Run Away

by Harlan Coben

  “I still don’t understand what you’re looking for,” Raff said.

  There were a lot of image searches. She clicked on a random few. They were, as one might expect, tattoos, a wide variety of them. There were roses-and-barbed-wire tattoos, skeletons with crossbones, hearts of all shades and sizes. There was one tattoo of Pennywise the Clown, from Stephen King’s It, and several involving full-on sex acts including, uh, all fours (who actually got that as a tattoo?), and there were ones that said “Mom” and ones of tombstones for friends who’d died and full-arm sleeves and lots of wing designs for the lower back, what they used to call (maybe still do?) tramp stamps.

  “We get ideas from the images,” Raff said. “We show the clients what’s been done so we can take it to the next level.”

  The rest of the browser history looked equally routine. Damien Gorse had visited Rotten Tomatoes and bought movie tickets. He’d bought socks and K-Cup coffee pods from Amazon. He visited one of those DNA sites that tell you your ancestral makeup. Elena often thought about taking one of those tests. Her mother was Mexican and swore Elena’s biological father was too, but he’d died before she was born, and Mom always acted funny when Elena would ask, so who knew?

  “Maybe I can help?” Raff asked. It was more of a plea than a question.

  Elena kept her eyes on the screen. “Do you—or really, did Damien—know someone named Henry Thorpe?”

  He thought about it. “Not that I can think of.”

  “He’s twenty-four years old. From Chicago.”

  “Chicago?” Raff thought some more. “I don’t think I know anyone with that name. And I never heard Damien mention him either. Why do you ask?”

  Elena blew through his question. “Have you and Damien been to Chicago recently?”

  “I went when I was a senior in high school. I don’t think Damien’s ever been.”

  “How about the name Aaron Corval? Does that ring any bells?”

  Raff petted the handlebar mustache with his right hand. “No, I don’t think so. Is he also from Chicago?”

  “Connecticut. But he lives in the Bronx now.”

  “Sorry, no. Can I ask why you’re asking?”

  “It would be better right now if you could just answer my questions.”

  “Well, I don’t recognize either name. I could search our customer database, if you’d like.”

  “That would be great.”

  Raff reached over her shoulder and started typing.

  Nap said, “Can you print the full client list for us?”

  “You think one of our clients…?”

  “Just covering all bases,” Nap said.

  “How do you spell Thorpe?” Raff asked Elena.

  She suggested that he try it both ways—with the e and without the e. Nothing. Same with Aaron Corval.

  “Who are these men?” Raff asked. There was an edge there now. “What do they have to do with Damien?”

  “You said only you and Mr. Gorse used this IP and Wi-Fi?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Don’t ask me for the technical explanation,” she said, “but Henry Thorpe had contact with someone using this computer’s IP.”

  Nap just listened.

  “Meaning?” Raff said. There was more edge now.

  “Meaning just that. Someone who used this computer communicated with Henry Thorpe.”

  “So? This Thorpe guy could be an ink salesman for all I know.”

  “He’s not.”

  Elena stared at him hard.

  “Damien didn’t keep secrets from me,” Raff said.

  Didn’t. Finally the past tense.

  “Maybe our computer was hacked or something.”

  “That’s not what happened, Neil.”

  “So what are you insinuating?”

  “I’m not insinuating anything. I’m asking.”

  “Damien wouldn’t cheat on me.”

  She hadn’t really been going there, but maybe she should. Maybe there was some kind of romantic connection here. Was Henry Thorpe gay? She hadn’t bothered to ask. Then again, who in this day and age cares?

  And if that was the case—if Damien and Henry were lovers—how did Aaron Corval fit into this? Wasn’t Paige Greene his girlfriend? Could that be tied in somehow? Could there be some kind of romantic entanglement Elena hadn’t yet considered at the center of this?

  She didn’t see how.

  Nap tapped her on the shoulder. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

  Elena got up from the chair. She put a hand on Raff’s shoulder. “Mr. Raff?”

  He looked at her.

  “I’m not insinuating anything. Really. I’m just trying to help find who did this.”

  He nodded, his eyes down.

  Nap headed out the back door. She followed him.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “Aaron Corval.”

  “What about him?”

  “It isn’t hard to use Google,” he said. “He was murdered days ago.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  Chapter

  Eighteen

  Simon’s car route back to Manhattan ran past the Corval Inn and Family Tree Farm.

  He almost drove straight past it—what was the point, and he wanted to get back to the hospital—but then again, nothing ventured, nothing gained. He pulled into the lot and parked in the same spot he’d left earlier.

  The inn was quiet. If the mourners had all been heading to a reception when Enid peeled off for her club, the reception was over. He looked for any familiar faces at all—anyone who’d been at the memorial service down by that brook—but the only person who looked familiar was the woman behind the desk with the tablecloth-checked blouse. She had another map of the grounds flattened on the desk and was showing a color-coordinated young couple that Simon would anachronistically call yuppies the “most arduous hiking trail on the property.”

  The woman clearly spotted Simon waiting out of the corner of her eye, and she clearly wasn’t happy about it. Simon stood, bouncing on his toes, and glanced around. There was a staircase on the right. He debated going up it, but what good would that do? There were glass doors covered with lace behind him. They would lead to another room.

  Maybe the reception was in there.

