Harlan Coben - Caught

And third, maybe most, she couldn't help but think about Ariana Nasbro and how alcohol and driving killed John. She couldn't help but wonder if perhaps Ariana Nasbro's parents should have attended one of these over-the-top orientations, if maybe all of this apparent safety overkill would indeed save a life during the next few weeks, so that some other family wouldn't have to deal with what she and Charlie had.

Zecher was back at the podium, finishing up with a thank-you-for-coming-out-tonight before breaking up the meeting. Wendy glanced around, looking for some familiar faces, disappointed in herself that she knew so few of her son's classmates' parents. Naturally the McWaids weren't there. Neither were Jenna or Noel Wheeler. Defending her scandalized ex-husband had cost Jenna Wheeler's family greatly in the suburban standings-but the murder of Haley McWaid must have made life here fairly untenable.

Parents started heading to the designated committee sign-in spots. Wendy remembered that Brenda Traynor, the publicity committee chair, was both friendly with Jenna Wheeler and a total gossip-a winning suburban combination. Wendy headed that way.

"Hi, Brenda."

"It's nice to see you, Wendy. Are you here to volunteer?"

"Uh, sure. I was thinking that I could help with publicity."

"Oh, that would be great. I mean, who better than a renowned TV reporter?"

"Well, I wouldn't say renowned."

"Oh, I would."

Wendy forced up a smile. "So where do I sign in?"

Brenda showed her the sheet. "We have committee meetings every Tuesday and Thursday. Would you be up for hosting one?"

"Sure."

She signed her name, keeping her head low. "So," Wendy said, aiming for the subtle and not getting anywhere close, "do you think Jenna Wheeler would make a good member of the publicity team?"

"You're joking, of course."

"I think she has a background in journalism," Wendy said, totally making that up.

"Who cares? After what she did, letting that monster into our community-I mean, that family is gone."

"Gone?"

Brenda nodded, leaned forward. "There's a For Sale on their house."

"Oh."

"Amanda isn't even coming to graduation. I feel bad for her-it's not her fault, I guess-but really, it's the right decision. It would spoil it for everyone."

"So where are they going?"

"Well, I heard that Noel got a job at some hospital in Ohio. Columbus or Canton or maybe Cleveland. All those C s in Ohio, it's confusing. Come to think of it, I think it's Cincinnati. Another C. A soft C they call it, right?"

"Right. Have the Wheelers moved out there already?"

"No, I don't think so. Okay, Talia told me-do you know Talia Norwich? Nice woman? Daughter's name is Allie? A little overweight? Anyway, Talia said that she heard that they were staying at a Marriott Courtyard until they could relocate."

Bingo.

Wendy thought about what Jenna had said, about Dan, about the part of him she could never reach-but mostly, how had she put it? Something had happened to him in college. Maybe it was time to have another chat with Jenna Wheeler.

She said her good-byes, mingled on her way to the exit, and headed toward her meeting with Phil Turnball.

PHIL SAT in a relatively quiet spot in the back of a sports bar-relatively, of course, because sports bars are not designed for privacy, conversations, or contemplation. There were no guys at the bar with ruddy noses or slumped shoulders, no beaten men drowning sorrows on a stool. No one chose to stare at their emptying glass when there were a seemingly infinite number of wide-screen televisions broadcasting a potpourri of sports and quasi-sports craving their attention.

The bar was called Love the Zebra. It smelled more of barbecue wings and salsa than beer. The place was loud. Company softball teams were enjoying an after-game celebration. The Yankees were playing. Several young women wore Jeter jerseys, whooping it up with a little too much enthusiasm, their dates noticeably cringing at the spectacle.

Wendy slid into the booth. Phil wore a lime green golf shirt with both buttons undone. Tufts of gray chest hair peeked out. He sported a half smile and a thousand-yard stare. "We had a company softball team," he said. "Years ago. When I first started. We'd come to a bar like this after the game. Sherry would come too. She would wear one of those sexy softball shirts, you know the tight white ones with dark three-quarter sleeves?"

Wendy nodded. There was a slur in his speech.

"God, she looked so beautiful."

She waited for him to say more. Most people did. The secret in any interview was the ability to not fill the silence. A few seconds passed. Then a few more. Okay, so much for silence. Sometimes you need to goose your subject too.

"Sherry is still beautiful," Wendy said.

"Oh yes." The half smile remained frozen on Phil's face. His beer was empty. His eyes were glossy, his face red from drink. "But she doesn't look at me the same anymore. Don't get me wrong. She's supportive. She loves me. She says and does all the right things. But I can see it in her eyes. I'm less of a man to her now."

Wendy wondered what to say here, what wouldn't sound patronizing, but "I'm sure that's not true" or "I'm sorry" didn't make the cut. She again opted for silence.

"Do you want a drink?" he asked.

"Sure."

"I've been pounding down Bud Lights."

"Sounds good," she said. "But let me just have a plain Budweiser."

"How about some nachos?"

"Have you eaten?"

"No."

She nodded, thinking he could use something in his stomach. "Nachos sounds like a good idea."

Phil waved over a waitress. She was dressed in a low-cut referee shirt, ergo the bar name Love the Zebra. Her name tag informed them that her name was Ariel. There was a whistle around her neck and, to complete the look, black greasepaint under her eyes. Of course, Wendy had never seen a referee with the black greasepaint, only players, but the mixed metaphor in the outfit seemed to be a mild issue at best.

They placed the order.

"You know something?" Phil said, watching the waitress leave.

Again she waited.

"I worked in a bar like this. Well, not exactly like this. It was one of those chain restaurants with a bar in the middle. You know the ones. They always have green trim and wall decorations that are supposed to reflect a more innocent time."

Wendy nodded. She knew.

"It's where I met Sherry. I worked as a bartender. She was that bubbly waitress who introduced herself right away and asked if you wanted to start with whatever appetizer corporate was pushing."

"I thought you were a rich kid."

Phil gave a half chuckle, tilted back the already-empty Bud Light to drain out the last sip. She half expected him to hit the side of the bottle. "My parents believed we should work, I guess. Where were you tonight?"

"My kid's high school."

"Why?"

"A graduation orientation," she said.

"Did your kid get accepted to college yet?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

She shifted in her seat. "Why did you want to see me, Phil?"

"Was that too personal? I'm sorry."

"I'd just like to get to the point. It's late."

"I was just being contemplative, I guess. I see these kids today, and they're sold the same stupid dream we were. Study hard. Get good grades. Prepare for the SATs. Play a sport, if you can. Colleges love that. Make sure you have enough extracurricular activities. Do all these things so you can matriculate at the most prestigious school possible. It's like the first seventeen years of your life are just an audition for the Ivy Leagues."

It was true, Wendy knew. You live in any of the suburbs around here and during the high school years, the world becomes a ticker-tape parade of collegiate acceptance and rejection letters.