Harlan Coben 3 Novel Collection Page 35

  “Nothing good on,” Carmen said.

  With her eyes still closed, Loren smiled and moved in even closer.

  Matt and Olivia flew home that same day. Matt had a cane. He limped, but that wouldn’t last much longer. When they stepped off the plane, Matt said, “I think I should go alone.”

  “No,” Olivia said. “We do this together.”

  He did not argue.

  They took the same Westport exit, pulled down the same street. There were two cars in the driveway this morning. Matt looked at the basketball hoop. There was no sign of Stephen McGrath. Not today.

  They headed to the door together. Olivia held his hand. He rang the bell. A minute passed. Then Clark McGrath opened the door.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Behind him, Sonya McGrath said, “Who is it, Clark?”

  Sonya pulled up short when she saw who it was. “Matt?”

  “I squeezed too hard,” Matt said.

  The grounds were hushed. There was no wind, no cars driving by, no pedestrians. It was just four people and maybe one ghost.

  “I could have let go. I was so scared. And I thought Stephen was a part of it. And when we landed, I don’t know anymore. I could have done better. I held on too long. I know that now. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  Clark McGrath bit down, his face reddening. “You think that makes it all okay?”

  “No,” Matt said. “I know it doesn’t. My wife is pregnant now. So I understand better. But it has to end, right here and right now.”

  Sonya said, “What are you talking about, Matt?”

  He held up a sheet of paper.

  “What is that?” Sonya asked.

  “Phone records.”

  When Matt first woke up in the hospital, he had asked Loren to get these for him. He had maybe an inkling of a suspicion—no more than that. But something about Kimmy’s revenge scheme . . . it seemed like something she could never quite pull off on her own. It seemed too focused, too anxious to destroy not only Olivia . . .

  . . . but Matt as well.

  “These phone records belong to a man named Max Darrow who lived in Reno, Nevada,” Matt said. “He called your husband’s line eight times in the past week.”

  “I don’t understand,” Sonya said. She turned to her husband. “Clark?”

  But Clark closed his eyes.

  “Max Darrow was a police officer,” Matt said. “Once he found out who Olivia was, he would have investigated her. He would have learned that her husband was a notorious ex-con. He got in contact with you. I don’t know how much you paid him, Mr. McGrath, but it just made so much sense. Kill two birds with one stone. Like Darrow’s partner told my wife, he was playing his own game. With you.”

  Sonya said, “Clark?”

  “He should be in prison,” Clark spat at her. “Not having lunch with you.”

  “What did you do, Clark?”

  Matt stepped closer. “This is over now, Mr. McGrath. I’m going to apologize one more time for what happened. I know you won’t accept it. I understand that. I’m very sorry about Stephen. But here’s something I think you’ll understand.”

  Matt took one more step. The two men were almost nose to nose.

  “If you come near my family again,” Matt said, “I will kill you.”

  Matt walked away. Olivia stayed for another second. She looked first at Clark McGrath and then at Sonya, as if hammering home her husband’s words. Then she turned away and took her husband’s hand and never looked back.

  Chapter 63

  MATT DROVE AWAY from the McGraths’. For a long time they sat in silence. Damien Rice’s “O” was on the car radio. Olivia leaned forward and flipped it off.

  “This feels so weird,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “We just, what, pick up like nothing happened?”

  Matt shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “We start again?”

  Matt shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, as long as we’ve got that cleared up.”

  He smiled. “You know something.”

  “What?”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “I won’t settle for fine.”

  “Neither will I.”

  “We will be,” Olivia said, “spectacular.”

  They arrived at Marsha’s house. She ran out to greet them, threw her arms around them both. Paul and Ethan followed. Kyra stayed by the door, her arms folded.

  “My God,” Marsha said, “what on earth happened to you two?”

  “We have a lot to tell you.”

  “Your leg . . .”

  Matt waved her off. “It’s fine.”

