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  "I'm not in the mood—"

  "I said you could run or you could tell the truth. Remember?"

  Stan's facade tottered, and for the first time, Myron saw the rage.

  "I left out a third choice. A choice you yourself pointed out to me the first time we met. You could have said that the Sow the Seeds kidnapper was a copycat.

  That he had read the book. It might have helped you out. Taken some of the heat off."

  "I couldn't do that."

  "Because it would have led to your father?"

  "Yes."

  "But you didn't know your father had written the book. Isn't that right, Stan? You said you never knew about the book. I remember that from the first time we talked. I've been watching you say the same thing on TV. You claim you didn't even know your father wrote it."

  "All true," Stan said, and the facade slipped back into place. "But — I don't know — maybe subconsciously I suspected something somehow. I can't explain it."

  "Good," Myron said.

  "Damn good," Win added.

  "The problem was," Myron said, "you had to say you hadn't read it. Because if you had, well, Stan, you'd be a plagiarizer. All this work, all your big plans to regain your reputation — it would be for nothing. You'd be ruined."

  "We discussed this already."

  "No, Stan, we didn't. At least not this part of it." Myron held up the evidence bag with the sheet of paper inside.

  Stan set his jaw.

  "Know what this is, Stan?"

  He said nothing.

  "I found it in Melina Garston's apartment. It says 'With love, Dad.'"

  Stan swallowed. "So?"

  "Something about it bothered me from the beginning. First off, the word 'Dad.'"

  "I don't understand—"

  "Sure you do, Stan. Melina's sister-in-law called George Garston 'Papa.' When I spoke to him, he referred to himself as 'Papa.' So why would he sign a note like this 'Dad'?"

  "That doesn't mean anything."

  "Maybe, maybe not. The second thing that bothered me: Who writes a note like this — on the top inside of a folded card? People use the bottom half, right? But see, Stan, this wasn't a card. It was a sheet of a paper folded in half. That's the key. Then there are those tears along the left edge. See them, Stan? Like someone had ripped it out of something."

  Win handed Myron the novel that had been sent to Kimberly Green. Myron opened it and laid the piece of paper inside it.

  "Something like a book."

  It was a perfect match.

  "Your father wrote this inscription," Myron said. "To you. Years ago. You'd known about the book all along."

  "You can't prove that."

  "Come on, Stan. A handwriting analyst will have no trouble with this. The Lexes weren't the ones who found the book. Melina Garston did. You asked her to lie for you in court. She did. But then she started growing suspicious. So she dug around your house and found this book. She's the one who mailed it to Kimberly Green."

  "You have no proof—"

  "She sent it in anonymously because she still cared about you. She even tore out the inscription so no one, most especially you, would ever know where the book had come from. You had plenty of enemies. Like Susan Lex. And the feds. She probably hoped you'd think they did it. At least for a little while. But you knew right away it was Melina. She didn't count on that. Or your reaction."

  Stan's hands tightened into fists. They started shaking.

  "The victims' families wouldn't speak to you, Stan. And you needed that for your article. You ended up following the book more than reality. The feds thought it was to fool them. But that wasn't it. Maybe your father told you he was the killer, but nothing else. Maybe the real story wasn't as interesting, so you needed to embellish. Maybe you weren't that good of a writer and you really felt you needed those family quotes. I don't know. But you plagiarized. And the only one who could tie you to that book was Melina Garston. So you killed her."

  "You'll never prove it," Stan said.

  "The feds will dig hard now. The Lexes will help. Win and I will help. We'll find enough. If nothing else, the jury — and the world — will hear all you did in this. They'll hate you enough to convict."

  "You son of a bitch." Stan cocked his fist and aimed it at Myron. With an almost casual movement, Win swept his leg. Stan fell down in a heap. Win pointed and laughed. Stan's sons watched it all.

  Kimberly Green and Rick Peck got out of the car. Myron signaled them to wait, but Kimberly Green shook her head. They cuffed Stan hard and dragged him away. His sons still watched. Myron thought about Melina Garston and his silent vow. Then he and Win headed back to the car.

  "You always intended to turn him in," Win said.

  "Yes. But first I had to make sure he went along with donating the bone marrow."

  "And once you knew Jeremy was okay—"

  "Then I told Green, yes."

  Win started the car. "The evidence is still marginal. A good attorney will be able to poke holes."

  "Not my problem," Myron said.

  "You'd be willing to let him walk?"

  "Yes," Myron said. "But Melina's father has juice. And he won't."

  "I thought you advised him against taking the law into his own hands."

  Myron shrugged. "No one ever listens to me."

