Free Three Harlan Coben Novels by Harlan Coben Page A

died. Had she survived, she’d have turned thirty-four in two weeks. He wondered where she’d be if Myron had kept his promise. He wondered if she’d be with him.
    When she died, Brenda was in the middle of her residency in pediatric medicine. She was six-foot-four, stunning, African-American, amodel. She was about to play pro basketball, the face and image that would launch the new women’s league. There had been threats made. So Myron had been hired by the league owner to protect her.
    Nice job, All-Star.
    He stood and stared down and clenched his fists. He never talked to her when he came here. He didn’t sit and try to meditate or any of that. He didn’t conjure up the good or her laugh or her beauty or her extraordinary presence. Cars whizzed by. The schoolyard was silent. No kids were out playing. Myron did not move.
    He did not come here because he still mourned her death. He came because he didn’t.
    He barely remembered Brenda’s face anymore. The one kiss they shared . . . when he conjured it up he knew it was more imagination than memory. That was the problem. Brenda Slaughter was slipping away from him. Soon it would be as though she never existed. So Myron didn’t come here for comfort or to pay his respects. He came because he still needed to hurt, needed the wounds to stay fresh. He still wanted to be outraged because moving on—feeling at peace with what happened to her—was too obscene.
    Life goes on. That was a good thing, right? The outrage flickers and slowly leaks away. The scars heal. But when you let that happen, your soul goes dead a little too.
    So Myron stood there and clenched his fists until they shook. He thought about the sunny day they buried her—and the horrible way he had avenged her. He summoned up the outrage. It came at him like a force. His knees buckled. He tottered, but he stayed upright.
    He had messed up with Brenda. He had wanted to protect her. He had pushed too hard—and in doing so he had gotten her killed.
    Myron looked down at the grave. The sun was still warm on him, but he felt the shiver travel down his back. He wondered why he chose today of all days to visit, and then he thought about Aimee, about pushing too hard, about wanting to protect, and with one more shiver, he thought—no, he feared—that maybe, somehow, he had let it all happen again.

CHAPTER 11
    C laire Biel stood by the kitchen sink and stared at the stranger she called a husband. Erik was eating a sandwich carefully, his tie tucked into his shirt. There was a newspaper perfectly folded into one quarter. He chewed slowly. He wore cuff links. His shirt was starched. He liked starch. He liked everything ironed. In his closet his suits were hung four inches apart from one another. He didn’t measure to achieve this. It just happened. His shoes, always freshly polished, were lined up like something in a military procession.
    Who was this man?
    Their two youngest daughters, Jane and Lizzie, were both wolfing down PB&J on white bread. They chatted through their sticky mouths. They made noise. Their milk sloshed into small spills. Erik kept reading. Jane asked if they could be excused. Claire said yes. They both darted toward the door.
    “Stop,” Claire said.
    They did.
    “Plates in the sink.”
    They sighed and did the eye-roll—though they were only nine and ten, they had learned from the best, their older sister. They trudged back as though through the deep snow of the Adirondacks, lifted plates that must have seemed like boulders, and somehow scaled the mountain toward the sink.
    “Thank you,” Claire said.
    They took off. The room was quiet now. Erik chewed quietly.
    “Is there any more coffee?” he asked.
    She poured some. He crossed his legs, careful not to crease histrousers. They had been married for nineteen years, but the passion had slipped out the window in under two. They were treading water now, had been treading for so long that it no longer seemed that difficult. Oldest