Free Harlan Coben by No Second Chance Page A

morning of the attack for the umpteenth time, hoping to stir a new memory. I started where I am now: in the bedroom. I remembered my alarm clock going off. Lenny and I were going to play racquetball that morning. We’d started playing every Wednesday about a year before, and so far, we had progressed to the point where our games had improved from “pitiful” to “almost remedial.” Monica was awake and in the shower. I was scheduled for surgery at 11:00 A . M . I got up and looked in on Tara. I headed back to the bedroom. Monica was out of shower now and putting on her jeans. I went down to the kitchen, still in my pajamas, opened the cabinet to the right of the Westinghouse refrigerator, chose the raspberry granola bar over the blueberry (I had actually told this detail to Regan recently, as if it might be relevant), and bent over the sink while I ate. . . .
    Bam, that was it. Nothing until the hospital.
    The phone rang a second time. My eyes opened.
    My hand found the phone. I picked it up and said, “Hello?”
    â€œIt’s Detective Regan. I’m with Agent Tickner. We’ll be over in two minutes.”
    I swallowed. “What is it?”
    â€œTwo minutes.”
    He hung up.
    I got out of bed. I glanced out the window, half expecting to see that woman again. No one was there. My jeans from yesterday were crumpled on the floor. I slid them on. I pulled a sweatshirt over my head and made my way down the stairs. I opened the front door and peered out. A police car turned the corner. Regan was driving. Tickner was in the passenger seat. I don’t think that I had ever seen them arrive in the same vehicle.
    This, I knew, would not be good news.
    The two men stepped out of the car. Nausea swept over me. I had prepared myself for this visit since the ransom had gone wrong. I’d even gone so far as to rehearse in my mind how it would all happen—how they would deliver the hammer blow and how I would nod and thank them and excuse myself. I practiced my reaction. I knew precisely how it would all go down.
    But now, as I watched Regan and Tickner head toward me, those defenses fled. Panic set in. My body began to shiver. I could barely stand. My knees wobbled, and I leaned against the door frame. The two men moved in step. I was reminded of an old war movie, the scene where the officers come to the mother’s house with solemn faces. I shook my head, wishing them away.
    When they reached the door, the two men pushed inside.
    â€œWe have something to show you,” Regan said.
    I turned and followed. Regan flicked on a lamp, but it didn’t provide much light. Tickner moved to the couch. He opened his laptop computer. The monitor sprang to life, bathing him in an LCD-blue.
    â€œWe had a break,” Regan explained.
    I moved closer.
    â€œYour father-in-law gave us a list of the serial numbers on the ransom bills, remember?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œOne of those bills was used at a bank yesterday afternoon. Agent Tickner is bringing up a video feed right now.”
    â€œFrom the bank?” I asked.
    â€œYes. We downloaded the video onto his laptop. Twelve hours ago, someone brought a hundred-dollar bill to this bank in order to get smaller notes. We want you to take a look at the video.”
    I sat next to Tickner. He pressed a button. The video started up immediately. I expected black-and-white or poor, grainy quality. This feed had neither. The angle was shot from above in almost too-brilliant color. A bald man was talking to a teller. There was no sound.
    â€œI don’t recognize him,” I said.
    â€œWait.”
    The bald man said something to the teller. They appeared to be sharing a good-natured chuckle. He picked up a slip of paper and waved a good-bye. The teller gave a small wave back. The next person in line approached the booth. I heard myself groan.
    It was my sister, Stacy.
    The numb I had longed for suddenly flooded me. I don’t