Harlan Coben: Don’t Let Go

That makes sense. “And my guess is, judging by Reeves’s reaction, he didn’t know about the tape either.”

“So they thought I was the only living witness,” she says, “until recently.”

“Right.”

“So what gave them away now? It’s been fifteen years.”

I think hard about this, and a possible answer comes to me. Looking out of the corners of her eyes, Maura sees it. “What?”

“The viral video.”

“What viral video?”

“Hank supposedly exposing himself.”

I explain to her about the video of Hank, about how it’d gone viral, how most people thought his murder was some kind of act of vigilantism. When I finish, Maura says, “So you think, what, someone from the base saw the video and maybe recognized Hank from that night?”

I shake my head. “That doesn’t make much sense, does it? If they’d seen Hank that night—”

“They would have identified him earlier.”

We’re still missing something, but I can’t help but think it has something to do with that viral video. For fifteen years, the three of them are safe. Then that video of Hank on school grounds goes viral.

It’s related.

A brown sign featuring a red-clad equestrian reads WELCOME TO FAR HILLS. This isn’t farm country. Not really. This part of Somerset County is for the wealthy rural set, those who want a huge home on a large plot with nary a neighbor in sight. I know a philanthropist out here who has a three-hole golf course on his land. I know other guys who own horses or grow apples for cider or do some other form of what one might label gentlemen’s farming.

I look at Maura’s face again, and I feel that sense of being overwhelmed. I reach out and take her hand. Maura smiles at me, a smile that hits bone, that makes my blood hum, that jangles my nerves in the best way. She takes my hand, brings it to her lips, kisses the back of it.

“Maura?”

“Yes?”

“If you need to run again, I’ll go too.”

She puts my hand on her cheek. “I’m not leaving you, Nap. Just so you know. Stay, go, live, die, I’m not leaving you again.”

We don’t say anything more. We get it. We aren’t hormonal teenagers or star-crossed lovers. We are battle-scarred and wary warriors, and so we know what this means. No pretense, no holding back, no games.

Ellie is parked around the corner from Beth’s address. We pull up behind her car and step out. Ellie and Maura embrace. They haven’t seen each other in person in fifteen years, since Ellie hid Maura in her bedroom after that night in the woods. When they release the hug, we all move toward Ellie’s car. Ellie gets in the driver’s seat; I take shotgun, Maura goes into the back. We pull up to the closed gate blocking the driveway.

Ellie hits the buzzer by the intercom. No reply. She hits it again. Still nothing.

In the distance I see the white farmhouse. Like every other white farmhouse I’ve ever seen, it’s stunning and nostalgic and you can instantly imagine a simpler, happier life under that roof. I get out of the car and pull on the gate. No go.

There is no way I’m leaving now. I head to the picket fence off the driveway, hoist myself up, and drop down into the yard. I signal to Ellie and Maura to stay put. The farmhouse is probably two hundred yards down the flat driveway. There are no trees or anything like that to hide behind, so I don’t bother. I walk down the driveway in plain sight.

When I get closer to the house I can see a Volvo station wagon parked in the garage. I check the license plate. The car is from Michigan. Beth lives in Ann Arbor. You don’t have to be much of a detective to figure out the car is likely hers.

I don’t ring the doorbell quite yet. If Beth is inside, she knows already that we are here. I start to circle the house, peering in the windows. I start in the back.

When I look through the kitchen window, I see Beth. There is a near-empty bottle of Jameson on the table in front of her. The glass in front of her is half full.

There’s a rifle on her lap.

I watch her reach out, lift the glass with a shaking hand, drain it. I study her movements. They are slow and deliberate. Like I said, the bottle is near empty, and now so too is the glass. I debate how to play it, but again I’m not in the mood to stall. I creep over to the back door, raise my foot, and kick it in right above the knob. The wood of the door gives way like a brittle toothpick. I don’t hesitate. Using the momentum from the kick, I cover the few feet between the back door and the kitchen table in no more than a second or two.

Beth is slow to react. She’s just starting to lift the rifle to aim when I snatch it away from her in classic “taking candy from a baby” style.

She stares up at me for a moment. “Hello, Nap.”

“Hello, Beth.”

“So get it over with already,” she says. “Shoot me.”

I unload the ammo and toss it in one corner, the rifle in the other. I use Maura’s app to tell them that everything is fine, to stay where they are. Beth stares at me with defiance. I pull out the chair across from her and join her at the kitchen table.

“Why would I want to shoot you?” I ask.

Beth’s looks haven’t changed much since high school. I’ve noticed that the women from my class who are now in their midthirties have grown more attractive with age. I’m not sure why, if it’s something about maturity or confidence or something more tangible like a toning of the muscles or a tightening of the skin around the cheekbones. I know only that as I look at Beth now, I have no trouble seeing the girl who played lead violin in the school orchestra or won the biology scholarship at senior award night.

“Revenge,” she says. I hear the slur in her voice.

“Revenge for what?”

“To silence us, maybe. Protect the truth. Which is dumb, Nap. For fifteen years we never breathed a word. I would never say anything, swear to God.”

I don’t know how to play this. Do I tell her to relax, that I’m not here to hurt her? Will that make her open up? Or do I keep her on edge, make her think that the only way to survive this is to talk?

“You have a family,” I say.

“Two boys. They’re eight and six.”

She looks at me now with naked fear in her eyes, like she’s sobering up by the second. I don’t want that. I just want the truth.

“Tell me what happened that night.”

“You really don’t know?”

“I really don’t know.”

“What did Leo tell you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You had a hockey game, right?”

“Right.”

“So before you left, what did Leo tell you?”

The question surprises me. I try to go back there now — to earlier that night. I’m in my house. My hockey bag is packed. The amount of equipment you need is ridiculous — skates, stick, elbow pads, shin guards, shoulder pads, gloves, chest protector, neck guard, helmet. Dad finally made a checklist for us to go through because otherwise I’d arrive at the rink and invariably call and say something like, “I forgot my mouth guard.”

Where were you, Leo?

What I remember, now that I think about it, is that you weren’t in the front foyer with us. When Dad and I would go through his checklist, you were usually there. Then you’d drive me to the school and drop me off at the bus. That was more or less the routine.

Dad and I would go through the checklist. You would drive me to the bus.

But you didn’t that night. I can’t remember why anymore. But after we finished going through the checklist, Dad asked where you were. I shrugged maybe, I don’t know. Then I walked to our room to see if you were there. The light was out, but you were lying on the top bunk.