Authors: Harlan Coben
“Right,” Myron said. “You were just the cause.”
She looked at him. “It’s not that simple. You know that.”
He nodded. She was right, of course. “I always knew why I did it,” Myron said. “I was being a competitive dumbass who wanted to get one up on Greg. But why you?”
Emily shook her head. The old hair would have flown side to side, ending up half covering her face. Her new coif was shorter and more stylized, but his mind’s eye still saw the kinky flow. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she said.
“Guess not,” he said, “but I’ve always been curious.”
“We both had too much to drink.”
“Simple as that?”
“Yes.”
Myron made a face. “Lame,” he said.
“Maybe it was just about sex,” she said.
“A purely physical act?”
“Maybe.”
“The night before you married someone else?”
She looked at him. “It was dumb, okay?”
“You say so.”
“And maybe I was scared,” she said.
“Of getting married?”
“Of marrying the wrong man.”
Myron shook his head. “Jesus, you’re shameless.”
Emily was about to say more, but she stopped as though her last reserves had suddenly been zapped away. He wanted her gone, but with ex-loves there is also a pulling sadness. There before you stands the true road untraveled, the lifetime what-if, the embodiment of a totally alternate life if things had gone a little different. He had absolutely no interest in her anymore, yet her words still drew out his old self, wounds and all.
“It was fourteen years ago,” she said softly. “Don’t you think it’s time we moved on?”
He thought about what that “purely physical” night had cost him. Everything, maybe. His lifelong dream, for sure. “You’re right,” he said, turning away. “Please leave.”
“I need your help.”
He shook his head. “As you said, time to move on.”
“Just have coffee with me. With an old friend.”
He wanted to say no, but the past had too strong a pull. He nodded, afraid to speak. They drove in silence to Starbucks and ordered their complicated coffees from an artist-wannabe
barista
with more attitude than the guy who works at the local record store. They added whatever condiments at the little stand, playing a game of Twister by reaching across one another for the nonfat milk or Equal. They sat down in metal chairs with too-low backs. The sound system was playing reggae music, a CD entitled
Jamaican Me Crazy.
Emily crossed her legs and took a sip. “Have you ever heard of Fanconi anemia?”
Interesting opening gambit. “No.”
“It’s an inherited anemia that leads to bone marrow failure. It weakens your chromosomes.”
Myron waited.
“Are you familiar with bone marrow transplants?”
Strange line of questioning, but he decided to play it straight. “A little. A friend of mine had leukemia and needed a transplant. They had a marrow drive at the temple. We all went down and got tested.”
“When you say ‘we all’—”
“Mom, Dad, my whole family. I think Win went too.”
She tilted her head. “How is Win?”
“The same.”
“Sorry to hear that,” she said. “When we were at Duke, he used to listen to us making love, didn’t he?”
“Only when we pulled down the shade so he couldn’t watch.”
She laughed. “He never liked me.”
“You were his favorite.”
“Really?”
“That’s not saying much,” Myron said.
“He hates women, doesn’t he?”
Myron thought about it. “As sex objects, they’re fine. But in terms of relationships …”
“An odd duck.”
She should only know.
Emily took a sip. “I’m stalling,” she said.
“I sorta figured that.”
“What happened to your friend with leukemia?”
“He died.”
Her face went white. “I’m sorry. How old was he?”
“Thirty-four.”
Emily took another sip, cradling the mug with both hands. “So you’re listed with the bone marrow national registry?”
“I guess. I gave blood and they gave me a donor card.”
She closed her eyes.
“What?” he asked.
“Fanconi anemia is fatal. You can treat it for a while with blood transfusions and hormones, but the only cure is a bone marrow transplant.”
“I don’t understand, Emily. Do you have this disease?”
“It doesn’t hit adults.” She put down her coffee and
looked up. He was not big on reading eyes, but the pain was neon-obvious. “It hits children.”
As though on cue, the Starbucks soundtrack changed to something instrumental and somber. Myron waited. It didn’t take her long.
“My son has it,” she said.