  “The cane is cool, Uncle Matt,” Paul said.

  “Yeah, way cool,” chimed in Ethan.

  They approached the door where Kyra was standing. Matt remembered how she had helped him escape from the backyard. “Hey, thanks for that scream.”

  She blushed. “You’re welcome.”

  Kyra took the boys into the yard. Matt and Olivia began to explain. Marsha listened closely. They told her everything. They did not hold back. She seemed grateful. When they were done, Marsha said, “Let me make you both lunch.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Sit.”

  They did. Olivia looked off. Matt could see that there was still a giant hole.

  “I already called Cingle,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “We’ll find your child.”

  Olivia nodded, but she didn’t believe it anymore. “I want to visit Emma’s grave. Pay my last respects.”

  “I understand.”

  “I can’t believe she ended up so close to us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That was part of our pact. We knew each other’s new identities, of course. But we never communicated. I thought she was still at the parish in Oregon.”

  Matt felt the tingle start in his spine. He sat up.

  Olivia said, “What’s the matter?”

  “You didn’t know she was at St. Margaret’s?”

  “No.”

  “But she called you.”

  “What?”

  “As Sister Mary Rose. There were phone records. She called you.”

  Olivia shrugged. “She could have found out where I was, I guess,” she said. “She knew my name. Maybe she tried to reach me or warn me.”

  Matt shook his head. “Six minutes.”

  “What?”

  “The call lasted six minutes. And she didn’t call our house. She called here.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  And then another voice said, “She was calling me.”

  They both turned. Kyra stepped into the room. Marsha stood behind her.

  Kyra said, “I’ve been wondering how to tell you.”

  Matt and Olivia stayed still as a stone.

  “You didn’t break the pact, Olivia,” Kyra said. “Sister Mary Rose did.”

  “I don’t understand,” Olivia said.

  “See, I always knew I was adopted,” Kyra said.

  Olivia put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God . . .”

  “And once I started looking into it, I found out pretty fast that my birth mother had been murdered.”

  A sound escaped Olivia’s mouth. Matt sat stunned.

  Olivia, he thought. She was from Idaho. And Kyra . . . she lived in one of those Midwestern “I” states. . . .

  “But I wanted to learn more about it. So I tracked down the policeman who investigated the death.”

  “Max Darrow,” Matt said.

  Kyra nodded. “I told him who I was. He seemed to genuinely want to help. He took all the information—where I was born, the doctor, all that. He gave me Kimmy Dale’s address. I visited her.”

  “Wait,” Matt said, “I thought Kimmy said—”

  Kyra looked at him, but Matt stopped himself. The answer was obvious. Darrow had been controlling things again
by keeping Kimmy in the dark. Why let her know that there really was a daughter in the picture? Maybe Kimmy, already emotionally unhinged, would swing the other way if she knew that the girl who visited her really was Candi’s flesh and blood.

  “I’m sorry,” Matt said. “Go on.”

  Kyra slowly turned back to Olivia. “So I visited Kimmy’s trailer. She was so nice. And talking to her just made me want to find out more about you. I wanted to . . . I know how this will sound, but I wanted to find your killer. So I kept digging. I kept asking around. And then I got a call from Sister Mary Rose.”

  “How . . . ?”

  “She was trying to help some of her old girls, I think. Make amends. She heard what I was up to. So she called me.”

  “She told you I was still alive?”

  “Yes. I mean, it was a total shock. I thought you’d been murdered. And then Sister Mary Rose tells me if I do what she says, I might be able to find you. But we had to play it safe, she said. I didn’t want to put you in danger or anything. I just wanted . . . I just wanted a chance to get to know you.”

  Matt looked at Marsha. “You knew?”

  “Not until yesterday. Kyra told me.”

  “How did you happen to live here?”

