Harlan Coben - The Innocent

"I was just going to put on a movie," she said.

He stared at her.

"Clark?"

"I know," he said.

He did not mean that he knew that she was putting on a movie. He meant something else entirely. Sonya did not ask for clarification. There was no need. She sat very still.

"I know about your visits to the museum," he went on. "I've known for a long time."

Sonya debated how to reply. Countering with an "I know about you too" was the obvious move, but it would be both too defensive and entirely irrelevant. This was not about an affair.

Clark stood, his hands at his sides, his finger itching but not clenching.

"How long have you known?" she asked.

"A few months."

"So how come you didn't say anything before now?"

He shrugged.

"How did you find out?"

"I had you followed," he said.

"Followed? You mean like you hired a private investigator?"

"Yes."

She crossed her legs. "Why?" Her voice raised a notch, stung by this strange betrayal. "Did you think I was sleeping around?"

"He killed Stephen."

"It was an accident."

"Really? Is that what he tells you when you have your little lunches? Do you discuss how he accidentally murdered my son?"

"Our son," she corrected him.

He looked at her then, a look she had seen before but never directed at her. "How could you?"

"How could I what, Clark?"

"Meet with him. Offer him forgiveness-"

"I've never offered him anything of the sort."

"Comfort then."

"It's not about that."

"Then what is it about?"

"I don't know." Sonya rose to her feet. "Clark, listen to me: What happened to Stephen was an accident."

He made a noise of derision. "Is that how you comfort yourself, Sonya? By telling yourself it was an accident?"

"Comfort myself?" A dark chill ripped through her. "There is no comfort, Clark. Not for a second. Accident, murder- Stephen is dead either way."

He said nothing.

"It was an accident, Clark."

"He's convinced you of that, eh?"

"Actually, just the opposite."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"He's no longer sure himself. He feels tremendous guilt."

"Poor baby." Clark made a face. "How can you be so naïve?"

"Let me ask you something," Sonya said, moving closer to him. "If they fell another way, if the angle had been different or if Stephen had twisted his body and Matt Hunter had hit his head on that curb-"

"Don't even start with that."

"No, Clark, listen to me." She took another step. "If it had gone another way, if Matt Hunter ended up dead and Stephen had been found on top of him-"

"I'm not in the mood to play hypotheticals with you, Sonya. None of that matters."

"Maybe it does to me."

"Why?" Clark countered. "Weren't you the one who said that either way Stephen is dead?"

She said nothing.

Clark crossed the room, moving past her, keeping enough distance so that he did not so much as brush up against her. He collapsed into a chair and lowered his head into his hands. She waited.

"Do you remember the case of that mother drowning her kids in Texas?" he asked.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Just"- he closed his eyes for a moment-"just bear with me, okay? Do you remember that case? This overworked mother drowned her kids in the tub. I think there were four or five of them. Awful story. The defense made an insanity plea. Her husband supported her. Do you remember, on the news?"

"Yes."

"What did you think?"

She said nothing.

"I'll tell you what I thought," he continued. "I thought, who cares? I don't mean that to sound cold. I mean, what's the difference? If this mother was found insane and spent the next fifty years in a loony bin or if she was found guilty and spent the rest of her life in jail or on death row- what does it matter? Either way you killed your own children. Your life is over, isn't it?"

Sonya closed her eyes.

"That's how it is with Matt Hunter to me. He killed our son. If it was an accident or intentional, I only know that our boy is dead. The rest doesn't matter. Do you understand that?"

More than he could ever know.

Sonya felt the tears escape from her eyes. She looked at her husband. Clark was in so much pain. Just go, she wanted to say. Bury yourself in your work, in your mistress, in whatever. Just go.

"I'm not trying to hurt you," she said.

He nodded.

"Do you want me to stop seeing him?" she asked.

"Would it matter if I did?"

She did not reply.

Clark rose and left the room. A few seconds later, Sonya heard the front door close, leaving her yet again all alone.

LOREN MUSE MADE even better time on the way back from Wilmington, Delaware, to Newark. Ed Steinberg was alone in his office on the third floor of the new county courthouse.

"Shut the door," her boss said.

Steinberg looked disheveled- loose tie, collar button undone, one sleeve rolled up higher than the other- but that was pretty much his normal look. Loren liked Steinberg. He was smart and played fair. He hated the politics of the job but understood the necessity of the game. He played it well.

Loren found her boss sexy in that cuddly-bear, hairy-Vietnam-vet-on-his-Harley vein. Steinberg was married, of course, with two kids in college. Cliché but true: The good ones were always taken.

When Loren was young, her mother would warn her to wait: "Don't get married young," Carmen would slur through the daytime wine. Loren never consciously followed that advice, but she realized somewhere along the way that it was idiotic. The good men, the ones who wanted to commit and raise children, were scooped up early. The field became thinner and thinner as the years went by. Now Loren had to settle for what one of her friends called "retreads"- overweight divorcées who were making up for the years of high school rejection or those still cowering from the anguish of their first marriage or those semi-decent guys who were interested- and why not?- in some young waif who'd worship them.

"What were you doing in Delaware?" Steinberg asked.

"Following a lead on our nun's identity."

"You think she's from Delaware?"

"No." Loren quickly explained about the implants' identification code, the initial cooperation, the stonewalling, the connection to the feds. Steinberg stroked his mustache as if it were a small pet. When she finished, he said, "The SAC in the area is a fed named Pistillo. I'll call him in the morning, see what he can tell me."

"Thank you."

Steinberg stroked his mustache some more. He looked off.

"Is that what you needed to see me about?" she asked. "The Sister Mary Rose case?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"The lab guys dusted the nun's room."

"Right."

"They found eight sets of prints," he said. "One set matched Sister Mary Rose. Six others matched various nuns and employees of St. Margaret's. We're running those through the system, just in case, see if anybody had a record we don't know about."

He stopped.

Loren came over to the desk and sat down. "I assume," she said, "you got a hit on the eighth set?"

"We did." His eyes met hers. "That's why I called you back here."

She spread her hands. "I'm all ears."

"The prints belong to a Max Darrow."

She waited for him to say more. When he stayed quiet, she said, "I assume this Darrow has a record?"

Ed Steinberg shook his head slowly. "Nope."

"Then how did you get a match?"

"He served in the armed forces."

In the distance, Loren could hear a phone ring. Nobody answered it. Steinberg leaned back in his big leather chair. He tilted his chin to look up. "Max Darrow isn't from around here," he said.

"Oh?"

"He lived in Raleigh Heights, Nevada. It's near Reno."