Promise Me mb-8

by Harlan Coben

  “Throwing stones, glass houses, yeah, I know.” Her eyes were red. “Are you drunk?”

  “Tipsy maybe. I had enough to get my courage up.”

  “To break into my house?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what is it, Jessica?”

  “You and I,” she said. “We’re not really through.”

  He said nothing.

  “I pretend we’re done, you pretend we’re done. But we both know better.” Jessica turned to the side and swallowed. He watched her neck. He saw hurt in her eyes. “What was the first thing that went through your mind when you read I was getting married?”

  “I wished you and Stoner nothing but the best.”

  She waited.

  “I don’t know what I thought,” he said.

  “It hurt?”

  “What do you want me to say, Jess? We were together a long time. Of course there was a pang.”

  “It’s like”—she paused, thought about it—“it’s like, despite the fact I haven’t talked to you in seven years, it was always just a question of time before we got back together. Like this was all part of the process. Do you know what I mean?”

  He said nothing, but he felt something deep inside him start to fray.

  “And then today, I saw my announcement in print — the announcement I wrote — and suddenly it was like, ‘Wait, this is for real. Myron and I don’t end up together.’ ” She shook her head. “I’m not saying this right.”

  “Nothing to say, Jessica.”

  “Just like that?”

  “You being here,” he said. “It’s just prewedding jitters.”

  “Don’t patronize me.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They sat there for a while. Myron held out his hand. She took it. He felt something course through him.

  “I know why you’re here,” Myron said. “I don’t even think I’m surprised.”

  “There’s still something between us, isn’t there?”

  “I don’t know….”

  “I hear a ‘but.’ ”

  “You go through what we went through — the love, the breakups, my injuries, all that pain, all that time together, the fact that I wanted to marry you—”

  “Let me address that part, okay?”

  “In a second. I’m on a roll here.”

  Jessica smiled. “Sorry.”

  “You go through all that, your lives become so entwined with one another. And then one day, you just end it. You just sever it off like with a machete. But you’re so entwined, stuff is still there.”

  “Our lives are enmeshed,” she said.

  “Enmeshed,” he repeated. “That sounds so precious.”

  “But it’s somewhat accurate.”

  He nodded.

  “So what do we do?”

  “Nothing. That’s just part of life.”

  “Do you know why I didn’t marry you?”

  “It’s irrelevant, Jess.”

  “I don’t think it is. I think we need to play through this.”

  Myron let go of her hand and signaled, fine, go ahead.

  “Most people hate their parents’ lives. They rebel. But you wanted to be just like them. You wanted the house, the kids—”

  “And you didn’t,” he interrupted. “We know all this.”

  “That’s not it. I might have wanted that life too.”

  “Just not with me.”

  “You know that’s not it. I just wasn’t sure….” She tilted her head. “You wanted that life. But I didn’t know if you wanted that life more than me.”

  “That,” Myron said, “is the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard.”

  “Maybe, but that’s how I felt.”

  “Great, I didn’t love you enough.”

  She looked at him, shook her head. “No man has ever loved me like you did.”

  Silence. Myron held back the “what-about-Stoner” remark.

  “When you blew out your knee—”

  “Not that again. Please.”

  Jessica pushed ahead. “When you blew out your knee, you changed. You worked so hard to move past it.”

  “You’d have preferred the self-pity route,” Myron said.

  “That might have worked better. Because what you did instead, what you ended up doing, was running scared. You grabbed so tight to everything you had that it was suffocating. All of a sudden you were mortal. You didn’t want to lose anything else and suddenly—”

  “This is all great, Jess. Hey, I forget. At Duke, who taught your Intro to Psychology class? Because he’d be proud as punch right about now.”

  Jessica just shook her head at him.

  “What?” he said.

  “You’re still not married, are you, Myron?’

  “Neither,” he said, “are you.”

  “Touché. But have you had a lot of serious relationships over the past seven years?”

  He shrugged. “I’m involved right now.”

  “Really?”

  “What, that’s such a surprise?”

  “No, but think about it. You, Mr. Commitment, Mr. Long-Term Relationship — why is it taking you so long to find anybody else?”

  “Don’t tell me.” He held up a hand. “You spoiled me for all other women?”

  “Well, that would be understandable.” Jessica arched an eyebrow. “But no, I don’t think so.”

  “Well, I’m all ears. Why? Why aren’t I happily married by now?”

  Jessica shrugged. “I’m still working on it.”

  “Don’t work on it. It doesn’t involve you anymore.”

  She shrugged again.

  They both sat there. It was funny how comfortable he was with all this.

  “You remember my friend Claire?” Myron said.

  “She married that uptight guy, right? We went to their wedding.”

  “Erik.” He didn’t want to go into it all, so he started with something else. “He told me tonight that he and Claire are having troubles. He says it’s inevitable, that eventually it all dims and fades and that it becomes something else. He says he misses the passion.”

  “Is he messing around?” Jessica asked.

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because it sounds like he’s trying to justify his actions.”