  “That was part luck,” Kyra said. “I wanted to find a way to get close to you. Sister Mary Rose was going to try to get me hired at DataBetter. But then we heard Marsha needed a live-in helper. So Sister Mary Rose called someone at St. Philomena’s. She gave them my name.”

  Matt remembered now that Marsha had met Kyra through her church. A nun would have that kind of pull—who would question that kind of recommendation?

  “I wanted to tell you,” Kyra said, her eyes only on Olivia. “I was just looking for the right time. But then Sister Mary Rose called. Like you said. Three weeks ago. She said it was still too soon—that I shouldn’t say anything until she contacted me again. I was scared, but I trusted her. So I listened. I didn’t even know she’d been killed. And then the other night, when you both came here so late—I was going to tell you anyway. That’s why I came back in from the garage. But Matt was running out.”

  Olivia stood, opened her mouth, closed it, tried again. “So you . . . you’re my . . . ?”

  “Daughter. Yes.”

  Olivia took a tentative step toward Kyra. She reached out with one hand. Then, thinking better of it, she dropped it back to her side.

  “Are you okay, Kyra?” Olivia asked.

  Kyra smiled, a smile so heartbreakingly close to her mother’s Matt wondered how he’d missed it before. “I’m fine,” she said.

  “Are you happy?”

  “I am, yes.”

  Olivia said nothing. Kyra took another step.

  “I’m fine, really.”

  And then Olivia started to cry.

  Matt looked away. This wasn’t about him. He heard the sobs and the shushing sounds of two people trying to comfort each other. He thought about the miles, the pain, the prison, the abuse, the years, and what Olivia had said about this life, this simple life, being worth fighting for.

  Epilogue

  YOUR NAME IS MATT HUNTER.

  A year has passed.

  Lance Banner has apologized to you. For several months Lance remains wary, but then one day, at a neighborhood barbecue, he asks you to be his assistant basketball coach. Your nephew, Paul, Lance reminds you with a slap on the back, is on the team too. So what do you say?

  You say yes.

  You bought the house in Livingston, after all. You work out of it now, consulting on legal matters for Carter Sturgis. Ike Kier is by far your biggest client. He pays you well.

  All charges against Cingle Shaker were dropped. Cingle has opened her own private investigation agency called Cingler Service. Ike Kier and Carter Sturgis throw all the business they can her way. She has three investigators working for her now.

  Your sister-in-law, Marsha, is now serious with a man named Ed Essey. Ed works in manufacturing. You really don’t understand what he does. They plan on marrying soon. He seems nice, this Ed guy. You try to like him, but you can’t. He loves Marsha though. He will take care of her. He will probably be the only father Paul and Ethan will remember. They’ll be too young to remember Bernie. Maybe that’s how it should be, but it kills you. You will always try to be a presence in their lives, but you will become simply an uncle. Paul and Ethan will run to Ed first.

  Last time you were in the house, you looked for the picture of Bernie on the refrigerator. It was still there, but it’s buried under more recent photographs and report cards and artwork.

  You never hear from Sonya or Clark McGrath again.

  Their son, Stephen, still visits you sometimes. Not as much as he used to. And sometimes you’re even glad to see him.

  After you close on the new house, Loren Muse comes over. The two of you sit in the backyard with Corona beers.

  “Back in Livingston,” she says.

  “Yep.”

  “Happy?”

  “Towns don’t make you happy, Loren.”

  She nods.

  There is still something hanging over your head. “What’s going to happen to Olivia?” you ask.

  Loren reaches into her pocket and pulls out an envelope. “Nothing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A letter from Sister Mary Rose née Emma Lemay. Mother Katherine gave it to me.”

  You sit up. She hands it to you. You start to read it.

  “Emma Lemay put it all on herself,” Loren tells you. “She and she alone killed Clyde Rangor. She and she alone hid his body. She and she alone lied to the authorities about the identity of the murder victim. She claimed Candace Potter didn’t know anything about it. There’s more, but that’s the gist.”

