by Harlan Coben
Hester just stood there. “You killed him?”
Delia moved over to the window. “I sat on the kitchen floor next to him. The knife was still in his chest. I don’t think he was dead yet. But I couldn’t move. He made gurgling noises for a while. Then those stopped. But I just sat there. I don’t know how much time passed. That’s how Rusty found me. On the kitchen floor. Next to the body. Rusty took over. He cleaned me up. He dressed me. He drove me to Union Station. There was a late Amtrak from Washington to Philadelphia. He got me on it and told me not to come back until he called. I stayed in a Marriott hotel room for three days. Ate room service. Rusty told me he moved the body, so nobody would know. When I came back to Washington, nothing was the same between us. You can imagine, right?”
Hester could feel her heart pound against her rib cage.
“We broke up. And I started dating Dash.”
Had that been, Hester wondered, an arrangement between the two men? Was Delia still just a thing, a shiny object, being bartered for a favor? Or had Rusty really loved her? Had Rusty loved her so much that the politician so many believed would destroy the country sacrificed his own happiness to protect her?
Or does it go deeper than that?
Did Rusty’s actions that night—getting rid of a bloody corpse, living with the awful lies and aftermath, losing the love of his life and then his parents—are those what warped Rusty Eggers? Had all of that nudged the young college student off the straight and narrow and veered him into becoming the irredeemably damaged man he was now?
Delia put up her hands. Her smile was sad. “The rest is history.”
“After all that, you’re staying with him?”
“Dash? We have a life together. A family, kids—especially a boy who suffered a great trauma and is going to need stability. We both kept secrets from each other. I at least know his now.”
“And you won’t tell him yours?”
“That I was the one who killed Christopher?” Delia shook her head. “No, never.”
“Hell of a thing to live with,” Hester said.
“Been living with it for over thirty years,” Delia said. She made a production out of checking her watch. “I better go.”
“People wouldn’t blame you,” Hester said, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice. “You were being raped. You can still come out of this doing the right thing.”
“I am doing the right thing. For me. For my family.”
She turned to leave.
“There was one secret you and Dash both kept,” Hester said.
“What’s that?”
“What did you think when you heard that Raymond Stark had been arrested for Christopher’s murder?”
Delia didn’t reply.
“You both knew the truth, right? You and Dash. You didn’t talk about it with each other, but you both knew that an innocent man had been arrested. Yet you never came forward.”
“And say what?” Delia asked.
“That you did it in self-defense.”
“You think anyone would believe me?”
“So you just let Raymond Stark take the fall.”
“I hoped he’d get off.”
“And when he didn’t?” Hester crossed the room and got into her face. “When he got sentenced to life in prison for something he didn’t do? When he got beaten and abused?”
“I didn’t sentence him. I didn’t beat him or abuse him. Won’t the tape free him now?”
“No, Delia. The tape won’t be enough. Raymond Stark will stay in prison.” Hester took a breath, tried to sound reasonable. “But please, listen to me—”
“No. I’m leaving now.”
“You helped lock him up. You can’t just—”
“Goodbye, Hester.”
“I could tell.”
Delia smiled and shook her head. “No, you couldn’t, Hester.”
Hester stood there, her fists at her side, her body shaking.
“First off,” Delia said, “there is no evidence. I’ll just deny it. But more than that, you won’t violate attorney-client privilege. Even if it meant saving the world from Hitler. Even if it means an innocent man stays in jail.”
The system was flawed, but it was still the system.
Delia Maynard left the office then. For a few minutes, Hester didn’t move. Sarah McLynn came in and said, “Your next appointment—”
“Cancel.”
“I can’t just cancel. He’s—”
“Cancel.”
The tone left no room for argument. Hester circled back to her desk. With a shaking hand, she picked up the phone and dialed the number.
The voice that answered sounded tentative. “Hello?”
“Oren?”
She hadn’t spoken to him in three weeks, not since the pizza date. She hadn’t returned his calls or answered his texts.
“Are you okay, Hester?”
“I need you to take me someplace. I need you to take me now.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE
Two hours later, Oren pulled the squad car onto the shoulder of Mountain Road. He turned off the ignition. For a few moments the two of them just sat in silence.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
When Hester nodded, Oren got out of the passenger side and opened her door. Up ahead, Hester saw the weathered makeshift cross. It was odd for her to see it here—her son had been raised somewhere between agnostic and Jewish—but for some reason, Hester didn’t mind it. Someone had cared. Someone had tried.
Hester walked over to the edge of the highway and looked down the steep embankment.
“So this is where…?”
“Yes.”
Hester had never had the courage—if courage was the right word—to come here. Ira had. Many times. He wouldn’t tell her. He would say he was going out for a ride or to pick up milk at the 7-Eleven, but she knew that he would pull his car over on the shoulder, maybe in this exact same spot, and get out and look at the makeshift cross and sob.
