Tell No One
Authors: Harlan Coben
Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Thrillers
TELL NO ONE
“In this pulse-pounding hunt, Harlan Coben layers secret upon secret, crisscrossing years and crime scenes.… A BEACH-READ SO GRIPPING IT OUGHT TO COME WITH A JUMBO TUBE OF SUNSCREEN … BOTTOM LINE: TELL EVERYONE.”
—
People
(Beach Book of the Week)
“
TELL NO ONE
ROCKS THE HOUSE. My head felt like a pretzel by the time I was done because I never, not once, saw where the book was going until Coben wanted me to. AN EXHILARATING, BANG-UP, PORSCHE TURBO OF A NOVEL THAT YOU ABSOLUTELY WILL NOT PUT DOWN.”
—D
ENNIS
L
EHANE
,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Mystic River
“I forced myself to read slowly. I wanted to savor every clue, every detail, and I never wanted it to end. There are numerous aspects to the clincher ending, with SURPRISES IN STORE FOR THE READER UNTIL THE VERY LAST PAGE.”
—
USA Today
“THIS IS SUSPENSE AT ITS FINEST—GUT-WRENCHING THRILLS AND HONEST, HEART-TUGGING EMOTION. A big book in every sense of the word,
Tell No One
speeds along at such a breakneck pace that we have to remind ourselves continually to slow down and savor the writing—and Coben’s marvelous characters. This author just keeps getting better and better.”
—J
EFFERY
D
EAVER
,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Blue Nowhere
“Taut, twisty … gloriously exciting.”
—
Kirkus Reviews
“A COMPELLING AND ORIGINAL SUSPENSE THRILLER … INTRIGUING … CLEVER AND UNIQUE.”
—
Los Angeles Times
“A headlong, full-tilt thriller.”
—
The Seattle Times
“
TELL NO ONE
IS SUCH A TERRIFIC THRILLER, YOU’LL WANT TO TELL EVERYONE! Harlan Coben delivers the near impossible—a can’t-put-it-down page-turner with a slam-bang surprise ending. You’ll read this book in one breathless gulp!”
—L
ISA
S
COTTOLINE
,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Vendetta Defense
“The book everyone should take to the beach this summer … Tell everyone to read
Tell No One.
Highly recommended.”
—
Library Journal
“A BREATHTAKING WHODUNIT … QUALIFIES AS A CLASSIC …
Tell No One
has it all—a cast that crackles with real-life energy, pacing that will keep the most jaded reader breathless and above all, a shimmering, multifaceted jewel of a plot with more delightful unexpected twists than the world’s wildest roller coaster.…
Tell No One
transcends Coben’s previous work, just as it transcends just about all other so-called whodunits on the market today. This book will, must, establish him as one of our preeminent crafters of fine mystery fiction.”
—
Fort Worth Star-Telegram
“A taut, lively paced tale … a suspenseful thriller, a love story that works and a window on contemporary moral issues … one of the year’s best-plotted thrillers …
TELL NO ONE
FURTHER SEALS COBEN’S PLACE AMONG TODAY’S BEST MYSTERY WRITERS.”
—
Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“DELIVERS SOME GENUINE THRILLS.”
—
Chicago Tribune
“His most suspenseful book yet … Coben has enough surprises up his sleeve to keep you racing to the end.”
—Book Page
“
Tell No One
begins at a run and in no time is moving at an all-out sprint … will leave readers rapidly turning the pages.”
—
San Francisco Chronicle
“A book that defies inattention. I read right through a television show I wanted to see. I took it to the car place to read while the oil was being changed. I took it to work, hoping to sneak away for lunch.… I DON’T REMEMBER THE LAST TIME I FELT SO DRIVEN TO FINISH A NOVEL.… Try to read
Tell No One
slowly enough to appreciate Coben’s writing. It will be hard. But try.”
—
St. Petersburg Times
“
Tell No One
opens with a gut-wrenching scene that will leave you close to tears, and then propels you along … on a thrilling ride that will keep you constantly guessing, turning pages as quickly as you can, almost desperate to learn what happens next.”
