Harlan Coben - Home

“So now you think I should have a say in what happens to my son?”

Win did not reply.

“You received an anonymous email,” Brooke said.

“Yes.”

“You showed up and ended up killing three guys.”

“Louder,” Win said. “I think the gentlemen in the corner didn’t hear you.”

But Brooke was having none of it. “Why didn’t you tell me about the email?”

“It was anonymous. I figured that it would go nowhere.”

“Bullshit,” Brooke said. “You found it credible enough to check it out.”

“Yes.”

“So why didn’t you tell me, Win?”

No reply.

“Because you thought I’d fall apart? Because you didn’t want to get my hopes up?”

Silence.

“Win?”

He turned and faced her full on. “Yes,” he said. “That’s why.”

“That wasn’t your decision to make.”

He spread his hands. “Yet make it I did.”

“What, you think I couldn’t take it? You think you were sparing me additional pain?”

“Something like that.”

“You know nothing about my pain.” Brooke leaned in closer. “How dare you? How dare you decide that for me?”

She stared at him hard. Win said nothing.

“Win?”

“You’re right,” he said. “I should have told you.”

“Not good enough.”

“It’s going to have to be, Brooke.”

“No, sorry, you don’t get off that easily. Maybe if you told me about the email, I would have flown over. Maybe I could have helped in some way. Maybe-no, definitely-things would have gone differently.”

Win said nothing.

“Instead,” Brooke said, pointing out the window of the pub, “my boy is still out there. Alone. You messed up, Win. You messed up big-time.”

“Let’s slow down a second,” Myron said. “We don’t know if that would have changed-”

Brooke snapped her gaze toward Myron, cutting him off. “Is Rhys here, Myron?”

Now it was Myron who said nothing.

“Bottom line: Is he here?” She turned back to her cousin. “We had our first real lead in ten years. In ten horrible, miserable years. And now…”

“Brooke?”

It was Win.

“I get it,” he said. “You’re angry.”

“Man, you’re perceptive.”

“But more than that, you’re trying to motivate me,” Win said. “There is no need. You know that too.”

Their eyes met. If someone passed a hand between those eyes, it would probably have been chopped off via laser.

Her phone rang.

“Find him, Win.”

“I will.”

They both blinked. Brooke took out her phone and put it to her ear. “Hello?” She hung up a few seconds later. “That was the police.”

“What did they want?”

“It’s Patrick. He’s awake.”

Win didn’t come with them to the hospital. For now, he felt that it would be best to keep his distance from anything involving law enforcement. They considered having Myron stay away too-the cops had been less than thrilled with Myron’s explanation for the violence at AdventureLand-but in the end, they decided that he should be nearby in case he was somehow needed.

Brooke stayed busy on her phone during the taxi ride. She called her husband, Chick, and told him to meet her at the hospital. She made more calls and grew more agitated.

“What’s wrong?” Myron asked.

“They are saying we can’t see Patrick yet.”

“Who?”

“The police.”

Myron thought about that. “Is it their decision?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, who decides that you can’t see him? Is it up to the police? Can’t the parents overrule them?”

“I still don’t know if Nancy and Hunter have legal standing.”

“I assume you have their numbers?”

“Only Nancy’s.”

“Try it.”

She did. No answer. She sent a text. No reply.

When they pulled up to the front of the hospital, Chick was smoking and pacing. Chick threw the cigarette down hard on the pavement and made a production out of stamping it out. He opened the taxi door with a scowl on his face. Brooke got out. Myron followed.

Chick’s scowl grew when he saw Myron.

“You’re Win’s friend. The basketball player. What are you doing here?”

Win didn’t like Chick, which told Myron all he needed to know about him.

Chick looked at Brooke. “What’s he doing here?”

“He was the one who rescued Patrick.”

Chick turned the scowl back toward Myron. “You were there?”

“Yes.”

“So how come you didn’t save my kid?”

My kid, Myron noted. Not ours.

“He tried, Chick,” Brooke said.

“What, he can’t answer for himself?”

“I tried, Chick.”

Chick stepped toward him. The scowl was still there. Myron started to wonder whether it was indeed a scowl or just his default expression. “You being a wiseass with me? Huh?”

Myron didn’t step back. He didn’t make a fist, but man, he wanted to. Despite the rushed call from his wife, Chick wore a shiny silk suit with a tie so perfectly knotted it looked fake. His shoes had an almost supernatural shine, like they were somehow more than new, and his hair was black with just the right amount of gray, slicked back and a little too long. His skin had the waxy glow of a recent facial or some sort of high-end cosmetics, and the word “manscaped” was encompassed in every move Chick made.

Brooke said, “We don’t have time for this.”

Chick did that thing where you look the person in one eye, then the other, then back to the first. Myron just stood there and let him. You don’t judge a guy by his appearance. Win was the walking, talking embodiment of that. The guy was also hurting. You could see that too. He might be a vainglorious asshat, but his son had been snatched away from him ten years ago. You could see that in Chick’s face somehow, despite all he tried to do to cover it up.

So part of Myron felt sorry for the man.

And part of Myron remembered that Win didn’t like him.

“I tried my best,” Myron said to him. “He got away. I’m sorry about that.”

Chick hesitated and then nodded. “I’m sorry too. This has been…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Brooke’s voice was gentle. “Chick?”

Chick gave Myron’s arm an apologetic squeeze as he turned toward his wife.

Brooke said, “Let’s go inside, okay?”

Chick nodded and joined her.

Brooke shaded her eyes with her right hand. “Myron?”

He glanced around and spotted a Costa coffee shop across the street. “I’ll wait there. Text if you need me.”

Chick and Brooke entered the hospital. Myron crossed the street and headed to the right for the Costa coffee shop. Costa was a chain coffee shop and resembled, more than anything else, a chain coffee shop. Swap the dark red décor for green and you could be in a Starbucks. Myron was sure that passionate defenders of either company would be offended by this observation, but Myron decided that he wouldn’t lose sleep over it.

He ordered a coffee from the barista, and then, realizing his stomach was growling, he checked out the food options. On that front-food variety-Costa seemed to have a leg up on its American competitor. He ordered a British Ham and Cheese Toastie. Toastie. “Toastie” was a cute word. Myron hadn’t heard it before, but he deduced, correctly as it turned out, that a “toastie” was probably a toasted sandwich.

Some stand in awe of Myron Bolitar’s power of deduction.

A text came in from Brooke: Not letting us see him. Told to wait.

Myron replied: Want me to come over?

Brooke: Not yet. Will keep you posted.

Myron sat at a table and ate the toastie. Not bad. He downed it too quickly and debated getting another. When had he last eaten? He sat back, drank his coffee, read articles that he’d saved on his smartphone. Time passed. The place was a little too quiet. Myron looked around at the drawn faces. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he could almost feel the misery hanging in the air. He was, of course, across the street from a hospital, so maybe that was why he was seeing suffering or anxiety, faces waiting for news, faces dreading news, faces that had come here to try to escape into the comforting sameness and normalcy of a chain coffee shop.