Ira hadn’t told her. She wished that he had.
“Where did the car end up?”
“Down there,” Oren said, pointing to a spot far down the hill.
“You were one of the first officers on the scene.”
Oren couldn’t tell whether that was a question or a statement. “Yes.”
“The car was on fire.”
“Yes.”
“Wilde had already pulled David out.”
Oren just nodded this time.
“Wilde told me he was the one driving,” Hester said.
“He told us that too,” Oren said. “We didn’t charge him though. No alcohol in his system. The roads were wet.”
“Was Wilde driving?”
“That’s what our report said.”
Hester turned to him. “I’m not asking you what your report said.”
Oren’s eyes stayed on the ravine. “When the only survivor of a car accident tells you he was the driver, it’s hard to prove otherwise.”
“Wilde lied, didn’t he?”
Oren didn’t reply.
Hester stood so that they were shoulder to shoulder. “Wilde and David were best friends. You know that, right?”
Oren nodded. “I do.”
“That night, they went to Miller’s Tavern. In David’s car. My David didn’t drink much or go for bars much—that was more Wilde’s scene, I think—but he was having problems with Laila. Nothing serious. Nothing they wouldn’t get past. So the two best friends went out to blow off some steam or whatever men do. David drank too much. The hospital ran a toxicology report when he was rushed in—when they still thought my boy would survive. Wilde didn’t want to get David in trouble. So he said it was him. That he was driving.”
Oren still said nothing.
“Is that what happened, Oren?”
“Did you ask Wilde?”
“He insists he was driving.”
“But you don’t believe him.”
“I don’t, n
o. Am I right?”
Oren looked down. She watched his eyes. They were so clear, so honest, so beautiful. “Oren?”
Then he said something that surprised her: “I don’t think you have it exactly right.”
For a moment she couldn’t find her voice. When she did: “What do you mean?”
“Wilde would never have let David drive drunk.”
“So…” Hester didn’t know what to say. “I’m not following.”
“We checked Miller’s Tavern. Wilde was a regular, as you said. David wasn’t, but that night, yeah, he got pretty drunk. Anyway, nothing we could prove, but one patron said Wilde left at least half an hour before David. On his own.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Wilde would only tell us he was the driver.”
“David was there alone?”
“Alone and drinking, yes. This is all just a theory, Hester. But at that time, Wilde was living in a tent not far from here.” He pointed to the left. “Maybe three hundred yards in that direction. Again I don’t have any proof. Wilde insisted that he drove, but yeah, I never believed it. I think Wilde was nearby. I think he heard the crash or saw the flames. I think he wanted to protect his friend. And I think he felt—feels—guilty about not staying at the bar that night.”
Hester felt a thud deep in her chest. “So you think David was alone in the car?”
When Oren nodded, Hester dropped to her knees. She dropped to her knees and cried.
Oren let her. He stood there, close enough that if she needed him, he was there. But he didn’t reach out to her. Thank God. Thank God this man, this good and decent man, knew to not hug her or offer words of false comfort.
He just let her cry.
It took some time. She couldn’t say how much. Five minutes, ten, maybe half an hour. Oren Carmichael just stood there, guarding her like a silent sentinel. At some point, she got back into his squad car. He started down Mountain Road. They drove in silence.
Finally: “Oren?”
“I’m here.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you back.”
Oren didn’t reply.
“When you rushed out of the pizzeria to go to that car accident, I realized that we had no chance—because no matter what, whenever I see you, I will imagine you at the scene of that accident. Whenever I see you, I will see my dead son. You’ll always remind me of David, so we can’t be.”
He kept his eyes on the road.
“But then I started missing you so damn much. It was like there was a giant hole in my heart. I know how that sounds. I started thinking that even with that pain, I didn’t want to be without you—and I didn’t want to stop thinking about my David, not ever, because that would be the worst outrage. I’ll never stop thinking about him. Do you understand?”
Oren nodded. “I do.”
She reached out and put her hand on his.
“Are you willing to give us another chance, Oren?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’d really like that.”
CHAPTER
FORTY
Wilde bought a round-trip ticket for the Delta shuttle flight from New York’s LaGuardia Airport to Boston’s Logan. He had no luggage. He didn’t plan on staying in Boston long—a few hours tops. Then he’d fly back home.
In fact, he planned to never leave the airport.
When the plane landed, Wilde walked over from Terminal A to E. He positioned himself near Gate E7, where he would eventually watch passengers board American Airlines Flight 374 to Costa Rica.
Two hours to go.
To pass the time, Wilde opened the DNA genealogy website and found the message from “PB.” He read it again, thought about it, then decided to write:
I’d like to know more, PB. Can we meet?
He was about to put away his phone when it rang. Wilde checked the caller ID and saw that it was Matthew. He picked up immediately.