  "That's true," Win said.

  Win drove.

  "I just wonder," Myron said.

  "What?"

  "Who was the serial killer here? Did his father really do it? Or was it all Stan?"

  "Doubt we'll ever know," Win said.

  "Probably not."

  "It shan't matter," Win said. "They'll get him for Melina Garston."

  "I guess," Myron said. Then he frowned and repeated, " 'Shan't'?"

  Win shrugged. "So is it finally over, my friend?"

  Myron's leg did that nervous jig again. He stopped it and said, "Jeremy."

  "Ah," Win said. "Are you going to tell him?"

  Myron looked out the window and saw nothing. "Win's credo about selfishness would say yes."

  "And Myron's credo?"

  "I don't know that it's much different," Myron said.

  Jeremy was playing basketball at the Y. Myron stepped into the bleachers, the rickety kind that shake with each step, and sat. Jeremy was still pale. He was thinner than the last time Myron had seen him, but there'd been a growth spurt over the last few months. Myron realized how fast changes take place for the young and felt a deep, hard thud in his chest.

  For a while, he just watched the flow of the scrimmage and tried to judge his son's play objectively. Jeremy had the tools, Myron could see that right away, but there was plenty of rust on them. That wouldn't be a problem though. Again with the young. Rust doesn't stay long on the young.

  As Myron watched the practice, his eyes widened. He felt his insides shrivel. He thought again about what he was about to do, and a swelling tide rose inside of him, overwhelming him, pulling him under.

  Jeremy smiled when he spotted Myron. The smile cleaved Myron's heart in two even pieces. He felt lost, adrift. He thought about what Win had said, about what a real father was, and he thought about what Esperanza had said. He thought about Greg and Emily. He wondered if he should have spoken to his own father about this, if he should have told him that this wasn't a hypothetical, that the bomb had indeed landed, that he needed his help.

  Jeremy continued to play, but Myron could see that the boy was distracted by his presence. Jeremy kept sneaking quick glances toward the stands. He played a little harder, picked up the pace a bit. Myron had been there, done that. The desire to impress. It had driven Myron, maybe as much as wanting to win. Shallow, but there you have it.

  The coach had his players run a few more drills and then he lined them up on the baseline. They finished up with the aptly named "suicides," which was basically a series of gut-heaving sprints broken up by bending and touching different lines on the floor. Myron might be nostalgic for many things connected to bask
etball. Suicides were not one of them.

  Ten minutes later, with most of the kids still trying to catch their breath, the coach gathered his troops, gave out schedules for the rest of the week, and dispersed the boys with a big handclap. Most of them headed toward the exit, slinging backpacks over their shoulders. Some went into the locker room. Jeremy walked over to Myron slowly.

  "Hi," Jeremy said.

  "Hi."

  Sweat dripped off Jeremy's hair, his face coated and flushed from exertion. "I'm going to shower," he said. "You want to wait?"

  "Sure," Myron said.

  "Cool, I'll be right back."

  The gymnasium emptied out. Myron stood and picked up an errant basketball. His fingers found the grooves right away. He took a few shots, watching the bottom of the net dance as the ball swished through. He smiled and sat back down, still holding the ball. A janitor came in and swept the floor Zamboni-style. His keys jangled. Someone flipped off the overhead lights. Jeremy came back not long after that. His hair was still wet. He, too, had a backpack over his shoulder.

  As Win would say, "Showtime."

  Myron gripped the ball a little tighter. "Sit down, Jeremy. We need to talk."

  The boy's face was serene and almost too beautiful. He slid the backpack off his shoulder and sat down. Myron had rehearsed this part. He had looked at it from all sides, all the pluses and minuses. He had made up his mind and changed it and made it up again. He had, as Win put it, properly tortured himself.

  But in the end, he knew there was one universal truth: Lies fester. You try to put them away. You jam them in a box and bury them in the ground. But eventually they eat their way out of coffins. They dig their way out of graves. They may sleep for years. But they always wake up. When they do, they're rested, stronger, more insidious.

  Lies kill.

  "This is going to be hard to understand—" He stopped. Suddenly his rehearsed speech sounded so damn canned, filled with "It's nobody's fault" and "Adults make mistakes too" and "It doesn't mean your parents love you any less." It was patronizing and stupid and—

  "Mr. Bolitar?"

  Myron looked up at the boy.

  "My mom and dad told me," Jeremy said. "Two days ago."

  His chest shuddered. "What?"

  "I know you're my biological father."