Myron remembered visiting the house in Franklin Lakes when Greg disappeared, the boy playing in the backyard with his sister. Must have been, what, two, three years ago. The boy was about ten, his sister maybe eight. Greg and Emily were in the midst of a bloody take-no-prisoners custody battle, the two children pinned down in the crossfire, the kind no one walks away from without a serious hit.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“We need to find a bone marrow match.”
“I thought siblings were an almost automatic match.”
Her eyes flicked around the room. “One-in-four chance,” she said, stopping abruptly.
“Oh.”
“The national registry found only three potential donors. By potential I mean that the initial HLA tests showed them as possibilities. The A and B match, but then they have to do a full blood and tissue workup to see—” She stopped again. “I’m getting technical. I don’t mean to. But when your kid is sick like this, it’s like you live in a snow globe of medical jargon.”
“I understand.”
“Anyway, getting past the initial screening is like winning a second-tier lottery ticket. The chance of a match is still slim. The blood center calls in the potential donors and runs a battery of tests, but the odds they’ll be a close enough match to go through with the transplant are pretty low, especially with only three potential donors.”
Myron nodded, still having no idea why she was telling him any of this.
“We got lucky,” she said. “One of the three was a match with Jeremy.”
“Great.”
“There’s a problem,” she said. Again the crooked smile. “The donor is missing.”
“What do you mean, missing?”
“I don’t have the details. The registry is confidential. No one will tell me what’s going on. We seemed to be on the right track, and then all of a sudden, the donor just pulled out. My doctor can’t say anything—like I said, it’s protected.”
“Maybe the donor just changed his mind.”
“Then we better change it back,” she said, “or Jeremy dies.”
The statement was plain enough.
“So what do you think happened?” Myron asked. “You think he’s missing or something?”
“He or she,” Emily said. “Yes.”
“He or she?”
“I don’t know anything about the donor—age, sex, where they live, nothing. But Jeremy isn’t getting any better and the odds of finding another donor in time are, well, almost nonexistent.” She kept the face tight, but Myron could see the foundation starting to crack a bit. “We have to find this donor.”
“And that’s why you’ve come to me? To find him?”
“You and Win found Greg when no one else could. When he disappeared, Clip went to you first. Why?”
“That’s a long story.”
“Not so long, Myron. You and Win are trained in this sort of thing. You’re good at it.”
“Not in a case like this,” Myron said. “Greg is a high-profile athlete. He can take to the airwaves, offer rewards. He can buy private detectives.”
“We’re already doing that. Greg has a press conference set up for tomorrow.”
“So?”
“So it won’t work. I told Jeremy’s doctor we would
pay anything to the donor, even though it’s illegal. But something else is wrong here. I’m afraid all the publicity might even backfire—that it may send the donor deeper into hiding or something, I don’t know.”
“What does Greg say to that?”
“We don’t talk much, Myron. And when we do, it’s usually not very pretty.”
“Does Greg know you’re talking to me now?”
She looked at him. “He hates you as much as you hate him. Maybe more so.”
Myron decided to take that as a no. Emily kept her eyes on him, searching his face as though there were an answer there.
“I can’t help you, Emily.”
She looked like she’d just been slapped.
“I sympathize,” he went on, “but I’m just getting over some major problems of my own.”
“Are you saying you don’t have time?”
“It’s not that. A private detective would have a better chance—”
“Greg’s hired four already. They can’t even find out the donor’s name.”
“I doubt I can do any better.”
“This is my son’s life, Myron.”
“I understand, Emily.”
“Can’t you put aside your animosity for me and Greg?”
He wasn’t sure that he could. “That’s not the issue. I’m a sports agent, not a detective.”
“That didn’t stop you before.”
“And look how things ended up. Every time I meddle, it leads to disaster.”
“My son is thirteen years old, Myron.”
“I’m sorry—”
“I don’t want your sympathy, dammit.” Her eyes were smaller now, black. She leaned toward him until her face was scant inches from his. “I want you to do the math.”
He looked puzzled. “What?”
