Harlan Coben - Home

Myron could see that too. He debated making a move, sprinting toward the boy, but there was no way he could get there in time.

“Home for me is here,” Patrick said. “This is where I belong.”

He cocked back the hammer on the gun.

Nancy shouted, “No!”

“I didn’t call you here to save me,” Patrick said. His finger started to shake as it started to pull on the trigger. “I called you here to watch me end-”

And then another voice-a female voice-yelled, “Stop!”

For a second everything froze. Myron looked to his left. Brooke Baldwin stood on the other side of the clearing with Win.

Brooke started toward the boy. “It’s over, Patrick.”

Patrick kept the gun against his head. “Mrs. Baldwin…”

“I said, it’s over.”

“Stay back,” Patrick said.

Brooke shook her head. “You were only six years old, Patrick. A little boy. It was an accident. I don’t blame you. Do you hear me, Patrick?” She took another step toward him. “It’s over.”

“I want to die,” he cried. “I want to be with Rhys.”

“No,” Brooke said. “There’s been enough death and destruction. Please, Patrick. Please don’t add to my pain.” She reached out her hand. “Look at me.”

Patrick did. Brooke waited until she was sure that he was looking her in the eye.

“I forgive you,” she said. “You were just a little boy. It’s not your fault. Rhys, my son, your friend… He wouldn’t want this, Patrick. If it was the other way around, if Rhys had shot you, would you forgive him?”

The gun shook in Patrick’s hand.

“Would you?”

Patrick nodded.

“Please, Patrick. Give me the gun.”

The wind seemed to stop. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Even the trees seemed to be holding their breath. Brooke quickly closed the gap between them. Patrick hesitated, and for a second, Myron thought that he was still going to pull the trigger.

When Brooke reached out and took hold of the gun, Patrick fell into her arms. He let out a guttural cry and started sobbing. Brooke closed her eyes and held him.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Brooke looked out over the ravine, the place where her son had lain for the last ten years. She gripped the boy tighter, and finally, Brooke broke down and cried with him. They stood there, the two of them-the mother of a dead boy holding firm to the boy who had killed him.

Nancy Moore approached carefully. Brooke looked at her over Patrick’s shoulder. Their eyes met. Nancy mouthed the words, “Thank you,” and Brooke nodded at her. But she didn’t let go of Patrick. She didn’t let go until the boy finished crying.

The police brought up the body four hours later.

Hunter Moore was in the hospital for his bullet wounds. He would be okay. Vada Linna was fine. She had told Win and Brooke the entire truth. That was indeed why she’d come back. Hunter might be up on kidnapping charges. It was hard to know for sure.

Nancy Moore had been taken into custody, but her attorney, Hester Crimstein, got her out on her own recognizance within the hour. Nancy had been correct. No serious charges would stick to her.

Win said, “You should go home.”

Myron shook his head. He had stayed this long. He wasn’t leaving yet.

The body was just bones now, but the clothing was intact. Brooke walked over and stroked the red sweatshirt and the blue jeans.

“Rhys’s,” she said.

Brooke stood without another word and started back toward her car. Win followed, but she shook her head. “You go back with Myron. I need time alone. And I need to tell Chick myself.”

Win said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I love you,” she said, “but I don’t really care what you think.”

They watched Brooke walk away with her spine straight. She got into the car and drove away.

“Come on,” Win said. “Let’s go home.”

Win drove. A few minutes into the ride, Mickey called for an update. Ema and Spoon were with him.

“It’s over,” Myron said to his nephew.

“You found Rhys?”

“He’s dead.”

Myron could hear Mickey tell Ema. Then he could hear Ema cry.

Win parked the car in the garage behind the Dakota. When they entered the apartment, Terese threw her arms around both of them. They stayed like that until Win’s phone buzzed. Win excused himself and said good night. Myron looked deep into Terese’s eyes.

“I can’t wait to marry you,” he said.

He took a long hot shower. Terese joined him. They didn’t speak. Not yet. Not tonight. They made love. It was fierce and raw and perfect and maybe even healing. Myron didn’t so much fall asleep in his fiancée’s arms as pass out. He didn’t dream. He just stayed in her arms for a long time. An hour. Maybe two.

And then the small chill started running up his spine.

“What is it?” Terese said. “What’s the matter?”

“The gun,” Myron said.

“What gun?”

“Patrick had a gun,” Myron said. “What happened to it?”

You are perhaps hoping for a twist and a happy ending.

You are thinking that perhaps a mistake was made, that the body did not belong to Rhys Baldwin, that somehow Brooke and Chick got their child back.

But sometimes there is no twist. And many times, there is no happy ending.

This is, however, a happy day.

Two weeks ago, I threw Myron perhaps the most legendary bachelor party of all time. How legendary? Let us say that we hit four continents. Myron, of course, was a very good boy. It is how he always is. I, you’ll be happy to note, was bad enough for the both of us. So too were Esperanza and Big Cyndi.

What, you say, women at a bachelor party?

Times change, my friend.

Today I am dressed in tails as Myron’s best man. It is odd. Myron has always dreamed of this day, of marrying the love of his life and settling down and starting a family. The gods have, alas, had other plans for him. I, for one, have never encouraged such thinking. I don’t really get the whole “love” thing.

Or I didn’t.

Myron is more than my best friend. The youngsters call what we have a “bromance,” and perhaps that is apropos. I love Myron. I want-no, I need-him happy. I have missed him over the past year, though I was often closer than he knew. The night he saw Hamilton ? I was three rows behind him. When he found his brother, Brad, in that horrible place, I was not that far away.

Just in case.

I love him. And I want him to be happy.

There have been other loves in his life, most significantly a woman named Jessica. But Terese is different. You notice it when you are with them. They are one thing apart from another. They are something entirely different, entirely spectacular when they are together. Simply put, if everything is a chemical reaction-and I believe it is-these two compounds combine to make an ecstatic whole.

I knock on the door. Terese says, “Come in.”

I enter.

“Well?” she says, spinning toward me.

Have you ever seen a beautiful, happy bride in a wedding gown? Then you know.

“Wow,” I say.

“You sound like Myron.”

I pick up her hand and kiss it.

“I just wanted to wish you well,” I tell her. “I want you to know that like it or not, I will always be there for you.”

She nods. “I know.”

“And if you break his heart, I’ll break your legs.”

“I know that too.”

I kiss her cheek and leave the room.

You are probably wondering about the repercussions after Rhys’s body was discovered. Allow me to fill you in. As you saw in the news, the entire truth has come out. No one, of course, is charging Patrick with any crime. As Brooke said, standing over that ravine, he was just a child.