  “You think that will wash?”

  Loren shrugs. “Who’s to say otherwise?”

  “Thank you,” you say.

  Loren nods. She puts down her beer and sits up. “Now, you want to tell me about those phone records, Matt?”

  “No.”

  “You think I don’t know who Darrow spoke to in Westport, Connecticut.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You can’t prove anything.”

  “You don’t know that. McGrath probably sent him money. There could be a trail.”

  “Let it go, Loren.”

  “Wanting revenge is not a defense.”

  “Let it go.”

  She picks the beer back up. “I don’t need your approval.”

  “True.”

  Loren looks off. “If Kyra had just told Olivia the truth in the beginning—”

  “They’d probably all be dead.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Emma Lemay’s phone call. She told Kyra to stay silent. And I think she had a good reason.”

  “That being?”

  “I think Emma—or Sister Mary Rose—knew that they were getting close.”

  “You saying Lemay took the hit for all of them?”

  You shrug. You wonder how they found Lemay and Lemay alone. You wonder why Lemay, if she suspected something, didn’t run. You wonder how she stood up to their torture and never gave Olivia away. Maybe Lemay figured one last sacrifice would end it. She wouldn’t have known they’d post something about the adoption. She probably figured that she was the only link. And if that link was permanently broken—especially by force—there’d be no way to find Olivia.

  But you’ll never know for sure.

  Loren looks off again. “Back in Livingston,” she says.

  You both shake your head. You both sip your beers.

  Over the course of the year Loren visits every once in a while. If the weather is cooperating, you two sit outside.

  The sun is high on that day a year later. You and Loren are sprawled out in lawn chairs. You both have Sol beers. Loren tells you that they’re better than Coronas.

  You take a sip and agree.

  As always, Loren looks around and shakes her head and says her usual refrain: “Back
in Livingston.”

  You are in your backyard. Your wife Olivia is there, planting a flower bed. Your son Benjamin is on a mat next to her. Ben is three months old. He is making a happy cooing noise. You can hear it all the way across the yard. Kyra is in the garden too, helping her mother. She has been living with you for a year now. She plans on staying until she graduates.

  So you, Matt Hunter, look at them. All three of them. Olivia feels your eyes on her. She looks up and smiles. So does Kyra. Your son makes another cooing noise.

  You feel the lightness in your chest.

  “Yeah,” you say to Loren with a silly grin on your face. “Back in Livingston.”

  Acknowledgments

  ONCE AGAIN, a nod of gratitude to Carole Baron, Mitch Hoffman, Lisa Johnson, Kara Welsh, and all at Dutton, NAL, and Penguin Group USA; Jon Wood, Malcolm Edwards, Susan Lamb, Jane Wood, Juliet Ewers, Emma Noble, and the gang at Orion; Aaron Priest and Lisa Erbach Vance for all the usual stuff.

  A special thanks to Senator Harry Reid of Nevada. He constantly shows me the beauty of his state and her inhabitants, even if, for the sake of drama, I end up putting my own spin on them.

  The author also wishes to thank the following for their technical expertise:

  Christopher J. Christie, United States Attorney for the state of New Jersey;

  Paula T. Dow, Essex County (NJ) Prosecutor;

  Louie F. Allen, Chief of Investigators, Essex County (NJ) Prosecutor’s Office;

  Carolyn Murray, First Assistant Essex County (NJ) Prosecutor;

  Elkan Abramowitz, attorney extraordinaire;

  David A. Gold, MD, surgeon extraordinaire;

  Linda Fairstein, lotsa-things extraordinaire;

  Anne Armstrong-Coben, MD, Medical Director of Covenant House Newark and just plain extraordinaire;

  And for the third straight book (and final time), Steven Z. Miller, MD, Director of Pediatric Emergency Medicine, Children’s Hospital of New York-Presbyterian. You taught me about much more than medicine, my friend. I will miss you always.

  About the Author