Harlan Coben - Home

Patrick’s shoulder started hitching. Myron saw a tear hit the table.

“They made me go with them to this ravine.” The monotone was gone now. Patrick’s voice was raw, struggling. “They made me watch…”

His mother put her hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I’m right here.”

“I saw it… I was there… They just… just dumped his body into this ravine. Like it was nothing. Like Rhys was nothing…”

Brooke let out a low moan, a sound unlike anything Myron had ever heard.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Baldwin.”

And then the tears came from both of them.

When Nancy hurried her son toward the door, Win stepped in her way.

“We need to know more,” Win said.

Patrick was sobbing uncontrollably.

“Not today,” Nancy said, pushing past Win. “Dr. Stanton warned me this might be too much for him. You know the truth now. I’m so, so sorry.”

She hurried outside. Win gestured to Myron, then moved toward Brooke. Myron quickly followed Nancy and Patrick. When the three of them were outside, Myron shouted, “How long have you known, Nancy?”

She spun toward him. “What?”

“How long have you known Rhys was dead?”

“What are you… Patrick just told us this morning.”

Myron rubbed his chin. “Odd timing.”

Patrick was still crying. The tears seemed real, and yet once again, something wasn’t adding up.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Nancy asked.

“Patrick,” Myron said, turning his attention to the distraught teen, “why were you in New York City yesterday with Tamryn Rogers?”

Nancy took that one. “What business is that of yours?”

“You knew?”

“He needed to get out,” Nancy said.

“Really? So you knew?”

“Of course.”

“How come he took a bus? How come you didn’t drive him?”

“That’s not your business.”

“He met up with Tamryn Rogers. I saw them together.”

“You were following my son?”

“Yep.”

Nancy put her hands on her hips, trying to look angry, but somehow it came across as more for show. “What gave you the right?” she snapped. “He went out by himself, he started talking to a girl his own age. Don’t make it more than what it is.”

“Hmm,” Myron said. He started walking toward them. “Your story matches hers.”

“So?”

“Even the outrage over me following them. Tamryn Rogers expressed it nearly the same way.”

“You were following my son. I have a right to be angry.”

“Is he your son?”

Patrick stopped crying, almost all at once.

“What are you talking about?”

Myron tried staring into the boy’s eyes, but again he kept his head down. “You both seem to be one step ahead of us, don’t you think, Patrick?”

He didn’t reply, didn’t look.

“I confront Tamryn Rogers. Suddenly your story matches hers. Win and I tell your dad you told Fat Gandhi that Rhys was dead. Suddenly you’ve recovered enough to tell Mrs. Moore about it.”

Nancy used her remote to unlock the car door. “Are you out of your mind?”

Myron bent at the waist, trying to force Patrick to look at him. “Are you really Patrick Moore?”

Without a warning, the boy reeled back his fist and threw it at Myron’s head. Myron was off-balance from leaning forward, but this was, after all, an inexperienced teenage fighter throwing a wild punch. All Myron had to do was duck down a bit, not much, not enough to stumble, and let the blow sail harmlessly over his head.

The survival instinct, paired with his training, took over, giving him various options for how to counter the attack. The most obvious was to wait another millisecond. With the punch at full extension, the teenager would be completely exposed. Myron’s knees were bent. He could pop a shot to the throat, the nose, the groin.

But he wouldn’t do that.

Instead, he stayed in a standing tuck and waited to see how the boy would respond. Using the momentum from his missed punch, Patrick broke into a full run. Myron stood, about to give chase, when Nancy started pounding on his back with her fists.

“Leave my son alone! What the hell is wrong with you? Are you crazy?”

Myron weathered the blows for a moment. He stood upright as Patrick disappeared up the driveway and down the street. Nancy ran to her car and opened the door.

“Please,” she pleaded, sliding in the car and putting it in reverse. “Please leave my boy alone.”

Myron was about to head back into the house when his cell phone rang. It was his nephew, Mickey.

“We got something on Tamryn Rogers,” Mickey said. “You’re going to want to see this.”

“Where are you?”

“Ema’s house.”

“I’m on my way.”

Win stayed with Brooke. He had been filling her in on all the recent developments, the most puzzling for her being the return of her former au pair, Vada Linna, now known as Sofia Lampo.

“Why would Vada be back?” Brooke had asked. “I don’t get it.”

Neither did they.

Two stone lions guarded the driveway to the mansion where Ema resided with her mother and grandparents. The gate was closed. Myron leaned out. The security guard recognized him and hit the button. The gate creaked open.

When Myron was a kid, the estate had been owned by a famed Mafia don, or boss or capo or whatever you called the head mobster. Rumor had it that there was a furnace on the property where the don cremated the bodies of his victims. When the house was later sold, a furnace was indeed found back behind the pool area. To this day, no one knew whether it had been used for his weekend barbecues or whether those rumors were true.

The mansion was enormous and baronial and dark. It looked like someone had combined a medieval fortress with a Disney castle. The estate was sprawling and probably-and this had been the appeal for the current occupants-the most private in the area. There was a helicopter pad so they could come and go without being seen. The home was in a corporation’s name, so as to protect the identity of the real owner. Up until a few months ago, even Ema’s closest friends had no idea she lived here or why she kept it secret.

There was a lion-head knocker on the door, but before Myron could reach for it, Angelica Wyatt opened the door. She gave him a warm smile and said, “Hey, Myron.”

“Hey, Angelica.”

Even though he had known her for years, even acting as her bodyguard at one point, it took a few seconds to see Angelica Wyatt as a person and not a poster or distant celluloid image up on a big screen. What, Myron often thought, must that be like-to be that kind of beautiful and famous that people, maybe even those close to you, always see you through the haze of movie stardom?

The famous face leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“I hear you’re getting married,” Ema’s mom said to him.

“Yep.”

Fifteen years ago, when Angelica Wyatt had given birth to her daughter, the tabloids had been horrible, following them nonstop, snapping photos with high-powered lenses whenever they’d leave her Los Angeles home, demanding answers about the baby’s paternity. Headlines screamed stuff like ANGELICA WYATT SECRET BABY SHOCKER or WE KNOW THE DAD and then speculated on some recent costar or Arabian sultan or even, in one case, a former British prime minister.

The attention grew to be too much for the little girl. She started having nightmares. Angelica Wyatt even quit the business for two years, disappearing with the child to France, but that just led to more rumors and other issues, the most salient being that Angelica Wyatt missed making motion pictures. It was her calling.

So what to do?