—
The Denver Post
“Page-turner scribes such as Jeffery Deaver and Lisa Scottoline rave over this one. Add humble
moi
to the list.”
—
The Philadelphia Inquirer
“THIS THRILLER MOVES FROM HEARTBREAKING TO HEARTSTOPPING WITHOUT MISSING A BEAT.”
—
Booklist
“Fifteen pages into this book you are sucked in and Coben never lets the pace stall.… If it takes more than two days to finish this one, you’re working too many hours. A hot summer rush.”
—
The Detroit News
“Fast-paced … A TALE THAT WILL HAVE YOU HOOKED THROUGH THE VERY UNEXPECTED CLIMAX.”
—
Rocky Mountain News
Tell No One
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living
or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
2009 Dell Mass Market Edition
Copyright © 2001 by Harlan Coben
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Dell,
an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group,
a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
D
ELL
is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.,
and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Originally published in hardcover in the United States
by Delacorte Press, an imprint of The Random House Publishing
Group, a division of Random House, Inc., in 2001.
eISBN: 978-0-307-49173-2
v3.1_r1
Small said, “But what about when we are dead and
gone, will you love me then, does love go on?”
Large held Small snug as they looked out at the
night, at the moon in the dark and the stars shining
bright. “Small, look at the stars, how they shine
and glow, some of the stars died a long time ago.
Still they shine in the evening skies, for you see,
Small, love like starlight never dies.…”
—Debi Gliori
No Matter What
(Bloomsbury Publishing)
T
here should have been a dark whisper in the wind. Or maybe a deep chill in the bone. Something. An ethereal song only Elizabeth or I could hear. A tightness in the air. Some textbook premonition. There are misfortunes we almost expect in life—what happened to my parents, for example—and then there are other dark moments, moments of sudden violence, that alter everything. There was my life before the tragedy. There is my life now. The two have painfully little in common.
Elizabeth was quiet for our anniversary drive, but that was hardly unusual. Even as a young girl, she’d possessed this unpredictable melancholy streak. She’d go quiet and drift into either deep contemplation or a deep funk, I never knew which. Part of the mystery, I guess, but for the first time, I could feel the chasm between us. Our relationship had survived so much. I wondered if it could survive the truth. Or for that matter, the unspoken lies.
The car’s air-conditioning whirred at the blue MAX setting. The day was hot and sticky. Classically August. We crossed the Delaware Water Gap at the Milford Bridge and were welcomed to Pennsylvania by a friendly toll collector. Ten miles later, I spotted the stone sign that read
LAKE CHARMAINE
—
PRIVATE
. I turned onto the dirt road.
The tires bore down, kicking up dust like an Arabian stampede. Elizabeth flipped off the car stereo. Out of the corner of my eye, I could tell that she was studying my profile. I wondered what she saw, and my heart started fluttering. Two deer nibbled on some leaves on our right. They stopped, looked at us, saw we meant no harm, went back to nibbling. I kept driving and then the lake rose before us. The sun was now in its death throes, bruising the sky a coiling purple and orange. The tops of the trees seemed to be on fire.
“I can’t believe we still do this,” I said.
“You’re the one who started it.”
“Yeah, when I was twelve years old.”
Elizabeth let the smile through. She didn’t smile often, but when she did,
pow
, right to my heart.
“It’s romantic,” she insisted.
“It’s goofy.”
“I love romance.”
“You love goofy.”
“You get laid whenever we do this.”
“Call me Mr. Romance,” I said.
She laughed and took my hand. “Come on, Mr. Romance, it’s getting dark.”
Lake Charmaine. My grandfather had come up with that name, which pissed off my grandmother to no end. She wanted it named for her. Her name was
Bertha. Lake Bertha. Grandpa wouldn’t hear it. Two points for Grandpa.
