Three Harlan Coben Novels (18 page)

Erik wanted to ask more, but Myron’s tone and body language cut him off. “I’ll call you as soon as I’ve finished the search,” Erik said.

They both got in their cars. Myron watched Erik drive off. Then he picked up the cell phone and hit Win’s speed dial.

“Articulate.”

“I need you to break into a house.”

“Goody. Please explain.”

“I found a path where I dropped Aimee off. It leads to another cul-de-sac.”

“Ah. Do we have a thought then about where she ended up?”

“Sixteen Fernlake Court.”

“You sound fairly certain.”

“There’s a car in the driveway. On the back windshield is a sticker. It’s for teacher parking at Livingston High School.”

“On my way.”

M
yron and Win met up three blocks away near an elementary school. A parked car here would be less conspicuous. Win was dressed in black, including a black skull cap that hid his blond locks.

“I didn’t see an alarm system,” Myron said.

Win nodded. Alarms were minor nuisances anyway, not deal breakers. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

He was. On the dot.

“The girl isn’t inside the house. Two teachers live there. His name is Harry Davis. He teaches English at Livingston High School. His wife is Lois. She teaches at a middle school in Glen Rock. They have two daughters, college age, judging by the pictures and the fact that they weren’t home.”

“This can’t be a coincidence.”

“I put a GPS tracker on both cars. Davis also has a well-worn briefcase, stuffed with term papers and lesson plans. I put one on that too. You go home, get some sleep. I’ll let you know when he wakes up and starts to move. I’ll follow. And then we’ll be on him.”

Myron crawled into bed. He figured sleep would never come to him. But it did. He slept deep until he heard a metallic click coming from downstairs.

His father had been a light sleeper. In his youth, Myron would wake up at night and try to walk past his parents’ room without stirring Dad. He had never made it. His father did not wake up slowly either.
He woke with a start, like someone had poured ice water down his drawstring bottoms.

So that was how it was when he heard the click. He shot up in the bed. The gun was on the night table. He grabbed it. His cell phone was there too. He hit Win’s speed dial, the line that rang for Win to mute and eavesdrop.

Myron sat very still and listened.

The front door opened.

Whoever it was, they were trying to keep quiet. Myron crept to the wall next to his bedroom door. He waited, listened some more. The intruder had gone through the front door. That was odd. The lock was old. It could be picked. But to be that silent about it—just one quick click—it meant whoever it was, or whoever they were, they were good.

He waited.

Footsteps.

They were light. Myron pressed his back against the wall. The gun tightened in his hand. His leg ached from the bite. His head pounded. He tried to swim through it, tried to focus.

He calculated the best place to stand. Pressed against the wall next to the door, where he was now—that was good for listening, but it wouldn’t be ideal, despite what you see in the movies, if someone entered his room. In the first place, if the guy was good, he’d be looking for that. In the second place, if there were more than one of them, jumping someone from behind the door would be the worst place to be. You’re forced to attack right away and thus expose your location. You might nail the first guy, but the second one would lay you to waste.

Myron padded toward the bathroom door. He stood behind it, kept low, the door almost closed. He had a perfect angle. He could see the intruder enter. He could shoot or call out—and if he did shoot, he’d still be in a good position if someone else either charged in or retreated.

The footsteps stopped outside his bedroom door.

He waited. His breath rang in his ears. Win was good at this, the patience part. That had never been Myron’s forte. But he calmed himself. He kept his breathing deep. His eyes stayed on the open doorway.

He saw a shadow.

Myron aimed his gun at the middle of it. Win might go for the
head, but Myron zeroed in on the center of the chest, the most forgiving target.

When the intruder stepped through the doorway and into a bit of light, Myron nearly gasped out loud. He stepped out from the behind the door, still holding the gun.

“Well, well,” the intruder said. “After seven years, is that a gun in your hand or are you just happy to see me?”

Myron did not move.

Seven years. After seven years. And within seconds, it was like those seven years had never happened.

Jessica Culver, his former soul mate, was back.

T
hey were downstairs in the kitchen.

Jessica opened up the refrigerator. “No Yoo-hoo?”

Myron shook his head. Chocolate Yoo-hoo had been his favorite beverage. When they lived together, he’d always had plenty on hand.

