But let’s take a quick look at this hand.”

Nate unwound the tape around my knuckles. I didn’t open my eyes. I felt dull pain and a small dislocated sensation, and then a sharp flash of hurt as Nate applied pressure.

“Fuck!” My eyes flew open.

“Okay, it’s okay.” Nate smiled up at me. I gave him an anguished look, because every f*cking thing hurt. Memory hurt, my heart hurt, my hand hurt, and I needed to get to Hannah. “It feels like you’ve got a boxer’s fracture. I won’t ask how this happened”—his eyes narrowed—“though I think I know. The good news is, it doesn’t feel too displaced. You’ll need X-rays. I’m going to buddy tape it, but don’t use this hand until you see a doctor.”

“I am seeing a doctor,” I muttered, and Nate ignored me.

He reused the medical tape to bind my middle and ring fingers.

“Best I can do for now. I’m not going to offer you pain meds.”

“Don’t want any,” I said. “How’s Hannah?”

“I don’t know, Matt. I saw her on Thursday. She left angry, like I said…”

“I need you to drop the lawsuit.”

Nate’s head came up. His face clouded with confusion. “She told you about that?”

“Of course. I wrote Night Owl. I wrote it. That girl who published it—Melanie—she did it because I asked her to. You can’t bring charges against her. It was my doing.”