“Everything okay?” Wilde said.
“You don’t have to answer the phone like that,” Matthew said. “You can just say, ‘Hello.’”
“Hello. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, Wilde. Except I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“Sorry. How are things at school?”
“Calming down. Crash is back already. He keeps showing off this scar on his finger and saying some bad guys cut it off. Mom says it was a fishing accident. Wilde?”
“Yeah?”
“Everyone thinks Naomi ran away. They think she’s somewhere on an island or doing something cool or exotic—which is ironic since they always thought she was such a loser.”
“I know.”
“Are you still looking for her?”
Wilde didn’t know how to answer that, so he kept it simple. “Yes.”
“Cool.” Then: “Where are you? I hear a lot of noise.”
“In Boston.”
“Why?”
“Visiting a friend.”
Matthew must have heard something in his tone. “Okay.”
“How’s Mom?” Wilde asked.
“Still with Darryl.”
Darryl. Designer Threads had a name now. Darryl.
“They’re getting serious, I think,” Matthew said.
Wilde closed his eyes for a moment. “You like him?”
“He’s okay,” Matthew said, which in Matthew-speak was a rave.
“Good. Be nice to him.”
“Ugh.”
“Your mom deserves this.”
“Fine, whatever.”
The flight to Costa Rica was ready to board now. The gate agent called for passengers needing special assistance, passengers traveling with children under the age of two, active-duty US military members.
“Anything else?” Wilde asked him.
“Nope, all good.”
“Call me if you need anything.”
“Anything?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a new Grand Theft Auto, but Mom won’t buy it for me because it’s too violent.”
“Funny.”
“Bye, Wilde.”
“Talk soon.”
He hung up as the gate agent called for Group 1 to board. Wilde watched the passengers start to mingle near the boarding line.
Nothing.
The gate agent called for Groups 2, 3, and 4.
Still nothing.
For a moment Wilde wondered whether he had gotten it wrong or perhaps someone was again trying tactical deception with him. Perhaps they had booked more than one flight to throw him. Perhaps they’d never intended to fly today.
But when the gate agent called the final group, Wilde spotted a young girl getting into line wearing, yep, a baseball cap and sunglasses.
Naomi Pine.
Standing in front of her, holding both their tickets, was Ava O’Brien.
For a few seconds, Wilde didn’t move. He didn’t have to do anything. He didn’t have to approach them. He could, like with Gavin Chambers and Saul Strauss, simply melt away.
But he didn’t.
Enough stalling. Wilde walked over and tapped Naomi on the shoulder.
Naomi jumped, startled. When she turned and saw his face, her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God. Wilde?”
Ava spun now too.
For a few seconds, they all just stood there.
Ava said, “How did you…?”
“Do you remember when you were leaving 7-Eleven and I told you to roll down your window?”
“What?” Ava looked baffled. “What about it?”
“I leaned in and put a GPS tracker in your car.”
It was the same deal as with Gavin and Strauss—Ava, too, had overdone it with the tactical diversions. When he’d told her about Crash disappearing, all of a sudden Ava had remembered that Naomi had mentioned a possible romance with Crash, strongly hinting that the two teens had run off together.
Ava had been trying to throw him off the scent too.
The question was, why?
She clearly had nothing to do with Crash
Maynard.
“You’re from Maine,” Wilde said.
“Yes, I told you that.”
“Why would you move to New Jersey to take a job you were overqualified for?”
Ava shrugged. “I wanted a change.”
“No,” Wilde said. “You’ve also been back to Maine four times in the past three weeks.”
“I have family up there.”
“Again: No. You stayed at the Howard Johnson’s in South Portland, where you had Naomi hiding. But more than that, you visited the Hope Faith Adoption Agency in Windham twice.”
Ava closed her eyes.
“You didn’t take the assistant teaching job because you wanted to live in New Jersey,” Wilde said. “You did it to be closer to the daughter you had to give up for adoption.”
For a moment, it looked as though Ava might deny it. But only for a moment.
“You have to understand,” Ava said. “I never wanted to give Naomi up.”
So there it was.
“I was only seventeen. I didn’t know any better. But I just had…I don’t know, it was a feeling or a want or a premonition or…So I went back to the agency. I begged them to tell me what happened to my daughter. They wouldn’t. Not at first. So I paid someone off. They gave me Naomi’s new name and address, but they explained that I had no rights. That was okay. I just wanted to see her, you know. So I just figured…”
“You’d take the teaching job to be close to her.”
“Right. What harm would it do?”
“Wilde?”
It was Naomi.
“Don’t make me go back.”
“I just wanted to see how she was,” Ava said. “That’s all. I didn’t want to mess up her life. But then I saw the hell she was living through. Day after day, I had to sit back and watch my child being bullied with no support from home.”
“So you became her friend,” Wilde said. “Her confidante.”
“Is that so wrong?”