Harlan Coben - Home

Rob Dixon took a few seconds to decide. “Her parents,” he said at last.

“What about them?”

“They were going through a rough patch.”

He stopped.

“Can you be more specific?”

Rob Dixon looked back out the window. “Her father found some texts on her mother’s phone.”

Myron was back in the car and flooring it to the campus of Columbia University. He had gotten Clark’s phone number when he’d last been there, and he dialed the number now. Clark answered on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Where’s Francesca?” Myron asked.

“We’re sitting out on the quad.”

“Don’t move. Don’t let her move.”

“Why, what’s up?”

“Just sit tight. Do not move.”

There was traffic at the George Washington Bridge. Myron tried the Jones Road shortcut. It saved him a little time. The Henry Hudson was backed up, so he took Riverside Drive down to 120th and parked close to a hydrant. He’d risk the tow. He sprinted up 120th and down Broadway and entered near Havemeyer Hall. Students stared at the seemingly old man running across campus. He didn’t care.

The campus was laid out before him as he passed the domed-and-Grecian-columned Low Library, the most prominent building on campus. He headed down the steps, doing a reverse Rocky, passing the sculpture of a seated Athena and down onto the grassy South Field East.

They were both there, Francesca and Clark, sitting outside on a green Ivy League campus quad. There were, Myron knew, few places like this, few moments in life quite as pure and rich and innocent and protected as being a college student sitting in a grassy quad. Was that real or illusory? Didn’t matter. Didn’t matter that he was about to shatter all of that for these two young people.

He was close to the truth now.

Francesca looked up as Myron decelerated to a stop. Clark rose and said, “What’s so important?”

Myron debated asking them to go inside, to move someplace with more privacy, but they were outside now, no one really within earshot, and there was no time to play around or stall or make it more comfortable for her.

He sat across from Francesca in what they used to call “Indian style,” but, remembering what Mickey had told him, maybe it was now “with legs crossed.” You didn’t have to be the Master of Deduction to see that Francesca was distraught. She was still crying. Her eyes were red and puffy.

“She won’t tell me what’s wrong,” Clark said.

Francesca squeezed her eyes shut. Myron looked back at Clark. “Could you give us a minute?”

Clark said, “Francesca?”

With her eyes still shut, she nodded for him to go.

“I’ll be at the café in Lerner Hall,” Clark said.

Clark slung his backpack over his right shoulder and trudged away. Francesca finally opened her eyes. When he was far enough away, Myron said, “You need to tell me the truth.”

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

“It’s destroying you. It’s destroying your brother. I’m going to find out anyway. So let me help. We can still make this right.”

She made a scoffing noise and started crying again. Nearby students glanced over, concerned. Myron tried to smile them off, but he imagined that this looked like either an older man breaking up with a younger girl or, he hoped, a teacher delivering bad news to a student.

“I just spoke to Mr. Dixon,” Myron said.

She looked up at him, confused. “What?”

“Your fifth grade teacher.”

“I know who he is, but why…?”

She stopped.

“Tell me what happened,” Myron said.

“I don’t understand. What did Mr. Dixon say?”

“He’s a good man. He didn’t want to betray any confidences.”

“What did he say?” Francesca asked again.

“Your parents were having marital difficulties,” Myron said. “You talked to him about it.”

Francesca plucked a blade of grass from the ground. There were freckles on her face. Man, Myron thought, she looked so young. He could almost see her in that classroom, the scared fifth grader, worried about her whole world falling apart.

“Francesca?”

She looked up at him.

“Your father found texts on your mother’s phone, didn’t he?”

Her face lost all color.

“Francesca?”

“Please don’t tell Clark.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“I didn’t know, okay? I didn’t know until…” She shook her head. “Clark will never forgive me.”

Myron shifted so that they were facing each other full on. Someone started blaring music from a dormitory window. The song started with the vocalist letting us know that once he was seven years old. In seconds, he was eleven years old.

Yeah, Myron thought, watching this girl, I get that.

“Tell me what happened, Francesca. Please.”

She didn’t reply.

“Your father found the texts,” Myron said, trying to draw her out. “Were you home when that happened?”

She shook her head. “I came in a few minutes later.”

Silence.

“Was your brother home?”

“No. He was at the Little Gym. He had a class there on Mondays.”

“Okay,” Myron said. “So you came home. Were you coming from school?”

Francesca nodded.

“Were your parents fighting?”

She squeezed her eyes shut again. “I’d never seen him like that.”

“Your father, you mean?”

She nodded again. “They were in the kitchen. Dad was holding something in his hand. I couldn’t see what. He was screaming at Mom. She was covering her ears and ducking down. They didn’t even notice I was home.”

Myron tried to picture the scene. Ten-year-old Francesca opens the door. She hears Hunter screaming at a cringing Nancy in the kitchen.

“What did you do?”

“I hid,” she said.

“Where?”

“Behind the couch in the living room.”

“Okay. Then what happened?”

“Dad… he hit Mom.”

Campus life was all around them. Students laughed and strolled the grounds. Two boys with their shirts off threw a Frisbee. A dog barked.

“My dad, he didn’t drink a lot because when he did”-again Francesca closed her eyes-“it was awful. I had maybe seen him drunk three or four times. That’s all. It was always bad. But not like this.”

“So what happened next, Francesca?”

“Mom called him some horrible names. She ran out into the garage and got in her car. Dad…”

She stopped again.

“Dad what?”

“Dad ran after her,” she said. Her words came slowly now, measured. “But before he did, he put down what he was holding in his hand.”

Their eyes met.

“What did he put down?” Myron asked.

“A gun.”

Myron felt the chill tingle up toward the back of his skull.

“He ran out the door after her, so I stood up. I came out from behind the couch.”

Francesca’s eyes were wide. She was back in that house now.

“I started toward the kitchen. The gun was sitting there. On the kitchen table. I was shaking just looking at it. I didn’t know what to do. Dad was so angry. He was drunk. I couldn’t just leave the gun there.”

“What did you do, Francesca?”

“Please,” she said. “I didn’t know until now. You have to believe me. They lied to me all these years. I didn’t know until Patrick came home.”

“It’s okay,” Myron said. He put his hands on her shoulders. “Francesca, what did you do when you saw the gun?”

“I was scared Dad would use it.” Tears rolled down her cheek. “So I took it. I hid the gun upstairs in my room.”

“And then?” Myron asked.

“And then Patrick found it.”

I drive Brooke across the Dingmans Ferry Bridge.