Some fifty-odd years ago, Lake Charmaine had been the site of a rich-kids summer camp. The owner had gone belly-up and Grandpa bought the entire lake and surrounding acreage on the cheap. He’d fixed up the camp director’s house and torn down most of the lake-front buildings. But farther in the woods, where no one went anymore, he left the kids’ bunks alone to rot. My sister, Linda, and I used to explore them, sifting through their ruins for old treasures, playing hide-and-seek, daring ourselves to seek the Boogeyman we were sure watched and waited. Elizabeth rarely joined us. She liked to know where everything was. Hiding scared her.
When we stepped out of the car, I heard the ghosts. Lots of them here, too many, swirling and battling for my attention. My father’s won out. The lake was hold-your-breath still, but I swore I could still hear Dad’s howl of delight as he cannonballed off the dock, his knees pressed tightly against his chest, his smile just south of sane, the upcoming splash a virtual tidal wave in the eyes of his only son. Dad liked to land near my sunbathing mother’s raft. She’d scold him, but she couldn’t hide the laugh.
I blinked and the images were gone. But I remembered how the laugh and the howl and the splash would ripple and echo in the stillness of our lake, and I wondered if ripples and echoes like those ever fully die away, if somewhere in the woods my father’s joyful yelps still bounced quietly off the trees. Silly thought, but there you go.
Memories, you see, hurt. The good ones most of all.
“You okay, Beck?” Elizabeth asked me.
I turned to her. “I’m going to get laid, right?”
“Perv.”
She started walking up the path, her head high, her back straight. I watched her for a second, remembering the first time I’d seen that walk. I was seven years old, taking my bike—the one with the banana seat and Batman decal—for a plunge down Goodhart Road. Goodhart Road was steep and windy, the perfect thoroughfare for the discriminating Stingray driver. I rode downhill with no hands, feeling pretty much as cool and hip as a seven-year-old possibly could. The wind whipped back my hair and made my eyes water. I spotted the moving van in front of the Ruskins’ old house, turned and—first pow—there she was, my Elizabeth, walking with that titanium spine, so poised, even then, even as a seven-year-old girl with Mary Janes and a friendship bracelet and too many freckles.
We met two weeks later in Miss Sobel’s second-grade class, and from that moment on—please don’t gag when I say this—we were soul mates. Adults found our relationship both cute and unhealthy—our inseparable tomboy-kickball friendship morphing into puppy love and adolescent preoccupation and hormonal high school dating. Everyone kept waiting for us to outgrow each other. Even us. We were both bright kids, especially Elizabeth, top students, rational even in the face of irrational love. We understood the odds.
But here we were, twenty-five-year-olds, married seven months now, back at the spot when at the age of twelve we’d shared our first real kiss.
Nauseating, I know.
We pushed past branches and through humidity thick enough to bind. The gummy smell of pine
clawed the air. We trudged through high grass. Mosquitoes and the like buzzed upward in our wake. Trees cast long shadows that you could interpret any way you wanted, like trying to figure out what a cloud looked like or one of Rorschach’s inkblots.
We ducked off the path and fought our way through thicker brush. Elizabeth led the way. I followed two paces back, an almost symbolic gesture when I think about it now. I always believed that nothing could drive us apart—certainly our history had proven that, hadn’t it?—but now more than ever I could feel the guilt pushing her away.
My guilt.
Up ahead, Elizabeth made a right at the big semiphallic rock and there, on the right, was our tree. Our initials were, yup, carved into the bark:
E.P.
+
D.B.
And yes, a heart surrounded it. Under the heart were twelve lines, one marking each anniversary of that first kiss. I was about to make a wisecrack about how nauseating we were, but when I saw Elizabeth’s face, the freckles now either gone or darkened, the tilt of the chin, the long, graceful neck, the steady green eyes, the dark hair braided like thick rope down her back, I stopped. I almost told her right then and there, but something pulled me back.
“I love you,” I said.
“You’re already getting laid.”
“Oh.”
“I love you too.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, feigning being put out, “you’ll get laid too.”
She smiled, but I thought I saw hesitancy in it. I took her in my arms. When she was twelve and we finally worked up the courage to make out, she’d smelled wonderfully of clean hair and strawberry Pixie Stix. I’d been overwhelmed by the newness of it, of course, the excitement, the exploration. Today she smelled of lilacs and cinnamon. The kiss moved like a warm light from the center of my heart. When our tongues met, I still felt a jolt. Elizabeth pulled away, breathless.
