Harlan Coben - Home

“No need to strain your eyes, Myron,” Spoon said. “Not at your age. I can zoom in.”

Spoon started clicking the image until it got bigger and bigger. It was a good shot, taken recently and with a decent enough camera, but onscreen the pixels were starting to blur as he clicked. Spoon stopped. Myron stared again.

“So you think…?” Myron began.

“We don’t know,” Spoon said.

“I know,” Ema said.

Myron looked for the boy’s name and read it out loud: “Paul.”

The boy in the photograph had long, wavy blond hair-the prep boy trying to assert his independence. Patrick Moore’s hair was stubble short and dark. “Paul” in the photograph seemed to have blue eyes. Patrick Moore’s eyes were brown. Their noses were different too. Paul’s appeared to be smaller maybe, differently shaped.

And yet…

Myron wouldn’t have spotted it, not on his own, but now when he looked closely…

“I know what you’re thinking,” Ema said. “And I’d probably agree with you. Teenagers look alike. We all get that. I probably wouldn’t have thought twice about it except that this school is small. This sophomore class has twenty-three students. Patrick Moore goes out and meets with Tamryn Rogers. Why? He was lonely. We saw that when we visited him.”

Mickey nodded in agreement. “It’s too much of a coincidence, Myron. I mean, cut the hair. Do something with contact lenses to change eye color. Maybe some kind of surgery on the face, I don’t know. But Ema shows this to me and I’m looking at him and at first I don’t see it and then…”

Mickey pointed at the face on the screen. “I think Tamryn’s classmate Paul is now calling himself Patrick Moore.”

Myron sprinted back to the car. He got on the phone and called Esperanza.

“We need all we can on this Paul kid attending St. Jacques near Geneva in Switzerland. Last name is most important. Parents, whatever.”

“This won’t be quick,” Esperanza said. “The school is closed, it’s overseas, we have no contacts in Switzerland, plus, I imagine, this kind of place is pretty damned secretive.”

Esperanza was, of course, right.

“Just do the best you can. Spoon is going to email you the picture.”

“I already got his email before you called,” Esperanza said. “Did you know that the most common password for email accounts is 123456?”

“Yep, that would be Spoon.”

“I’m looking at the two pics-one of this Paul kid, one of Patrick at that TV interview. If I look closely, yeah, I can see the resemblance, but would you ever guess Paul and Patrick are the same kid?”

“No,” Myron said. “But that’s probably the point.”

“Oh, I found that fifth grade teacher. The one who taught Clark and Francesca.”

“Mr. Dixon?”

“Rob Dixon, yeah.”

“Where is he?”

“He still teaches fifth grade at Collins Elementary. I made an appointment for you to see him today at seven thirty.”

“How did you pull that off?”

“I told him you’d heard he was a great teacher and that you were writing a book about your experiences.”

“What experiences?”

“I didn’t say. Luckily, Mr. Dixon saw your documentary on ESPN. D-lister fame, baby. It opens doors.”

After they hung up, Myron called Win and told him what he had learned.

“So the boy is an imposter,” Win said.

“I don’t know. There’s still a chance it’s just two teenage boys who look alike.”

“And happen to know Tamryn Rogers?”

“Seems a stretch,” Myron said. “Just for the record, both Tamryn and Patrick-let’s just call him Patrick to make this easier-claim that they just happened to meet at Ripley’s.”

“Happened to meet?”

“Yep.”

“Today’s youth,” Win lamented. “You’d think they could come up with more credible lies.”

“To be fair, we did catch Tamryn unaware. How’s Brooke?”

“Blocking,” Win said. “Which is probably good. Right now, she is very focused on why her former au pair has returned to the United States.”

“Does she have any theories?”

“Not a one. So what’s your next step?”

“We keep gathering information,” Myron said.

“Whoa, slow down with the specifics.”

“Nancy Moore keeps insisting that the boy we rescued is her missing son, Patrick.”

“Correct.”

“So I’m wondering if these photographs of Paul will change her mind at all.”

“Is that where you’re headed?”

On the left, Myron spotted the Moores’ house. When he pulled into the driveway, he saw the Lexus sitting in the garage.

She was home.

“I’ve just arrived.”

Myron didn’t bother with the front door. The garage was open so he headed toward the Lexus. When he saw the door between the house and garage had been left open, he grew concerned.

He leaned his head in and shouted, “Hello?”

Nothing.

He stepped inside and crossed the kitchen. From upstairs he could hear a rustling sound. He wasn’t armed, which was stupid, but so far there hadn’t been much need for weaponry. He took the steps slowly.

Whoever was upstairs was not trying to hide their movements.

Myron reached the top step. The rustling was coming from Patrick’s room. He approached the door slowly, sliding his back against the wall, which might or might not be effective in cases like this. It was hard to say. He reached the door, waited a second, took a quick peek inside.

Nancy Moore was tearing the room apart.

“Hello,” Myron said.

She jumped at the sound of his voice and spun toward him. Her eyes were wide, almost maniacal. “What are you doing here?”

“Everything okay?”

“Does everything look okay?”

It did not. “What’s wrong?”

“You don’t get it, do you? You think… I don’t know what you think. I was trying to protect my son. He’s fragile. He’s been through so much. How do you not get that?”

Myron said nothing.

“Do you know what it took for him to do what he did today? To relive the horror of what happened to him? To Rhys?”

“It had to be done, Nancy,” Myron said. “If it had been the other way, if Rhys had come home-”

“Brooke Baldwin would have done what was best for her child, not mine.” Nancy stood upright. “Make no mistake about it. A mother protects her child.”

Whoa.

“Even at the expense of another?”

“Patrick wasn’t ready to talk. We knew that. We just wanted to give him enough time to get his strength. What’s a few more days after ten years? Dr. Stanton was right. It was too much for him. And then, as if it wasn’t hard enough to get through that, as if it wasn’t hard enough to tell Brooke that Rhys was dead, you”-she pointed an accusing finger at him-“go after him. Patrick ran away because of you.”

“It’s not Patrick.”

“What?”

“The boy we brought home. It’s not Patrick.”

“It is Patrick!”

“His name is Paul.”

“Get out,” she said.

“Why don’t you get a DNA test, Nancy?”

“Fine, if that will get all of you to leave us alone, we will, okay? Now, get out, please.”

Myron shook his head. “I need you to look at these photographs.”

She looked confused. “What photographs?”

He reached out a hand holding the two printouts Spoon had given him. For a moment Nancy didn’t take them. She just stood there. Myron moved his hand toward hers a bit more, holding it there until she reluctantly let him pass the pictures to her.

“I don’t understand.”

“The group shot was taken at a boarding school in Switzerland,” Myron said.

She stared at it. “So?”