Harlan Coben - Stay close

But now the facade-read: lies-were in serious jeopardy of crumbling. After all the years, after all the hard work, she had chosen to risk it all. And for what? Righting the past? A little excitement? Or subconsciously, did she want to get caught? Was the mask simply too heavy to wear for the rest of her life?

How would Dave react to the truth?

Megan took a deep breath and texted back:

THE PRESIERS ARE DRIVING KAYLIE’S CARPOOL TODAY.

JORDAN HAS MATH TEST. MAKE SURE HE STUDIES.

There was a brief pause and then another text from Dave:

WHERE ARE YOU?!?!?

Megan stared at the small screen for a moment. Then she typed:

I HAVE SOMETHING I HAVE TO DO. NOT SURE WHEN I’LL BE HOME. LOVE YOU.

Another pause. Megan waited for the phone to ring. It didn’t. Instead she received another text from her husband:

I DON’T UNDERSTAND.

She quickly replied.

IT WILL BE OKAY. JUST TRUST ME.

Ha. She meant it and really, when you thought about it, what a joke. Trust me. Talk about irony. She didn’t wait for a reply. Time to visit Broome again.

She closed up her phone and started to rise from the barstool. The crowd was picking up, and Lorraine was busy. She nodded a good-bye at her old friend, and Lorraine arched an eyebrow in return. She headed to the door, threading through men who openly stared at her. In normal society, men want to stare like this, but we force them to be surreptitious. In here, the cover charge gives them the right to put such pretenses away.

She wondered for a brief second whether Dave had ever been to a place like this. If he had, he hadn’t told her, but as she knew too well, most married men don’t. Had he been to a club like this before? Would he too enjoy openly ogling or having a lap dance or what? Did it matter?

Fifteen minutes later, Megan entered the Heritage Diner. The place was wonderfully old-school. The booths still held those small jukeboxes, though she doubted that they worked. A man with thick clumps of ear hair worked the cash register. Pastries aged under glass covers. The wall had signed photographs of local news anchors. The waitresses wore uniforms and attitudes.

Broome stood when she entered and approached.

“Thanks for agreeing to see me,” he said.

“Where’s Harry?”

“Not here yet.” They slid into the booth. “Would you like something to eat?”

“No, thank you.”

Broome pointed to his own cup. “I’m having coffee. Would you like some?”

Megan shook her head, glanced back at the door. “Harry should be here any second.”

“Do you mind if we get started?” Broome asked. “I’m a little pressed for time.”

“Without my lawyer?”

“You don’t need a lawyer. I don’t suspect you of anything, and the clock is really ticking. So is it okay?”

When she didn’t reply, Broome just dived in.

“Does Mardi Gras mean anything to you?” he asked.

“I thought you were going to show me a picture.”

“I will in a second. But I wanted to ask about Mardi Gras first.”

“If it means something to me?”

“Yes.”

“You know it does.”

“Do you mind telling me what?”

“I thought you were in a rush.”

“Just bear with me, okay?”

Megan sighed. “The night I told you about, when I ran away. It was Mardi Gras.”

Broome seemed satisfied. “Anything else?”

“Like?”

“Like anything. Like, do you remember anything odd happening on other Mardi Gras? Do you remember any creepy guys hanging around the club on Mardi Gras? Anything.”

She thought about it. “No.”

Broome had a manila folder in front of him. He tapped it with his index finger. Megan waited for him to open it. The waitress came over with a coffeepot. “Hot top on that, hon?” she asked, working a piece of gum the size of a kitchen sponge. Broome shook her off.

When she left, Broome stopped the finger tap and flipped open the folder. He slid the photograph across the table to her. Megan figured she had nothing to hide-at least, that was what she had told herself-so she hadn’t prepared herself for any kind of deception or, well, facade.

When her eyes landed on the photograph, her entire body jolted.

There was no time to cover it up. He saw it. No question. Megan slowly reached out and pulled the photograph closer.

“Do you recognize the picture?” he asked.

Buy time, she thought. Get control. “If you’re asking if I’ve seen this picture before, the answer is no.”

“But you recognize the location, right?”

Megan nodded slowly.

“Do you mind telling me from where?”

She swallowed. “This is the part of the park I told you about earlier. The iron-ore ruins.”

“Where you found Stewart Green bleeding?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“Do you recognize the man in the photograph?”

There was a man with blond tips and a tight T-shirt in the upper-left-hand corner. Broome probably surmised that Megan had recognized the man and that was what had thrown her. “I really can’t see his face,” she said.

“No idea who it is?”

“No, none.”

“But this is definitely the spot where you last saw Stewart Green?”

She pretended to look again, even though there was no doubt. “Yes.”

Broome put both hands on the table, palms down. “Anything else you can tell me about the picture?”

The fact that Broome had a picture of that path in the Pine Barrens was surprising, yes, but not shocking or stunning. What had stunned her-what was making it hard to move or talk or function-wasn’t the locale or the man with the frosted tips.

It was the photograph itself.

“Where did you get this?” she asked.

“Why?”

She had to be careful here. She shrugged with as much nonchalance as she could muster and told yet another lie. “I was just wondering how you got a photograph of the exact spot I told you about.”

He studied her face. She tried to meet his eye.

“It was mailed to the precinct anonymously. In fact, someone went through quite a bit of trouble to make sure I didn’t know who sent it.”

Megan felt the tremor run straight down her spine. “Why?”

“I don’t know. You have a thought?”

She did. When Megan had first fallen for Ray Levine, she had known nothing of photography. But he taught her. He taught her about light and angle and aperture and composition and focus. He had taken her to his favorite spots to shoot. He constantly took photographs of the woman-her-he purportedly loved.

Over the years, Megan had Googled Ray’s name, hoping to see new photographs by him, but there was only the stuff from before they met, when he was still a big-time photojournalist. Nothing after. But she still remembered his work. She knew what he liked to do with a camera-angles, composition, lighting, aperture, whatever-and so now, even after all these years, there was very little doubt in her mind:

Ray Levine had taken this photograph.

“No,” Megan said to Broome. “No thought.”

Under his breath, she heard Broome say, “Oh, damn, not now.”

She turned, figuring to see Harry Sutton, but no, that wasn’t the case. Two men had just entered the diner. One had older cop written all over him-steel-wool gray hair, badge hanging from his belt, thumbs hitching up his pants as though the task was somehow grand and full of importance. The other man wore a ridiculously bright Hawaiian shirt. The top three buttons were opened, thereby displaying gold chains and medallions enmeshed in ample chest hair. He was probably mid-fifties, maybe older, and looked dazed and disoriented. The older cop grabbed a booth and slid in. Hawaiian Shirt shuffled behind him and collapsed into his seat like a marionette with his strings cut.