“Do you want to do the honors?” she asked.
She handed me the knife, and I carved the thirteenth line in the tree. Thirteen. In hindsight, maybe there had been a premonition.
It was dark when we got back to the lake. The pale moon broke through the black, a solo beacon. There were no sounds tonight, not even crickets. Elizabeth and I quickly stripped down. I looked at her in the moonlight and felt something catch in my throat. She dove in first, barely making a ripple. I clumsily followed. The lake was surprisingly warm. Elizabeth swam with clean, even strokes, slicing through the water as though it were making a path for her. I splashed after her. Our sounds skittered across the lake’s surface like skipping stones. She turned into my arms. Her skin was warm and wet. I loved her skin. We held each other close. She pressed her breasts against my chest. I could feel her heart and I could hear her breathing. Life sounds. We kissed. My hand wandered down the delicious curve of her back.
When we finished—when everything felt so right again—I grabbed a raft and collapsed onto it. I panted, my legs splayed, my feet dangling in the water.
Elizabeth frowned. “What, you going to fall asleep now?”
“Snore.”
“Such a man.”
I put my hands behind my head and lay back. A cloud passed in front of the moon, turning the blue night into something pallid and gray. The air was still. I could hear Elizabeth getting out of the water and stepping onto the dock. My eyes tried to adjust. I could barely make out her naked silhouette. She was, quite simply, breathtaking. I watched her bend at the waist and wring the water out of her hair. Then she arched her spine and threw her head back.
My raft drifted farther away from shore. I tried to sift through what had happened to me, but even I didn’t understand it all. The raft kept moving. I started losing sight of Elizabeth. As she faded into the dark, I made a decision: I would tell her. I would tell her everything.
I nodded to myself and closed my eyes. There was a lightness in my chest now. I listened to the water gently lap against my raft.
Then I heard a car door open.
I sat up.
“Elizabeth?”
Pure silence, except for my own breathing.
I looked for her silhouette again. It was hard to make out, but for a moment I saw it. Or I thought I saw it. I’m not sure anymore or even if it matters. Either way, Elizabeth was standing perfectly still, and maybe she was facing me.
I might have blinked—I’m really not sure about that either—and when I looked again, Elizabeth was gone.
My heart slammed into my throat. “Elizabeth!”
No answer.
The panic rose. I fell off the raft and started swimming toward the dock. But my strokes were loud, maddeningly loud, in my ears. I couldn’t hear what, if anything, was happening. I stopped.
“Elizabeth!”
For a long while there was no sound. The cloud still blocked the moon. Maybe she had gone inside the cabin. Maybe she’d gotten something out of the car. I opened my mouth to call her name again.
That was when I heard her scream.
I lowered my head and swam, swam hard, my arms pumping, my legs kicking wildly. But I was still far from the dock. I tried to look as I swam, but it was too dark now, the moon offering just faint shafts of light, illuminating nothing.
I heard a scraping noise, like something being dragged.
Up ahead, I could see the dock. Twenty feet, no more. I swam harder. My lungs burned. I swallowed some water, my arms stretching forward, my hand fumbling blindly in the dark. Then I found it. The ladder. I grabbed hold, hoisted myself up, climbed out of the water. The dock was wet from Elizabeth. I looked toward the cabin. Too dark. I saw nothing.
“Elizabeth!”
Something like a baseball bat hit me square in the solar plexus. My eyes bulged. I folded at the waist, suffocating from within. No air. Another blow. This time it landed on the top of my skull. I heard a crack in my head, and it felt as though someone had hammered a nail through my temple. My legs buckled and I dropped to my knees. Totally disoriented now, I put
my hands against the sides of my head and tried to cover up. The next blow—the final blow—hit me square in the face.
I toppled backward, back into the lake. My eyes closed. I heard Elizabeth scream again—she screamed my name this time—but the sound, all sound, gurgled away as I sank under the water.
