Three Harlan Coben Novels Read Free Page B

“I knew I shouldn’t have invited you.”
    “Ah, but you did. So let me elaborate.”
    “Please don’t.”
    “During our years at Duke, well, there was the delectable Emily Downing. Then, of course, your soul mate for the next ten-plus years,the luscious Jessica Culver. There was the brief fling with Brenda Slaughter and alas, most recently, the passion of Terese Collins.”
    “Is there a point?”
    “There is.” Win opened the steeple, closed it again. “What do all these women, your past loves, have in common?”
    “You tell me,” Myron said.
    “In a word: bodaciousness.”
    “That’s a word?”
    “Smoking-hot honeys,” Win continued with the snooty accent. “Each and every one of them. On a scale of one to ten, I would rate Emily a nine. That would be the lowest. Jessica would be a so-hot-she-singes-your-eyeballs eleven. Terese Collins and Brenda Slaughter, both near-tens.”
    “And in your expert opinion . . .”
    “A seven is being generous,” Win finished for him.
    Myron just shook his head.
    “So pray tell,” Win said, “what is the big attraction?”
    “Are you for real?”
    “I am indeed.”
    “Well, here’s a news flash, Win. First off, while it’s not really important, I disagree with your awarded score.”
    “Oh? So how would rate Ms. Wilder?”
    “I’m not getting into that with you. But for one thing, Ali has the kind of looks that grow on you. At first you think she’s attractive enough, and then, as you get to know her—”
    “Bah.”
    “Bah?”
    “Self-rationalization.”
    “Well, here’s another news flash for you. It’s not all about looks.”
    “Bah.”
    “Again with the bah ?”
    Win re-steepled his fingers. “Let’s play a game. I’m going to say a word. You tell me the first thing that pops in your head.”
    Myron closed his eyes. “I don’t know why I discuss matters of the heart with you. It’s like talking about Mozart with a deaf man.”
    “Yes, that’s very funny. Here comes the first word. Actually it’s two words. Just tell me what pops in your head: Ali Wilder.”
    “Warmth,” Myron said.
    “Liar.”
    “Okay, I think we’ve discussed this enough.”
    “Myron?”
    “What?”
    “When was the last time you tried to save someone?”
    The usual faces flashed strobelike through Myron’s head. He tried to block them out.
    “Myron?”
    “Don’t start,” Myron said softly. “I’ve learned my lesson.”
    “Have you?”
    He thought now about Ali, about that wonderful smile and the openness of her face. He thought about Aimee and Erin in his old bedroom down in the basement, about the promise he had forced them to make.
    “Ali doesn’t need rescuing, Myron.”
    “You think that’s what this is about?”
    “When I say her name, what’s the first thing that comes to mind?”
    “Warmth,” Myron said again.
    But this time, even he knew he was lying.
    Six years.
    That was how long it had been since Myron had played superhero. In six years he hadn’t thrown a punch. He hadn’t held, much less fired, a gun. He hadn’t threatened or been threatened. He hadn’t cracked wise with steroid-inflated pituitary glands. He hadn’t called Win, still the scariest man he knew, to back him up or get him out of trouble. In the past six years, none of his clients had been murdered—a real positive in his business. None had been shot or arrested—well, except for that prostitution beef out in Las Vegas, but Myron still claimed that was entrapment. None of his clients or friends or loved ones had gone missing.
    He had learned his lesson.
    Don’t stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong. You’re not Batman, and Win is not a psychotic version of Robin. Yes, Myron had saved some innocents during his quasi-heroic days, including the life of his own son. Jeremy, his boy, was nineteen now—Myron couldn’t believe that either—and was serving in the military in some undisclosed spot in the Middle East.
    But Myron had caused damage too. Look what