Harlan Coben - Don’t Let Go

She nods. “He said he would cover for me.”

“So when did you hear from Maura again?”

She stares at the water bottle, one hand on the white top, the other cupping the bottom. “Three months later.”

I stand there, trying not to look stunned. “So for three months...?”

“I had no idea where she was. I had no contact. Nothing.”

I don’t know what to say. My phone vibrates again.

“I worried a million times over. Maura was a smart girl, resourceful, but you know what I figured?”

I shake my head.

“I figured she was dead. I figured the pale man with the whispery voice found her and killed her. I was trying to stay calm, but really, what could I do? If I went to the police, what would I say? Who would believe me about that missing week or any of it, really? Whoever those guys were, they either killed her — or if I made too much noise, I was going to help them kill her. Do you see my choices? Going to the police wasn’t going to help her. Maura either was making it on her own or...”

“Or she was dead,” I say.

Lynn Wells nods.

“So where did you finally see her?”

“At a Starbucks in Ramsey. I went to the bathroom in the back and suddenly she came in behind me.”

“Wait, she didn’t call you first?”

“No.”

“She just showed up?”

“Yes.”

I try to comprehend this.

“So what happened?”

“She said she was in danger, but that she’d be okay.”

“What else?”

“Nothing.”

“That was all she said?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t ask—?”

“Of course I asked.” For the first time, Lynn Wells has raised her voice. “I grabbed her arm and desperately hung on. I begged her to tell me more. I apologized for everything I did wrong. She hugged me, and then she pushed me away. She got out the door and headed out the back. I followed her, but... you don’t get it.”

“So explain it to me.”

“When I came out of the bathroom... there were men there again.”

I give it a second to make sure I’m hearing right. “The same men?”

“Not literally the same, but... one headed out the back door too. I got to my car and then...”

“Then what?”

When Lynn Wells looks up — when I see the tears come to her eyes and her hand go to her throat again — I feel my heart plummet down a mine shaft. “Some might say that the pressure of seeing my daughter again sent me on another bender.”

I reach out again and take her hand. “How many days this time?”

“Three. But you see it now, don’t you?”

I nod. “Maura knew.”

“Yes.”

“She knew that they would interrogate you. Maybe with drugs. Maybe harshly. And if you didn’t know anything—”

“I couldn’t help them.”

“More than that,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“Maura was keeping you safe,” I tell her. “Whatever made her run, if you knew about it, you’d be in danger too.”

“Oh my God...”

I try to focus.

“So what then?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you saying you haven’t seen Maura since that day in Starbucks?”

“No. I’ve seen her six times.”

“In the past fifteen years?”

Lynn Wells nods. “Always by surprise. Always a quick visit to let me know she’s okay. For a while she set up an email account for us. We never sent anything. We would both just leave it in our draft files. We both had the password. She used a VPN to keep it anonymous. But then she started to think that was too risky. And in a way, oddly, she had nothing to say to me. I told her about my life. About my quitting drinking and Bernadette. But she never said anything about her own life. It was torture for me.” She holds the water bottle a little too tightly. “I have no idea where she’s been or what she’s been doing.”

My mobile phone vibrates again.

This time I glance at it. It’s Augie. I put the phone to my ear.

“Hello?”

“We found Hank.”

Do you remember Hank’s tenth birthday party, Leo?

It was a big year for laser tag and Nerf wars and sports-themed parties. Eric Kuby had that soccer party in an indoor bubble. Alex Cohen had her birthday at that mall with mini-golf and a Rainforest Cafe. Michael Stotter’s had video games and virtual-reality rides. They strapped us in and shook the seats and we stared at the screen. It really felt like we were on a roller coaster. You got sick on that one.

Hank’s party, like Hank, was different. His was held in a science laboratory at Reston University. Some guy with thick glasses and a white lab coat led us through a series of experiments. We made slime using borax powder and Elmer’s Glue. We made high-bouncing polymer balls and giant ice marbles. We did lab stuff involving chemical reactions and fire and static electricity. The party was better than I thought it would be — a geek heaven even the jocks would love — but the part I remember best is the expression on Hank’s face sitting right up front, his eyes wide and dreamy, that dorky smile plastered to his face. Even then, even as a ten-year-old, I got how happy Hank was, how much in his element (ha-ha), how rare it was for any of us to reach this particular high. Even then — and I doubt I could have articulated this — part of me wanted to stop time for him, just let him stay in this moment, this room, his friends and his passions locked together for longer than the forty-five minutes of entertainment followed by fifteen minutes of cake. I think back now about that party, about the purity of that moment for Hank, about the directions our lives take, and what the timeline was between that moment and now, the link between that happy boy with the dorky smile and the naked and mutilated dead man hanged by his neck from a tree.

I can still look on the face — bloated, grotesque, decaying, even — and see that little boy at the party. It’s weird how you can do that with people you grew up with. The stench knocks everyone else back a step, but for some reason it doesn’t bother me. I have seen my share of dead bodies. Hank’s naked corpse looks like someone ripped out his bones, a marionette held up by one string. Cut marks, probably made by a sharp blade, cover his torso, but the thing that keeps drawing your attention is the most obvious one.

Hank was castrated.

I’m surrounded by my two superiors. On one side of me is Essex County Prosecutor Loren Muse. On the other side is Augie. We are all staring up in silence.

Muse turns to me. “I thought you asked for a few personal days.”

“Not anymore. I want this case.”

“You knew the victim, right?”

“Years ago.”

“Still. No way.” Muse is one of those tiny women who seem to emanate great strength. She gestures to a man heading down the hill. “Manning will take it.”

Augie still hasn’t spoken. He too has seen his share of dead bodies, but his face is ashen. County has jurisdiction in homicides. The town of Westbridge — Augie’s department — offers only support. My job will be to liaise between the two.

Muse looks back over the hill. “Did you see all those media trucks?”

“Yes.”

“You know why so many showed up?”

I do. “That viral video.”

Muse nods. “A man is outed as a sexual predator via online vigilantism. The video has, what, three or four million hits. Now that man is found in the woods, hung from a tree. When it gets out that he was castrated...”

She doesn’t have to finish. We all get it. A total shit show. I’m almost glad now I’m not the lead on this one.

Alan Manning walks past us like we aren’t there. He stands by Hank’s slightly swaying remains and makes a show of inspecting him. I know Manning. He’s not a bad detective. But he’s not a good one either.