“You’re an agent. You know all about numbers, right? So do the math.”
Myron tilted back, giving himself a little distance. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Jeremy’s birthday is July eighteenth,” she said. “Do the math.”
“What math?”
“One more time: He’s thirteen years old. He was born July the eighteenth. I was married October tenth.”
Nothing. For several seconds, he heard the mothers chatting over one another, one baby cry, one
barista
call out an order to another, and then it happened. A cold gust blew across Myron’s heart. Steel bands wrapped around his chest, making it almost impossible to breathe. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. It was like someone had whacked his solar plexus with a baseball bat. Emily watched him and nodded.
“That’s right,” she said. “He’s your son.”
Y
ou can’t know that for sure,” Myron said. Emily’s whole persona screamed exhaustion. “I do.”
“You were sleeping with Greg too, right?”
“Yes.”
“And we only had that one night during that time. You probably had a whole bunch with Greg.”
“True.”
“So how can you possibly know—?”
“Denial,” she interjected with a sigh. “The first step.”
He pointed a finger at her. “Don’t hand me that psychology-major crap, Emily.”
“Moving quickly to anger,” she continued.
“You can’t know—”
“I’ve always known,” she interrupted.
Myron sat back. He stayed composed but underneath he could almost feel the fissure widening, his foundation starting to shift.
“When I first got pregnant, I figured like you: I’d slept with Greg more, so it was probably his baby. At least, that’s what I told myself.” She closed her eyes. Myron stayed very still, the knot in his stomach tightening. “And when Jeremy was born, he favored me, so who was to say? But—and this is going to sound so goddamn stupid—a mother knows. I can’t tell you how. But I knew. I tried to deny it too. I told myself I was just feeling guilty over what we’d done, and that this was God’s way of punishing me.”
“How Old Testament of you,” Myron said.
“Sarcasm,” she said with almost a smile. “Your favorite defense.”
“Your maternal intuition hardly counts as evidence, Emily.”
“You asked before about Sara.”
“Sara?”
“Jeremy’s sister. You wondered about her matching as a donor. She didn’t.”
“Right, but you said there was only a one-in-four chance with siblings.”
“For
full
siblings, yes. But the match wasn’t even close. Because she’s only Jeremy’s half sister.”
“The doctor told you this?”
“Yes.”
Myron felt the stone footing beneath his feet give way. “So … Greg knows?”
Emily shook her head. “The doctor pulled me aside. Because of the divorce, I’m Jeremy’s primary custodian. Greg has custody too, but the children live with me. I’m in charge of the medical decisions.”
“So Greg still believes …?”
“That Jeremy is his, yes.”
Myron was floundering in deep water with no land in sight. “But you said you’ve always known.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Are you kidding? I was married to Greg. I loved him. We were starting our life together.”
“You still should have told me.”
“When, Myron? When should I have told you?”
“As soon as the baby was born.”
“Aren’t you listening? I just told you I wasn’t sure.”
“A mother knows, you said.”
“Come on, Myron. I was in love with Greg, not you. You with your corny sense of morality—you would have insisted I divorce Greg and marry you and live some suburban fairy tale.”
“So instead you chose to live a lie?”
“It was the right decision based on what I knew then. With hindsight”—she stopped, took a deep sip—“I probably would have done a lot of things differently.”
He tried to let some of it sink in, but it was a no-go. Another group of stroller-laced soccer moms entered the coffee shop. They took a corner table and started jabbering about little Brittany and Kyle and Morgan.
“How long have you and Greg been separated?” Myron’s voice sounded sharper than he intended. Or maybe not.
“Four years now.”
“And you were no longer in love with him, right? Four years ago?”
“Right.”
“Earlier even,” he went on. “I mean, you probably fell out of love with him a long time ago, right?”
She looked confused. “Right.”
“So you could have told me then. At least four years ago. Why didn’t you?”
“Stop cross-examining me.”
“You’re the one who dropped this bombshell,” he said. “How do you expect me to react?”
“Like a man.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I need your help. Jeremy needs your help. That’s what we should be concentrating on.”