  “So you don’t think there’s anything to that dimming passion stuff?”

  “Of course there’s something to it. Passion can’t stay at that fevered pitch.”

  Myron thought about that. “It did for us.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “There was no fade.”

  “None. But we were young. And maybe that’s why, in the end, we blew up.”

  He considered that. She took his hand again. There was a charge. Then Jessica gave him a look. The look, to be more specific. Myron froze.

  Uh-oh.

  “You and this new woman,” Jessica said. “Are you exclusive?”

  “You and Stoner-Boner,” he countered. “Are you exclusive?”

  “Low blow. But it’s not about Stone. It’s not about your new missus. It’s about us.”

  “And you think, what, a quick boink will help clarify things?”

  “Still a wordsmith with the ladies, I see.”

  “Here’s another word from the wordsmith: no.”

  Jessica toyed with the top button of her blouse. Myron felt his mouth go a little dry. But she stopped.

  “You’re right,” she said.

  He wondered if he was disappointed that she hadn’t pushed it further. He wondered what he would have done if she had.

  They started talking then, just catching up on the years. Myron told her about Jeremy, about his serving overseas. Jessica told him about her books, her family, her time working out on the West Coast. She didn’t talk about Stoner. He didn’t talk about Ali.

  Morning came. They were still in the kitchen. They’d been talking for hours, but it didn’t feel like it. It just felt good.
At seven a.m., the phone rang. Myron picked it up.

  Win said, “Our favorite schoolteacher is heading to work.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Myron and Jessica hugged good-bye. The hug lasted a long time. Myron could smell Jessica’s hair. He didn’t remember the name of her shampoo, but it had lilacs and wildflowers and was the same one she’d used when they’d been together.

  Myron called Claire. “I have a quick question,” he said to her.

  “Erik said he saw you last night.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s been on the computer all night.”

  “Good. Look, do you know a teacher named Harry Davis?”

  “Sure. Aimee had him for English last year. He’s also a guidance counselor now, I think.”

  “Did she like him?”

  “Very much.” Then: “Why? Does he have something to do with this?”

  “I know you want to help, Claire. And I know Erik wants to help. But you have to trust me on this, okay?”

  “I do trust you.”

  “Erik told you about the cut-through we found?”

  “Yes.”

  “Harry Davis lives on the other side of it.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Aimee is not in his house or anything. We already checked.”

  “What do you mean, you checked? How did you check?”

  “Please, Claire, just listen to me. I’m working on this, but I need to do it without interference. You have to keep Erik off my back, okay? Tell him I said to search all the surrounding streets online. Tell him to drive around that area, but not on that cul-de-sac. Or better yet, have him call Dominick Rochester — that’s Katie’s father—”

  “He called us.”

  “Dominick Rochester?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Last night. He said he met with you.”

  Met, Myron thought. Nice euphemism.

  “We’re getting together this morning — the Rochesters and us. We’re going to see if we can find a connection between Katie and Aimee.”

  “Good. That’ll help. Listen, I have to go.”

  “You’ll call?”

  “As soon as I know something.”

  Myron heard her sob.

  “Claire?”

  “It’s been two days, Myron.”

  “I know. I’m on it. You might want to try to pressure the police more too. Now that we’ve crossed the forty-eight-hour mark.”

  “Okay.”

  He wanted to say something like Be strong, but it sounded so stupid in his head that he let it go. He said good-bye and hung up. Then he called Win.

  “Articulate,” Win said.

  “I can’t believe you still answer the phone that way. ‘Articulate.’ ”

  Silence.

  “Is Harry Davis still heading to the high school?”

  “He is.”

  “On my way.”

  Livingston High School, his alma mater. Myron started up the car. The total ride would be maybe two miles, but whoever was tailing him either wasn’t very good at it or didn’t care. Or maybe, after the debacle with the Twins, Myron was being more wary. Either way, a gray Chevy, maybe a Caprice, had been on him since he made the first turn.

  He called Win and got the customary “Articulate.”

  “I’m being followed,” Myron said.

  “Rochester again?”

  “Could be.”

  “Make and license plate?”

  Myron gave it to him.

  Win said, “We’re still on Route 280, so stall a little. Take them down past Mount Pleasant Avenue. I’ll get in behind them, meet you back at the circle.”

  Myron did as Win suggested. He turned into Harrison School for the U-turn. The Chevy following him kept going straight. Myron started back down the other way on Livingston Avenue. By the time he hit the next traffic light, the gray Chevy was back on his tail.

  Myron hit the big circle in front of the high school, parked, and got out of his car. There were no stores here, but this was the nerve center of Livingston — a plethora of identical brick. There was the police station, the courthouse, the town library, and there, the large crown jewel, Livingston High School.

  The early morning joggers and walkers were on the circle. Most were on the elderly side and moved slowly. But not all. A group of four hotties, all hard-bodied and maybe twenty-ish, were jogging in his direction.

  Myron smiled at them and arched an eyebrow. “Hello, ladies,” he said as they passed.