“You don’t drink it anymore?”

“Not much.”

“I guess one of us should note that everything changes.”

“How did you get in?” he asked.

“You still keep the key in the gutter. Just like your father did. We used it once. Do you remember?”

He did. They’d sneaked down to the basement, giggling. They’d made love.

Jessica smiled at him. The years showed, he guessed. There were more lines around the eyes. Her hair was shorter and more stylized. But the effect was still the same.

She was knock-you-to-your-knees beautiful.

Jessica said, “You’re staring.”

He said nothing.

“Good to know I still have it.”

“Yeah, that Stone Norman is a lucky man.”

“Right,” she said. “I figured you’d see that.”

Myron said nothing.

“You’d like him,” she said.

“Oh, I bet.”

“Everyone does. He has lots of friends.”

“Do they call him Stoner?”

“Only his old frat buddies.”

“I should have guessed.”

Jessica studied him for a moment. Her gaze made his face warm. “You look like hell, by the way.”

“I took something of a beating today.”

“Some things don’t change then. How’s Win?”

“Speaking of things that don’t change.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“We going to keep this up,” Myron said, “or are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

“Can we keep this up for a few more minutes?”

Myron shrugged a
suit-yourself
at her.

“How are your parents?” she asked.

“Fine.”

“They never liked me.”

“No, I don’t suppose they did.”

“And Esperanza? Does she still refer to me as Queen Bitch?”

“She hasn’t so much as mentioned your name in seven years.”

That made her smile. “Like I’m Voldemort. In the Harry Potter books.”

“Yep, you’re She-who-must-not-be-named.”

Myron shifted in his chair. He turned away for a few seconds. She was just so damn beautiful. It was like looking into an eclipse. You need to look away every once in a while.

“You know why I’m here,” she said.

“One last fling before you marry Stoner?”

“Would you be willing?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

He wondered if she was right, so he took the mature route. “Are you aware that ‘Stoner’ rhymes with ‘boner’?”

“Making fun of someone’s name,” Jessica said, “when yours is Myron.”

“Throwing stones, glass houses, yeah, I know.” Her eyes were red. “Are you drunk?”

“Tipsy maybe. I had enough to get my courage up.”

“To break into my house?”

“Yes.”

“So what is it, Jessica?”

“You and I,” she said. “We’re not really through.”

He said nothing.

“I pretend we’re done, you pretend we’re done. But we both know better.” Jessica turned to the side and swallowed. He watched her neck. He saw hurt in her eyes. “What was the first thing that went through your mind when you read I was getting married?”

“I wished you and Stoner nothing but the best.”

She waited.

“I don’t know what I thought,” he said.

“It hurt?”

“What do you want me to say, Jess? We were together a long time. Of course there was a pang.”

“It’s like”—she paused, thought about it—“it’s like, despite the fact I haven’t talked to you in seven years, it was always just a question of time before we got back together. Like this was all part of the process. Do you know what I mean?”

He said nothing, but he felt something deep inside him start to fray.

“And then today, I saw my announcement in print—the announcement I wrote—and suddenly it was like, ‘Wait, this is for real. Myron and I don’t end up together.’ ” She shook her head. “I’m not saying this right.”

“Nothing to say, Jessica.”

“Just like that?”

“You being here,” he said. “It’s just prewedding jitters.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know.”

They sat there for a while. Myron held out his hand. She took it. He felt something course through him.

“I know why you’re here,” Myron said. “I don’t even think I’m surprised.”

“There’s still something between us, isn’t there?”

“I don’t know. . . .”

“I hear a ‘but.’ ”

“You go through what we went through—the love, the breakups, my injuries, all that pain, all that time together, the fact that I wanted to marry you—”

“Let me address that part, okay?”

“In a second. I’m on a roll here.”

Jessica smiled. “Sorry.”

“You go through all that, your lives become so entwined with one another. And then one day, you just end it. You just sever it off like with a machete. But you’re so entwined, stuff is still there.”

“Our lives are enmeshed,” she said.

“Enmeshed,” he repeated. “That sounds so precious.”

“But it’s somewhat accurate.”

He nodded.

“So what do we do?”

