Harlan Coben - Home

“I know, right?”

“And tomorrow you meet with the boy you rescued?”

“We hope.”

“Big Cyndi and I can help with this, you know.”

“I can handle it. You two are busy.”

“Don’t do that, Myron.”

“Don’t do what? You have a business to run.”

“A business I run. Big Chief Mama and Little Pocahontas get rotated in and out of the lineup. We can be free anytime you need us.” Esperanza leaned forward. “This is Win’s cousin. I want to be a part of it. So will Big Cyndi. Don’t shut us out.”

Myron nodded. “Okay.” Then: “Where’s Hector, by the way?”

Her face darkened. When she spoke again, the words came out in an angry spit. “He’s with his father.”

“Oh. I take it from your tone that the custody battle is not going well.”

“Tom has an in with the judge. A golfing buddy, believe it or not.”

“You can’t get a venue change?”

“My attorney says no. Guess what Tom’s claiming.”

“What?”

“I lead a”-Esperanza made quote marks with her fingers-“‘prurient’ lifestyle.”

“Because you’re a wrestler?”

“Because I’m bisexual.”

Myron frowned. “For real?”

“Yep.”

“But bisexuality is so mainstream now.”

“I know,” Esperanza said.

“Practically a cliché.”

“Tell me about it. I feel so passé.”

She turned away.

“So it’s bad?”

“I may lose him, Myron. You know Tom. He is one of those master-of-the-universe, take-no-prisoner types. It isn’t about what’s right or wrong or the truth. It’s all about winning. It’s all about beating me no matter what the cost.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Answer one question.”

“What?”

“You knew he was a twat waffle, didn’t you?”

Myron didn’t reply.

“So how did you let me marry him?”

“I didn’t think it was my business to interfere,” Myron said.

“Whose business was it, then?”

Boom. Drop the mic. Esperanza just stared at him for a second. She had no family. She had only Myron and Win and Big Cyndi.

“Would you have listened to me?” Myron asked.

“No more than you listened to me when I told you how awful Jessica was.”

“I eventually saw the light.”

“Oh yes, you saw the light. Right after she dumped you and married another man.” Esperanza held up her hand. “Sorry, that was stupid. I’m just pissed off.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Besides, now you have Terese.”

“And you approve of her.”

“I love her. If I could get her to switch sides, I’d steal her from you.”

“Flattering,” Myron said.

“Wait.”

“What?”

“If Win is back, does this mean I’m not your best man anymore?”

“You never were,” Myron said. “It’s the ‘man’ part that gives him the edge.”

“Sexist.”

“But Terese and I wanted to ask you something.”

“What?”

“We want you to officiate the ceremony.”

Esperanza didn’t often look stunned. She did now. “Really?”

“Yeah. You have to get ordained online or something, but we really want you to be the one who marries us.”

Esperanza said, “Bastard.”

“What?”

“I have to do another meet-n-greet and now I’m going to start crying.”

“No, you won’t. You’re too tough.”

“True.” She rose and started for the door. “Myron?”

“Yeah.”

“How many times has Win asked for help?”

“I think this is the first.”

“We need to find Rhys,” Esperanza said.

Mickey was quiet on the ride home.

Uncle and nephew didn’t always see eye to eye. Mickey blamed Myron for a lot of what had happened to his father and mother. In a way, that was fair. Esperanza had wondered why Myron had never butted in to warn her about Tom. The reason involved Mickey. Way back when, Myron had butted in when his brother (and Mickey’s father) Brad had wanted to run away with troubled tennis wunderkind (and Mickey’s mother) Kitty Hammer.

That decision, made with the best of intentions, had led to disaster.

“The missing boy,” Myron said. “He’s your age.”

Mickey was looking out the window. He had been through a lot for someone so young-his unstable upbringing, his mother’s drug addiction, his father’s bizarre return from the grave. Mickey had also, it seemed, inherited the Bolitar “hero complex” gene. He had done a lot of good in a very short time. That made Myron equal parts proud and worried.

“I was thinking maybe you could give me some insight into what he’s thinking,” Myron said to his nephew.

“For real?”

“Yes.”

Mickey made a face. “So when I’m dealing with a guy in his forties, should I get insight into everything about him by asking you?”

“Fair point,” Myron said.

“He was kidnapped, what, ten years ago?”

“Right.”

“Do you know anything about where he was all this time?” Mickey asked.

Myron shook his head. “Just that we found him working as a street hustler.”

Silence.

“Myron?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me everything, okay?”

Myron told him the story. Mickey listened without interrupting.

“So Patrick is home now,” Mickey said.

“Yes.”

“And you’re supposed to see him tomorrow.”

“That’s the plan.”

Mickey rubbed his chin. “If that doesn’t go well, let me know.”

“What makes you think it won’t go well?”

“Nothing.”

“And what will you do if it doesn’t go well?”

Mickey didn’t reply.

“I don’t want you involved in this, Mickey.”

“It’s a missing teen, Myron. Like you said, I might have some insight.”

Myron’s car climbed up past the nouveau riche mansions, so expansive they appeared to have been taking some sort of growth hormone. The lawns were overly manicured, the hedges cropped with too much precision. The sun shone down as though someone had pressed a button and cued it up to do so. The brick was perfectly faded, too perfectly, adding to the faux-Las Vegas-Disney effect of the surroundings. No one had a tar driveway. They were made of some kind of fancy limestone that you didn’t want to ruin by driving over it. Everything reeked of money. Myron rolled down the window expecting to hear a fitting soundtrack to this ideal setting, maybe Bach or Mozart, but there was only the sound of silence, which, come to think of it, was the ideal soundtrack.

The homes were beautiful and picturesque and had all the warmth of a chain motel.

There were several news trucks on the street, though not as many as you might think. The gate was open, so Myron pulled into the Baldwins’, yep, limestone driveway. It was eight thirty, half an hour until the meeting with the Moores. Myron stepped out of the car. The grass was so green he almost bent down to see if it’d been freshly painted.

A chocolate Labrador sprinted toward him. Her tail was wagging so excitedly that her butt could barely keep up. She half slid the last few yards to him. Myron got down on one knee and gave the dog a good scratch behind the ears.

A young man-Myron guesstimated his age at twenty-came up behind her. He had the dog’s lead in his hand. His hair was long and wavy, the kind of long and wavy where you keep throwing back your head to keep it out of your eyes. He wore a black Lycra jogging ensemble with navy blue sleeves that exactly matched the navy blue in his sneakers. Myron thought that maybe he could see a little of both parents in his features.

“What’s your dog’s name?” Myron asked.

“Chloe.”

Myron stood. “You must be Clark.”