Harlan Coben - Home

“You forget me. I forget you. I go back to my life. Except for one thing. I have the sources on the street. I have the contacts. I use them now. In the same way I was able to find Patrick Moore, I use them to find Rhys Baldwin, if he can be found.”

I consider this. It sounds like a fair deal. I tell him this. Relief washes over him. We have a deal. For now.

“One more question,” I say.

He waits.

“You said, ‘if he can be found.’”

His face falls a little.

“I assume,” I continue, “that you asked Patrick Moore about Rhys Baldwin’s whereabouts.”

He squirms just enough. “It didn’t really interest me,” he replies.

“But you asked.”

“I did, yes.”

“What did he say?”

Fat Gandhi looks me square in the eye. “He said that Rhys was dead.”

The Morningside campus of Columbia University features a startlingly picturesque quad nestled between Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue on the west and east and 114th Street and 120th Street south and north. You enter by College Walk on 116th Street, and suddenly, like something out of a wardrobe portal to Narnia, you are transported from the aging city, from the purely urban, from Manhattan at its most citified, to an idyllic campus of green and brick and domes and ivy. You feel protected in here, isolated, and maybe, for the four years you spend here as an undergraduate, that’s how it should be.

Esperanza had found a campus directory that told her Francesca Moore lived in a six-person suite in Ruggles Hall. It was seven A.M. The quad was near silent. You needed a student ID to enter the building, so Myron waited by the door. To blend in, he donned a baseball cap and carried an empty pizza box.

Myron Bolitar, Master of Disguise.

When one kid finally emerged, Myron grabbed the door before it closed. The kid, probably used to deliverymen coming at all hours, didn’t say a word.

Myron Bolitar, Master of Disguise, was inside.

The corridors were eerily quiet. Myron headed to the second floor and found the door to room 217. He’d come this early figuring that Francesca, like any college student, would still be asleep and thus he was sure to find her here and maybe even a little groggy. That might be a good thing. Catch her off guard and all that. Sure, he might disturb her roommates too, but he chalked that up to acceptable collateral damage.

Myron didn’t know what he hoped to find here, but stumbling around blind was a big part of his so-called investigations. You don’t so much painstakingly search for the needle in the haystack as haphazardly leap into various haystacks, barefoot and naked, and then flail wildly and hope that hey, ouch, there’s a needle.

Myron knocked on the door. Nothing. He knocked a little harder. More nothing. He put his hand on the knob and gave it a small turn. The door was unlocked. He debated just going in, but no, a strange adult entering the room of a college co-ed? Not a smart move. When he knocked again, the door finally opened.

“Mr. Bolitar?”

It wasn’t Francesca Moore. It was Clark Baldwin.

“Hey, Clark.”

Clark wore a T-shirt several sizes too large and checkered boxer shorts that even Myron’s dad would consider retro. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot. “What are you doing here?” he asked Myron.

“I could ask you the same question.”

“Uh, I go to school here. I live here.”

“Oh,” Myron said. “You and Francesca are roommates?”

“Suitemates, yeah.”

“I didn’t know.”

“No reason you should,” Clark said.

True that.

“There are six of us,” Clark continued, feeling the need to explain or perhaps get his bearings. “Three guys, three girls. It’s the twenty-first century. Co-ed dorms, co-ed rooms, transgender bathrooms, we got it all.”

“Can I come in?” Myron asked.

From behind him, a male voice said, “What’s going on, Clark?”

“Go back to sleep, Matt,” Clark said. “It’s nothing.”

Clark slipped outside into the corridor and closed the door behind him. “Why are you here?”

“I came to talk to Francesca,” Myron said.

Something crossed his face. “What about?”

“About the econ final,” Myron said. “I hear it’s going to be a bitch.”

Clark made a face. “That supposed to be funny?”

“Well, I admit it’s not one of my better lines but-”

“Mom said you and Cousin Win are trying to find Rhys.”

Myron nodded. “We are.”

“But Francesca doesn’t know anything about that.”

Myron spared him the flailing-in-a-haystack metaphor. “She may know more than she thinks she knows.”

Clark shook his head. “She would have told me,” he said.

Patience, Myron thought. If you’re standing in front of a haystack, flail in that one before you move on. Or something like that. In short, stay patient for now with Clark.

“You two must be pretty tight,” Myron said.

“Francesca is my best friend.”

“You grew up together?”

“Yes. But there’s a lot more to it than that.”

A door opened down the corridor. A boy stumbled out as only a college student waking up early can.

“She’s the only one who got it,” Clark continued. “You know what I mean?”

Myron did, but he said, “Pretend I don’t.”

“We were just kids. We were only in fifth grade.”

“I remember. Mr. Hixon’s class.”

“Dixon.”

“Right, sorry. Dixon. Go on.”

Clark swallowed and rubbed his chin. “So we’re just little kids. Francesca and I were friends, I guess, but we didn’t hang out or anything. You know what that age is like, right?”

Myron nodded. “Boys hung out with boys, girls with girls.”

“Right. But then everything… I mean, both our little brothers just”-Clark snapped his fingers-“vanished. Like that. Do you not get what that did to us?”

Myron wasn’t sure if the question was rhetorical or not. The corridor had the stale stench of spilled beer and academic worry. There was a bulletin board overloaded with flyers, meetings for all kinds of groups and clubs, everything from badminton to belly dancing, from feminist thought to flute choir. There were clubs with names Myron didn’t understand, like Orchesis or Gayaa or Taal, and what was the Venom Step Team?

“For a while, after your brother disappears, you stay home from school,” Clark said, his voice faraway. “I don’t remember how long anymore. Was it a week, a month? I can’t remember. But eventually you have to go back, and when you do, everyone looks at you like you’re some kind of alien. Your friends. Your teachers. Everyone. Then you go home from school, and it’s even worse. Your parents are falling apart. They’re extra clingy because now they’re scared of losing you too. So you come home and you try to escape to your room, but when you do, you walk right past his room. Every day. You move on-and yet you never move on. You try to forget, but that makes it worse. You try to get out from the shadow, but then you see your mother’s sad face and it knocks you back down again.”

Clark lowered his head.

And meanwhile, Myron thought, you’re just a kid.

Myron wasn’t sure it was the right move, but in the end, he put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” Myron said.

“For what?”

“For sharing that. It must have been a nightmare.”

“It was,” Clark said, “but that’s my point. She made it better.”

“Francesca?”

Clark nodded. “I had someone who didn’t just say they got it. I had someone who understood completely.”

“Because she was going through the same thing.”

“Right.”

“And,” Myron said, “vice versa. She had someone too.”