  Two of them snickered. The other two looked at him as though he’d just announced that he had a poopie in his pants.

  Win sidled up next to him. “Did you give them the full-wattage smile?”

  “I’d say a good eighty, ninety watts.”

  Win studied the young women before making a declaration: “Lesbians,” he said.

  “Must be.”

  “A lot of that going around, isn’t there?”

  Myron did the math in his head. He probably had fifteen to twenty years on them. When it comes to young girls, you just never want to feel it.

  “The car following you,” Win said, keeping his eyes on the young joggers, “is an unmarked police vehicle with two uniforms inside. They’re parked in the library lot watching us through a telephoto lens.”

  “You mean they’re taking our picture right now?”

  “Probably,” Win said.

  “How’s my hair?”

  Win made an eh gesture with his hand.

  Myron thought about what it meant. “They probably still see me as a suspect.”

  “I would,” Win said. He had what looked like a Palm Pilot in his hand. It was tracking the car’s GPS. “Our favorite teacher should be arriving now.”

  The teachers’ lot was on the west side of the school. Myron and Win walked over. They figured that it would be better to confront him here, outside, before class started.

  As they headed over, Myron said, “Guess who stopped by my house at three a.m.?”

  “Wink Martindale?”

  “No.”

  “I love that guy.”

  “Who doesn’t? Jessica.”

  “I know.”

  “How…” Then he remembered. He’d called Win’s cell when he heard the click at the door. He’d hung up as they headed down to the kitchen.

  Win said, “Did you do her?”

  “Yes. Many times. But not in the last seven years.”

  “Good one. Pray tell, did she stop by to shag for old times’ sake?”

  “ ‘Shag?’ ”

  “My Anglo ancestory. Well?”

  “A gentleman never kisses and tells. But yes.”

  “And you refused?”

  “I remain chaste.”

  “Your chivalry,” Win said. “Some would call it admirable.”

  “But not you.”

  “No, I’d call it — and I’m breaking out the big words here so pay attention — really, really moronic.”

  “I’m involved with someone else.”

  “I see. So you and Miss Six-Point-Eight have promised to shag only one another?”

  “It’s not like that. It’s not like one day you turn to the other and say, ‘Hey, let’s not sleep with anybody else.’ ”

  “So you didn’t specifically promise?”

  “No.”

  Win held up both hands, totally lost. “I don’t understand then. Did Jessica have BO or something?”

  Win. “Just forget it.”

  “Done.”

  “Sleeping with her would only complicate things, okay?”

  Win just stared.

  “What?”

  “You’re a very big girl,” Win said.

  They walked a little more.

  Win said, “Do you still need me?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll be in the office then. If there’s trouble, hit the cell.”

  Myron nodded as Win headed off. Harry Davis got out of his car. There were clust
ers of cliques in the lot. Myron shook his head. Nothing changed. The Goths wore only black with silver studs. The Brains had heavy backpacks and dressed in short-sleeved button-down shirts of one hundred percent polyester like a bunch of assistant managers at a chain drugstore convention. The Jocks took up the most space, sitting on car hoods and wearing leather-sleeved varsity jackets, even though it was too hot for them.

  Harry Davis had the easy walk and carefree smile of the well-liked. His looks landed him smack in the average category, and he dressed like a high school teacher, which was to say poorly. All the cliques greeted him, which said something. First, the Brains shook his hand and called out, “Hey, Mr. D!”

  Mr. D?

  Myron stopped. He thought back to Aimee’s yearbook, her favorite teachers: Miss Korty…

  … and Mr. D.

  Davis kept moving. The Goths were next. They gave him small waves, much too cool to do more than that. When he approached the Jocks, several offered up high-fives and “Yo, Mr. D!”s.

  Harry Davis stopped and started talking to one of the Jocks. The two moved a few feet away from the cluster. The conversation appeared more animated. The jock had a varsity jacket with a football on the back of it and the letters QB for quarterback on the sleeve. Some of the guys were calling to him. They yelled out, “Hey, Farm.” But the quarterback was focused on the teacher. Myron moved closer for a better look.

  “Well, hello,” Myron said to himself.

  The boy talking with Harry Davis — Myron could see him clearly now, the soul patch on his chin, the Rastafarian hair — was none other than Randy Wolf.

  CHAPTER 29

  Myron considered his next move — let them keep talking or confront them now? He checked his watch. The bell was about to sound. Both Harry Davis and Randy Wolf would probably head inside then, lost to him for the day.

  Showtime.

  When Myron was about ten feet away from them, Randy spotted him. The boy’s eyes widened with something akin to recognition. Randy stepped away from Harry Davis. Davis turned to see what was going on.

  Myron waved. “Hi, guys.”

  Both froze as though caught in headlights.

  “My father said I shouldn’t talk to you,” Randy said.

  “But your father never got to know the real me. I’m actually quite a sweetheart.” Myron waved to the confused teacher. “Hi, Mr. D.”

  He was almost on them when he heard a voice behind him.