Harlan Coben - Home

Nancy Moore stood perfectly still. Myron didn’t even think she was breathing.

“I don’t know if they were playing a game. I don’t know if the gun just went off by accident. I don’t know if Patrick was angry about his father. I don’t know any of that. But I know that one six-year-old boy shot and killed another.”

“It was an accident,” Nancy said.

“Maybe.”

“It was.”

“How about what happened next?”

“You don’t understand,” Nancy said.

“Oh, I think I do. You showed up at the Baldwin house to pick up your son. My guess would be that Patrick shot Rhys right before you got there. Within seconds. Because if he had shot him, say, ten minutes before, Vada would have dialed nine-one-one.”

“I heard the gun go off,” Nancy said. “I parked my car and…”

Myron nodded. That made sense. “You rushed around back.”

“Vada and I… We both started running for him. But it was too late. The bullet… Rhys was shot in the head. There was nothing we could do.”

Silence.

“Why didn’t you just call the police?” Myron asked.

“You know why. It was our gun. Mine really. I bought it. Hunter and I-we’d be charged. There are cases. I read about a father who kept his loaded gun under his bed. His six-year-old found it. He started playing cowboys and Indians with his four-year-old sister. Shot her dead. The father got convicted of manslaughter and spent eight years in prison. I thought about that. And I thought about Patrick. Yes, he knew we were fighting. He had overheard that. So even though he was six, suppose someone made something of that? Suppose someone said he didn’t do it accidentally, that he killed him on purpose. Patrick would be tainted for life-the kid who murdered another kid. And then you have Chick and Brooke. Do either of them hit you as the forgiving type?”

“So you made it look like a kidnapping.” Myron tried to keep his voice steady.

She didn’t bother to answer.

“How did you get Vada to cooperate?”

“I told her that the police would say she was responsible. She was supposed to watch the kids. I told her that they’d blame her and put her in jail. I said it was best for her to do what I said. To protect herself. Vada was scared, too confused to argue. By the time she had second thoughts, she was already in too deep.”

“So you clean up the scene. I assume there was blood.”

“Not a lot. And it was in the woods. I cleaned it up.”

“You go over your story with Vada. You tie her up in the basement. You leave and call Brooke. You tell her that you just got to the house and no one is answering the door.”

“That’s right.”

Myron swallowed. “Where was Patrick?”

“I took him home. I told him to hide until his father got there.”

“And Rhys?”

Nancy’s eyes met his. There was no waver as she said, “I put him in a trash can in the back of our garage.”

The rest was obvious.

“When Hunter got home, did he try to talk you out of it?”

“Yes. He wanted to confess right away. But by then, it was too late. I had already faked the kidnapping. These things-they snowball. It wasn’t Hunter’s fault. He’s a weak man. He couldn’t handle what we did. He started to drink. You can probably figure out the rest. It wasn’t hard to get a fake ID, though it took some time with the cops around. Hunter kept Patrick at the lake. Eventually we snuck him out of the country. His new name was Paul Simpson.”

“Why did you bring him home now?”

She shrugged. “There were too many close calls. The background checks at the school were getting stricter. People were starting to ask questions. We couldn’t keep it up forever. Francesca needed to know her brother was alive. But mostly, Patrick wanted to come home too. So Hunter and I talked about it. We were going to have him just walk into a police station and make up a story about escaping. But that would lead to even more questions.”

“So you sent that anonymous email to Win.”

“I knew Win had never given up. If he found Patrick-if he rescued him-it would all be more believable. That’s what I thought anyway. So I set it up so Win would be at King’s Cross at the same time as Patrick. It wasn’t hard to find a spot. You can look online and find out where teenage prostitutes hang out.”

“That didn’t go as planned.”

“To put it mildly, it backfired,” she said. “When Win killed those men, Patrick ran. He called me in a panic. I told him to find a hotel and stay put. But that Fat Gandhi found him.”

“So when you tearfully thanked me for saving his life-”

“That wasn’t an act.” She looked into Myron’s eyes, hoping to find solace or kindness maybe. “You did save his life. I messed up. I messed up from the start. You’ll ask, why didn’t you do it this way or why didn’t you do it that way. I don’t know. I looked at each situation and I did what I thought was best for my son. And at first, it was the right call. Patrick forgot what happened. My sister lives in France. He stayed with her a lot. He loved that school. He was happy. Sure, he missed us. And he missed his sister. And yes, that was one of the tough calls-not telling Francesca the truth. But she wouldn’t be able to keep the secret-not when you’re only ten years old. We tried to comfort her, tried to tell her that her brother really was okay, but of course she suffered. It was a tough choice.”

She tilted her head. “Would you have told her?”

Myron wanted to say that he would never have started down this path, but he figured that was obvious. “I don’t know,” he said. “But you destroyed them all, didn’t you? Your husband couldn’t live with it. Brooke, Chick, Clark-what you did to them, what you made them suffer through.”

“Rhys was dead,” she said. “Don’t you get that? Nothing was going to bring him back. I couldn’t save him. I could only save my own boy.”

Myron felt Nancy’s phone vibrate in his hand. He looked at the number and read it to her.

“It’s Patrick!” Nancy grabbed it from him and put it to her ear. “Hello? Patrick?”

Myron could hear him crying. “Mommy?”

He sounded so much younger than sixteen.

“I’m right here, baby.”

“They know what I did. I… I want to die.”

Nancy gave Myron a baleful eye. “No, no, listen to Mommy. It’s all going to be okay. Just tell Mommy where you are.”

“You know where I am.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Help me, Mommy.”

“Where are you, Patrick?”

“I want to kill myself. I want to kill myself so I can be with Rhys.”

“No, honey, listen to me.”

“Good-bye, Mommy.”

He hung up.

“Oh my God.”

The phone dropped from her hand.

“Be with Rhys,” Myron repeated to himself. He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Where did you dump Rhys’s body?”

She suddenly broke away from him and ran toward her car. Myron followed, overtaking her.

“I’ll drive,” he said. “Where is he?”

Nancy hesitated.

Myron flashed back to Patrick sitting at the kitchen table. His words had been stilted, monotone, because he was lying. But at the end, Patrick’s voice changed, become more emotional…

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

Because he was telling the truth.

“Do you want your son to live or die?” Myron shouted. “Where is that ravine, Nancy?”

According to Myron’s app, the ride to the Lake Charmaine area with current traffic would take upwards of ninety minutes. Myron first called the Pike County Sheriff’s Office to inform them of the situation. They patched him directly to Sheriff Daniel Yiannikos.