Free Hold Tight by Harlan Coben Page A

were at this age. But Adam too had changed. They had all crossed some adolescent line. He was big now, tall with muscles, much more a man than a boy. She could still see the child in his face, but she could also see something like a challenge too.
    “Oh,” he said. “Hi, Mrs. Hill.”
    Adam started to walk away, now veering toward his left.
    “Can I talk to you a moment?” Betsy called out.
    He glided to a stop. “Uh, sure. Of course.”
    Adam jogged toward her with athletic ease. Adam had always been a good athlete. Not Spencer. Had that been part of it? Life is so much easier in towns like this when you’re a good athlete.
    He stopped maybe six feet in front of her. He couldn’t meet her eye, but few high school boys could. For a few seconds she did not say anything. She just looked at him.
    “You wanted to talk to me?” Adam said.
    “Yes.”
    More silence. More staring. He squirmed.
    “I’m really sorry,” he said.
    “About?”
    That answer surprised him.
    “About Spencer.”
    “Why?”
    He didn’t reply, his eyes everywhere but on her.
    “Adam, look at me.”
    She was still the adult; he was still the kid. He obeyed.
    “What happened that night?”
    He swallowed and said, “Happened?”
    “You were with Spencer.”
    He shook his head. His face drained of color.
    “What happened, Adam?”
    “I wasn’t there.”
    She held up the picture from the MySpace page, but his eyes were back on the ground.
    “Adam.”
    He looked up. She thrust the picture toward his face.
    “That’s you, isn’t it?”
    “I don’t know, it might be.”
    “This was taken the night he died.”
    He shook his head.
    "Adam?”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs. Hill. I didn’t see Spencer that night.”
    “Look again-”
    “I have to go.”
    “Adam, please-”
    “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hill.”
    He ran away then. He ran back toward the brick edifice and around the back and out of sight.

9
    CHIEF Investigator Loren Muse checked her watch. Meeting time.
    “You got my goodies?” she asked.
    Her assistant was a young woman named Chamique Johnson. Muse had met Chamique during a somewhat famous rape trial. After a rough start in the office, Chamique had made herself fairly indispensable.
    “Right here,” Chamique said.
    “This is big.”
    “I know.”
    Muse grabbed the envelope. “Everything in here?”
    Chamique frowned. “Oh, no, you did not just ask me that.”
    Muse apologized and headed across the hall to the office of the Essex County prosecutor-more specifically, the office of her boss, Paul Copeland.
    The receptionist-someone new and Muse was terrible with names-greeted her with a smile. “They’re all waiting for you.”
    “Who’s waiting for me?”
    “Prosecutor Copeland.”
    “You said, ‘they’re all.’ ”
    “Pardon?”
    “You said, ‘they’re all’ waiting for me. ‘They’re all’ suggests more than one. Probably more than two.”
    The receptionist looked confused. “Oh, right. There must be four or five of them.”
    “With Prosecutor Copeland?”
    “Yes.”
    “Who?”
    She shrugged. “Other investigators, I think.”
    Muse was not sure what to make of this. She had asked for a private meeting to discuss the politically sensitive situation with Frank Tremont. She had no idea why there would be other investigators in his office.
    She heard the laughter even before she got into the room. There were indeed six of them, including her boss, Paul Copeland. All men. Frank Tremont was there. So were three more of her investigators. The last man looked vaguely familiar. He held a notebook and pen and there was a tape recorder on the table in front of him.
    Cope-that’s what everyone called Paul Copeland-was behind his desk and laughing hard at something Tremont had just whispered to him.
    Muse felt her cheeks burn.
    “Hey, Muse,” he called out.
    “Cope,” she said, nodding toward the others.
    “Come in and close the door.”
    She entered. She stood there and felt all eyes