“Nothing. That’s just part of life.”

“Do you know why I didn’t marry you?”

“It’s irrelevant, Jess.”

“I don’t think it is. I think we need to play through this.”

Myron let go of her hand and signaled,
fine, go ahead.

“Most people hate their parents’ lives. They rebel. But you wanted to be just like them. You wanted the house, the kids—”

“And you didn’t,” he interrupted. “We know all this.”

“That’s not it. I might have wanted that life too.”

“Just not with me.”

“You know that’s not it. I just wasn’t sure. . . .” She tilted her head. “You wanted that life. But I didn’t know if you wanted that life more than me.”

“That,” Myron said, “is the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard.”

“Maybe, but that’s how I felt.”

“Great, I didn’t love you enough.”

She looked at him, shook her head. “No man has ever loved me like you did.”

Silence. Myron held back the “what-about-Stoner” remark.

“When you blew out your knee—”

“Not that again. Please.”

Jessica pushed ahead. “When you blew out your knee, you changed. You worked so hard to move past it.”

“You’d have preferred the self-pity route,” Myron said.

“That might have worked better. Because what you did instead, what you ended up doing, was running scared. You grabbed so tight to everything you had that it was suffocating. All of a sudden you were mortal. You didn’t want to lose anything else and suddenly—”

“This is all great, Jess. Hey, I forget. At Duke, who taught your Intro to Psychology class? Because he’d be proud as punch right about now.”

Jessica just shook her head at him.

“What?” he said.

“You’re still not married, are you, Myron?’

“Neither,” he said, “are you.”

“Touché. But have you had a lot of serious relationships over the past seven years?”

He shrugged. “I’m involved right now.”

“Really?”

“What, that’s such a surprise?”

“No, but think about it. You, Mr. Commitment, Mr. Long-Term Relationship—why is it taking you so long to find anybody else?”

“Don’t tell me.” He held up a hand. “You spoiled me for all other women?”

“Well, that would be understandable.” Jessica arched an eyebrow. “But no, I don’t think so.”

“Well, I’m all ears. Why? Why aren’t I happily married by now?”

Jessica shrugged. “I’m still working on it.”

“Don’t work on it. It doesn’t involve you anymore.”

She shrugged again.

They both sat there. It was funny how comfortable he was with all this.

“You remember my friend Claire?” Myron said.

“She married that uptight guy, right? We went to their wedding.”

“Erik.” He didn’t want to go into it all, so he started with something else. “He told me tonight that he and Claire are having troubles. He says it’s inevitable, that eventually it all dims and fades and that it becomes something else. He says he misses the passion.”

“Is he messing around?” Jessica asked.

“Why do you ask that?”

“Because it sounds like he’s trying to justify his actions.”

“So you don’t think there’s anything to that dimming passion stuff?”

“Of course there’s something to it. Passion can’t stay at that fevered pitch.”

Myron thought about that. “It did for us.”

“Yes,” she said.

“There was no fade.”

“None. But we were young. And maybe that’s why, in the end, we blew up.”

He considered that. She took his hand again. There was a charge. Then Jessica gave him a look.
The
look, to be more specific. Myron froze.

Uh-oh.

“You and this new woman,” Jessica said. “Are you exclusive?”

“You and Stoner-Boner,” he countered. “Are you exclusive?”

“Low blow. But it’s not about Stone. It’s not about your new missus. It’s about us.”

“And you think, what, a quick boink will help clarify things?”

“Still a wordsmith with the ladies, I see.”

“Here’s another word from the wordsmith: no.”

Jessica toyed with the top button of her blouse. Myron felt his mouth go a little dry. But she stopped.

“You’re right,” she said.

He wondered if he was disappointed that she hadn’t pushed it further. He wondered what he would have done if she had.

They started talking then, just catching up on the years. Myron told her about Jeremy, about his serving overseas. Jessica told him about
her books, her family, her time working out on the West Coast. She didn’t talk about Stoner. He didn’t talk about Ali.

Morning came. They were still in the kitchen. They’d been talking for hours, but it didn’t feel like it. It just felt good. At seven a.m., the phone rang. Myron picked it up.

Win said, “Our favorite schoolteacher is heading to work.”