Three Harlan Coben Novels Read Free

had undoubtedly heard other versions of the same story. It wouldn’t work. He knew that. So he tried something else.
    “I need you to promise me something,” Myron said.
    Erin and Aimee looked at him.
    He pulled his wallet from his pocket and plucked out two business cards. He opened the top drawer and found a pen that still worked. “Here are all my numbers—home, business, mobile, my place in New York City.”
    Myron scribbled on the cards and passed one to each of them. They took the cards without saying a word.
    “Please listen to me, okay? If you’re ever in a bind. If you’re ever out drinking or your friends are drinking or you’re high or stoned or I don’t care what. Promise me. Promise me you’ll call me. I’ll come get you wherever you are. I won’t ask any questions. I won’t tell your parents. That’s my promise to you. I’ll take you wherever you want to go. I don’t care how late. I don’t care how far away you are. I don’t care how wasted. Twenty-four-seven. Call me and I’ll pick you up.”
    The girls said nothing.
    Myron took a step closer. He tried to keep the pleading out of his voice. “Just please . . . please don’t ever drive with someone who’s been drinking.”
    They just stared at him.
    “Promise me,” he said.
    And a moment later—the final what-if?—they did.

CHAPTER 3
    T wo hours later, Aimee’s family—the Biels—were the first to leave. Myron walked them to the door. Claire leaned close to his ear. “I heard the girls were down in your old room.”
    “Yep.”
    She gave him a wicked grin. “Did you tell them—?”
    “God, no.”
    Claire shook her head. “You’re such a prude.”
    He and Claire had been good friends in high school. He’d loved her free spirit. She acted like—for lack of a more appropriate term—a guy. When they’d go to parties, she’d try to pick someone up, usually with more success because, hey, she was an attractive girl. She’d liked muscle-heads. She’d go with them once, maybe twice, and then move on.
    Claire was a lawyer now. She and Myron had messed around once, down in that very basement, on a holiday break senior year. Myron had been much more uptight about it. The next day, there had been no awkwardness for Claire. No discomfort, no silent treatment, no “maybe we should discuss what happened.”
    No encore either.
    In law school Claire had met her husband, “Erik with a K .” That was how he always introduced himself. Erik was thin and tightly wound. He rarely smiled. He almost never laughed. His tie was always wonderfully Windsored. Erik with a K was not the man Myron had figured Claire would end up with, but they seemed to work. Something about opposites attract, he guessed.
    Erik gave him a firm handshake, made sure that there was eye contact. “Will I see you on Sunday?”
    They used to play in a pickup basketball game on Sunday mornings, but Myron had stopped going months ago. “I won’t be there this week, no.”
    Erik nodded as though Myron had said something profound and started out the door. Aimee smothered a laugh and waved. “Nice talking to you, Myron.”
    “Same here, Aimee.”
    Myron tried to give her a look that said, “Remember the promise.” He didn’t know if it worked, but Aimee did give him a small nod before heading down the path.
    Claire kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear again. “You look happy.”
    “I am,” he said.
    Claire beamed. “Ali’s great, isn’t she?”
    “She is.”
    “Am I the greatest matchmaker ever?”
    “Like something out of a bad road production of Fiddler ,” he said.
    “I’m not rushing things. But I am the greatest, aren’t I? It’s okay, I can take it. I’m the best ever.”
    “We’re still talking about matchmaking, right?”
    “Fresh. I know I’m the best at the other.”
    Myron said, “Eh.”
    She punched his arm and left. He watched her walk away, shook his head, smiled. In a sense, you are always seventeen years old and waiting for