  Myron was surprised and yet he wasn't. Some might say that Emily and Greg had made a preemptive strike, almost like a lawyer who reveals something bad about his own client because he knows the opposition will do it. Lessen the blow. But maybe Emily and Greg had learned the same lesson he had about lies and how they fester. And maybe, once again, they were trying to do what was best for their boy.

  "How do you feel about it?" Myron asked.

  "Weird, I guess," Jeremy said. "I mean, Mom and Dad keep expecting me to fall apart or something. But I don't see why it has to be such a big deal."

  "You don't?"

  "Sure, okay, I see it, but" — he stopped, shrugged— "it's not like the whole world's turned inside out or anything. You know what I mean?"

  Myron nodded. "Maybe it's because you've already had your world turned inside out."

  "You mean being sick and all?"

  "Yes."

  "Yeah, maybe," he said, thinking about it. "Must be weird for you too."

  "Yeah," Myron said.

  "I've been thinking about it," Jeremy said. "You want to hear what I've come up with?"

  Myron swallowed. He looked into the boy's eyes— serenity, yes, but not through innocence. "Very much," he said.

  "You're not my dad," he said simply. "I mean, you might be my father. But you're not my dad. You know what I mean?"

  Myron managed a nod "But" — Jeremy stopped, looked up, shrugged the shrug of a thirteen-year-old—"but maybe you can still be around."

  "Around?" Myron repeated.

  "Yeah," Jeremy said. He smiled again and pow, Myron's chest took another blow. "Around. You know."

  "Yeah," Myron said, "I know."

  "I think I'd like that."

  "Me too," Myron said.

  Jeremy nodded. "Cool."

  "Yeah."

  The gym clock grunted and pushed forward. Jeremy looked at it. "Mom's probably outside waiting for me. We usually stop at the supermarket on the way home. Want to come?"

  Myron shook his head. "Not today, thanks."

  "Cool." Jeremy stood, watching Myron's face. "You okay?"

  "Yeah."

  Jeremy smiled. "Don't worry. It's going to work out."

  Myron tried to smile back. "How did you get to be so smart?"

  "Good parenting," he said. "Combined with good genes."

  Myron laughed. "You might want to consider a future in politics."

  "Yeah," Jeremy said. "Take it easy, Myron."

  "You too, Jeremy."

  He watched the boy walk out the door, again with the familiar gait. Jeremy didn't look back. There was the sound of the door closing, the echoes, and then Myron was alone. He turned toward the basket and stared at the hoop until it blurred. He saw the boy's first step, heard his first word, smelled the sweet clean of a young child's pajamas. He felt the smack of a ball against a glove, bent over to help with his homework, stayed up all night when he had a virus, all of it, like his own father had, a whirl of taunting, aching images, as irretrievable as the past. He saw himself hovering in the boy's darkened doorway, the silent sentinel to his adolescence, and he felt what remained of his heart burst into flames.

  The images scattered when he blinked. His heart started beating again. He stared again at the basket and waited. This time nothing blurred. Nothing happened.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The author wishes to thank Sujit Sheth, M.D., Department of Pediatrics, Babies and Children's Hospital in New York, Anne Armstrong-Coben, M.D., Department of Pediatrics, Babies and Children's Hospital (and my love monkey), and Joachim Schulz, Executive Director, Fanconi Anemia Research Fund, all of whom offered up wonderful medical insights and then watched me take liberties with them; two fellow scribes, friends, and experts in their fields, Linda Fairstein and Laura Lippman; Larry Gerson, the inspiration; Nils Lofgren, for rocking me over the last hurdle; early reader and long-time bud Maggie Griffin; Lisa Er-bach Vance and Aaron Priest for another job well done; Jeffrey Bedford, FBI Special Agent (and not a bad freshman dorm counselor); as always, Dave Bolt; and mostly, Jacob Hoye, my editor for all the Myron Bolitar books— and now a father. That dedication is for you, too, Jake. Thanks, dude.

  For those interested in becoming a bone marrow donor and perhaps saving a life, I urge you to contact the National Marrow Donor Program at www.marrow.org or 1-800-MARROW2. For more information on Fanconi anemia, check out www.fanconi.org.

  This book is a work of fiction. That means I make stuff up.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Harlan Coben is the author of six previous Myron Bolitar novels: The Final Detail, One False Move, Back Spin, the Edgar Award- and Shamus Award-winning Fade Away, Drop Shot, and Deal Breaker, which won an Anthony Award and received an Edgar Award nomination. He is also the author of Tell No One and Gone For Good. He lives in New Jersey with his wife and four children. Visit his website at www.harlancoben.com.

  Look for Harlan Coben's new novel of suspense

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