I packed a light bag and installed myself in a corner king room at the Brown Palace Hotel. I brought my manila envelope.

At the last minute, I slid my sketch of Hannah into the envelope.

I knew what I was going to do. I couldn't trust Pam and I didn't dare go to Hannah's house, where her father might greet me with a sawed-off shotgun.

If I mailed the envelope, Hannah might throw it away. Plus, I needed to talk to someone who could tell me the truth about how Hannah was doing.

On Friday night, I dressed casually in jeans, a t-shirt, and of course my sneakers. I jogged around the hotel room psyching myself up. I had a good plan. Finally, a good plan.

My phone rang.

For fuck's sake, it was my brother. Again.

"Nate," I grumbled. "Look, could you not call anymore ton—"

"Hey buddy, there you are."

I paused.

I could picture Nate's face as he spoke. Warm, open, patient. Nate was my oldest brother, Seth was in the middle, and I was the youngest. Nate had always been the best of us. He had a family, a brilliant career, and a natural charisma that drew people to him.

When I had my breakdown in grad school—and all through my rough tumble down the rabbit hole—it was Nate who came alongside me, his presence so gentle and non-judgmental. Seth and my uncle just wanted to smack some sense into me. (They tried.) It was Nate's kindness, though, that finally nudged me onto the path to sobriety—and sanity.

"Hey." I sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm kind of—"

"I know, you're kind of busy," Nate cut in smoothly. He laughed. His laughter was slow and easygoing. Listening to it, I realized how manic I sounded by comparison.

"Yeah, I kind of am. I've got something to do." I tapped the envelope on my knee.

"Well, I've got an idea for you buddy."

"Have you talked to any reporters?"

"Nah. Now listen Matt."

I rose and began to pace.

"They're telling everything about me. Have you seen it? On the internet."

"Nah, I don't read that bullshit. I've got a great idea for you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, we miss you buddy. Me and Seth, the kids. Uncle. What do you think about getting out of Denver for a while?"

I tightened my grip on the envelope. Getting out of Denver? I started to jog, going from the desk to the door and back.

"Can't. I've got things to do here."

"Like what?"

"Loose ends," I said. A fine sweat broke out on my brow. "Gotta do some things."

"Loose ends? Slow down there buddy, I can't understand you."

"I've got stuff going on out here. I can't leave; I need to make some things happen."

"Matt? Listen, I really want you to come out here. Take a real break, take it easy."

"I can't leave!" I snapped.

"Hey, sure you can. You take your time and then come on out here. Uncle's cabin's been empty all spring, and all summer so far. You can—"

"Stop it!" I shouted, my voice rising hysterically. Nate had to know about Hannah. He was trying to pull me away from her. Fuck, he'd spoken to the reporter. Maybe he spoke to Pam.

"Buddy, where are you? Are you in your apartment?"

I rushed to the hotel windows and snapped the curtains shut.

"Why do you want to know?" I whispered.

"Matt? I can't understand you, hang on. Let me—"

I ended the call and flung my phone onto the bed. Fuck, was Nate in Denver? Was he coming to stop me?

I left the hotel in a cold sweat. I drove into Boulder, watching my rearview mirror carefully and sticking under the speed limit. I held the manila envelope on my lap.

Please, please, please be there tonight. Time was running out. I could feel it.

I drove right into one of Colorado's capricious summer storms. Perfect. The wind pushed at my car and the rain pelted against my windows so that I couldn't hear myself think. Fuck, at least it wasn't hail.

I parked on Pearl Street and tucked the envelope under my hoodie. Memories washed over me as I jogged to the alley where the DYNAMITE sign shone like a beacon. I laughed and paced the narrow backstreet.

God, I wanted to pat myself on the back. I had a good plan here. My brainstorming paid off. Chrissy was the key. Chrissy liked me. She would take my envelope to Hannah, I knew it.

The rain stopped and the night air cooled sharply. I hovered around the entrance to the club. I checked my watch. 11:00 p.m. Chrissy was probably inside.

A beefy looking bouncer emerged.

"No loitering pal."

"I'm waiting for a friend."

"Oh yeah, you got a friend in here? Get in or get lost."

I had planned to catch Chrissy going into work or leaving, but maybe the bouncer had a point. I could find her inside. Fuck though, I didn't want to see Hannah's sister topless.

"Okay," I mumbled, patting my pocket.

Shit. I left my wallet at the hotel. The bouncer glowered at me.

"Get lost ya bum," he said, advancing.

I darted up the alley and pressed myself against the brick wall out front. No way, I didn't need another round of assault charges, and I didn't need to be filing them either.

Hours passed as I waited out front. I jogged sporadically to keep warm. I shivered and sagged against the damp bricks.

Fucking Colorado with a cold night in August.

Around 3:00 a.m., a familiar voice jolted me from my stupor.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Chrissy called, her voice echoing down the alley. "Ha! Pretty sure I won, try harder girl."

I would have recognized her voice anywhere. It was Hannah's voice, just a touch huskier. Relief rushed through me. Fuck, I wanted to cry. This was it.

