Harlan Coben: Don’t Let Go

“So now what, Nap?” Augie asks.

“You’re armed, I presume.”

“You gave me this address,” he says with a nod. “You know why I came here.”

To kill Beth, the last person who had harmed his daughter.

“What I felt for you, Nap — what I feel for you — that’s real. We did bond in grief — you, me, your dad. I know that makes no sense, that it almost sounds sick—”

“No, I get it.”

“I love you.”

My heart is breaking all over again. “And I love you.”

Augie’s hand starts to go into his pocket.

“Don’t,” I say.

“I would never shoot you,” Augie says.

“I know that,” I say. “But don’t.”

“Let me end this, Nap.”

I shake my head. “No, Augie.”

I cross the room now, reach into his pocket, take out his gun, and toss it to the side. Part of me doesn’t want to stop him. Let it end with a nice suicide. Nice, neat, complete. Rest in peace. Some would say that I get it now, that Augie wrongly taught me to be a vigilante, that just because the legal system doesn’t always deliver justice doesn’t mean I should take matters into my own hands, that I was wrong to do what I did to Trey the same way Augie was wrong to do what he did to Leo and Hank and Rex. Some would think that I’m stopping him because I want to let the legal system work, that I finally understand that I need to let our laws decide these things, not the passions of certain men.

Or maybe, as I cuff him, I realize that suicide would be the easy way out, that if he killed himself, it was over for him, that forcing an old cop to rot in a prison cell with all those ghosts is a far worse fate than a quick bullet.

Does it matter which is right?

I’m heartbroken, devastated. For a moment I think about the gun in my possession and I think about how easy it would be to join you, Leo. But I only think about it for a moment.

Ellie has already called the police. As they take Augie away, he looks back at me. Maybe he wants to say something, but I don’t want to hear it, can’t bear to hear it. I’ve lost Augie. No words will change that. I turn away and walk out the back door.

Maura is standing there, looking off into the fields. I come up behind her.

“There’s one more thing I need to tell you,” she says.

“It’s not important,” I say.

“I met up with Diana and Ellie at the school library earlier that day.”

I know, of course. Ellie had already told me.

“Diana said she was going to break up with Leo after the dance. I shouldn’t have said anything. What was the big deal? I should have kept it to myself.”

I had already figured this part out. “You told Leo.”

That was how you knew, Leo, wasn’t it?

“He got so angry. He talked about getting her back. But I wanted no part of it.”

“Which is why you ended up in the woods all alone,” I say.

“If I hadn’t said anything to him... none of this would have happened. It’s my fault.”

“No,” I say, “it’s not.”

And I mean it. I pull her close and kiss her. We could go on and on with this blame game, Leo, couldn’t we? It’s her fault because she told you Diana wanted to break up with you, it’s my fault because I wasn’t there for you, it’s Augie’s, it’s Hank’s, it’s Rex’s, it’s Beth’s, hell, it’s the president of the United States’s fault for approving that black site.

But you know what, Leo? I don’t care anymore. I’m not really talking to you. You’re dead. I love you and I will always miss you, but you’ve been dead for fifteen years. That’s a long enough time to mourn, don’t you think? So I’m going to let you go now and grab on to something more substantial. I know the truth now. And maybe, as I gaze upon this strong, beautiful woman in my arms, the truth has finally set me free.

If you read the opening author note, you know I went back to my childhood. The reminiscences on the Livingston — 60s and 70s Facebook page were invaluable, but I especially need to thank Don Bender, a patient man and an expert on all things involving New Jersey’s old missile sites. Other people to thank, in no particular order: Anne-Sophie Brieux, Anne Armstrong-Coben, MD, Roger Hanos, Linda Fairstein, Christine Ball, Jamie Knapp, Carrie Swetonic, Diane Discepolo, Lisa Erbach Vance, John Parsley, and a few people I’m forgetting, but because they are generous and wonderful, they’ll forgive me.

I also want to acknowledge Franco Cadeddu, Simon Fraser, Ann Hannon, Jeff Kaufman, Beth Lashley, Cory Mistysyn, Andy Reeves, Yvonne Shifrin, Marsha Stein, and Tom Stroud. These people (or their loved ones) made generous contributions to charities of my choosing in return for having their names appear in the novel. If you would like to participate in the future, visit www.HarlanCoben.com for details.