Chrissy stalked out of the alley. She made a beeline for a street lamp.

"Chrissy!" I shouted. I pulled out the manila envelope and hurried toward her. She turned. A huge grin split my face. "Hey, it's me! Matt!"

Chrissy was rummaging in her purse. I pushed back my hood. A plume of pepper spray erupted in my face.

"Fuck!" I cried, twisting away. I clutched my face. The envelope flew from my hands.

"Fuck you, you douchebag!"

I heard Chrissy's heels clacking away from me. I gasped for air. My skin was on fire. My nose and eyes and throat burned. When I opened my eyes, the world blurred around me.

"My envelope," I wheezed.

I got on my hands and knees and began to feel around on the sidewalk.

"In the puddle, bro," someone said. I looked toward the voice. I made out a lanky figure holding a phone. Was he filming this?

My hand splashed onto the sodden envelope.

CHAPTER 22

Hannah

I STOPPED READING the news about Matt after the pepper spray video went viral.

It was pulled from YouTube the same weekend it appeared, but by then it was everywhere. One site posted it under the title M. PIERCE TRIES TO SUBMIT MANUSCRIPT TO STRIPPER. Even Fit to Print linked to the video.

I didn't talk to Chrissy about it. Really, there was nothing to say.

With July behind me, I knew I had to focus on making some sort of life without Matt. Until then, I half hoped and half feared he would force himself back into my life, but that was a dream. He could never make it right.

I scrolled through my pictures of Matt and wondered who the hell he was. A beautiful man. A stranger. A liar. A global bestseller. An author I had admired for years.

Had I ever really held him in my arms? Did I dream our time together? Like a ghost, he slipped away from me.

With a new phone number, I only got calls from my family.

My new inbox was empty except for emails from Pam.

According to mom, Matt's nighttime drives past the house stopped.

I wondered what had been in the envelope Matt tried to give Chrissy. I watched the video as many times as I could stand it. I have to admit, it did look like a manuscript.

Whatever it was, it sat in a puddle for over a minute while Matt reeled and groped around on the sidewalk. It was probably ruined.

And Matt...

My beautiful lover on his hands and knees, with no one to help him. His intentions were probably ruined, too.

We were finally, truly over.

At work, I blazed through the tasks Pam gave me. I never wanted downtime. I worked through my lunch break and brought work home. When my eyes ached from too much reading, I hit the gym and ran on the treadmill until I wanted to collapse.

And that's what I did. I went home, collapsed, woke up, and headed to work.

The hollowness inside of me didn't shrink. It expanded until it seemed to press at the limits of my being. I became less than a shell of myself. I was a fine limning—a suggestion of Hannah Catalano.

One day, I thought, I wouldn't even be that.

I understood how people fall apart.

I understood how dangerous it is to let someone become your whole life, and how powerless we are to prevent it. Never deny me, Matt once said. As if I had a choice.

Pam plopped a manuscript onto my desk at the end of August.

It was rare for Pam to hand me anything; usually I picked through the slush pile myself or found the day's work waiting on my desk.

I slid out the manuscript.

THE SURROGATE, no author.

"What's this?"

"A manuscript," she said dryly.

Ugh. No Mercy Pam. Yes, I could see that it was a manuscript.

"Right," I said. "So... I'll give it a read?"

"That's the idea." Pam lingered. "Oh, it's... by a local lady. She has this marvelous habit of not putting her name on her manuscripts."

Pam leaned over and scribbled JANE DOE on the top page.

I stared at her in disbelief. Holy fuck, was Pam actually letting me read a manuscript by one of her authors? This was a far cry from the slush pile. This was real agent work.

"Pam, I—"

She held up a hand.

"Don't imagine your opinion is vital here. Just read the manuscript. I need confirmation of what I already know to be true."

Pam breezed out.

Okay. Confirmation... of what she already knew to be true. That sounded bogus. I flipped the title page aside.

One of two things had to be happening here. Either Pam wanted to bump me up to the next level of work (and didn't know how to be nice about it), or Pam actually needed a second opinion on this manuscript (and didn't know how to be nice about it).

Either way, I would view this as a test and not let my head explode.

Two hours later, I was still reading the manuscript. My other paperwork was shoved aside. I slouched in my chair and propped my feet on the desk. And I was definitely not reading at work-pace. I was reading at pleasure-pace, lost in the story.

The Surrogate told the story of a future Earth where, for the right price, people could escape life's pain. Exams, divorce, jail time, dental work, messy breakups, anything—no one had to live through it, thanks to The Isaac Project.

The project began as a medical breakthrough in palliative care, and it ended as the most revolutionary venture since the World Wide Web. A client simply downloaded his consciousness into a sleeping cell and uploaded the consciousness of a surrogate, a professional who lived in his body for the duration of the pain. Once the assignment was complete, the client returned to his body and carried on with a pain-free life.

Really, the novel told the story of one particular surrogate—a jaded workaholic who'd spent more time in the bodies of others than in his own eighty-year-old body. The surrogate had no personal life to speak of. He was hollow.