  As he started toward them, he heard the woman behind the desk say, “Excuse me, that room is private.”

  Simon didn’t stop. He reached the door, turned the knob, and pushed into the room.

  There had indeed been a reception of some sort in here. Debris from finger sandwiches and crudités sat on a stained white tablecloth in the center of the room. An antique rolltop desk complete with those mail slots and tiny file drawers was to Simon’s right. Wiley Corval swiveled from the desk and rose.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The woman behind the desk came in behind Simon. “I’m so sorry, Wiley.”

  “It’s okay, Bernadette. I got it.”

  “Are you sure? I can call—”

  “I have it. Close the door and see to our guests, please.”

  She threw an eye dagger at Simon before heading back into the lobby. She closed the doors a little harder than necessary, shaking the glass.

  “What do you want?” he asked Simon with a snap.

  Wiley Corval now wore a brown herringbone tweed vest with pewter buttons. A gold chain hung from a middle button, attached no doubt to a pocket watch that was in the vest pocket. His crisp white shirt had puffy arms moving down to a tapered cuff.

  Dressed for the role of innkeeper, Simon thought.

  “My daughter is missing.”

  “You told me that already. I have no idea where she is. Please go away.”

  “I have some questions.”

  “And I don’t have to answer them.” He stood a little straighter, threw back his shoulders for effect. “I’m mourning my son today.”

  There was no reason to be subtle. “Are you?” Simon
asked.

  Surprise came to Wiley’s face—Simon had expected that—but there was something deeper.

  Fear.

  “Am I what?”

  “Aaron’s father.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You don’t look like him at all.”

  Wiley’s mouth dropped open. “Are you serious?”

  “Tell me about Aaron’s mother.”

  He looked as though he were about to say something, caught himself, and then a smile crossed Wiley Corval’s face. The smile was creepy. Extra creepy. Simon almost took a step back.

  “You’ve been talking to my wife.”

  Something occurred to Simon at that moment, something that perhaps Enid had been hinting at, or perhaps it was seeing Wiley in the flesh, dressed right now to play some part, or perhaps it had been the expression on Wiley’s face when Simon first stumbled across him down in the woods.

  There was no grief emanating from Wiley Corval.

  Of course, all the clichés apply here—people grieve in their own way, just because you can’t see a man is hurting doesn’t mean he isn’t, he could be putting on a brave face—but they all rang hollow. Enid had described her husband as theatrical. Simon got that now, as if everything he did was part of an act, including his feelings.

  That little boy. Living alone with a man who claimed to be his father.

  Simon tried to hold back his imagination, but it became a bucking horse, running wild, running toward the worst thoughts, the most awful, depraved scenarios.

  They can’t be true, Simon told himself.

  And yet.

  “I’ll get a court order.”

  “For what?” Wiley asked, spreading his hands, the picture now of pure innocence.

  “Parentage.”

  “Seriously?” That damned creepy smile. “Aaron was cremated.”

  “I can find his DNA in other ways.”

  “Doubtful. And even if you could somehow get his DNA and mine, it would show that I’m his father.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Am I?”

  He’s enjoying this, Simon thought.

  “And just for the sake of a fun mental exercise, suppose you did run the test and suppose it showed I wasn’t Aaron’s biological father, what would that prove?”

  Simon said nothing.

  “Maybe his mother cheated on me. What difference could that make all these years later? The test wouldn’t show that, of course—this is all a hypothetical; I was Aaron’s father—but what do you think you’d be able to prove?” Wiley took two steps toward Simon. “My son was a drug dealer living with your junkie daughter in the Bronx. That’s where he was murdered. Whatever gossip Enid told you, you have to see that his murder has nothing to do with his childhood.”

  That made sense, of course. On the surface, there was no way to argue with any of that. There was not a scintilla of evidence that linked whatever potential awfulness had occurred to a young boy in this very inn and his bloody murder decades later in that Bronx tenement.

  And yet.

  Simon shifted gears.

  “When did Aaron start getting into drugs?”

  The oily smile was back. “Maybe you should ask Enid about that.”

  “When did he move away?”

  “When did who move away?”

  “Who are we talking about? Aaron.”

  Another smile. Christ, he was really enjoying this.

  “Enid didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Aaron didn’t move away.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Enid has a place. It’s a sort of club.”

  “What about it?”

  “There’s an apartment off the back,” Wiley said. “Aaron lived there.”

  “Until when?”

  “I wouldn’t really know. Aaron and I…we were estranged.”

  Simon tried to follow this. “So when did he move near Lanford College?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He moved there. I think Aaron was working at a club when he met Paige.”

  Wiley actually laughed out loud now. “Who told you that?”

  Now Simon felt the chill again.

  “You think they met in Lanford?”

  “They didn’t?”

  “No.”

  “Where then?”

  “Here.” He nodded at the look of surprise on Simon’s face. “Paige came here.”

  “To the inn?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see her?”

  “I did.” Now the laugh was gone, the smile falling away. His voice turned grave. “I also saw her…after.”

  “After what?”

  “After she’d been with Aaron for a few months. The difference, what he did to her…” Wiley Corval stopped, shook his head. “If you did harm my son, I almost can’t blame you. I can only tell you that I’m sorry.”

  Bullshit. He wasn’t sorry. This was all an act.

  “What did Paige want?” Simon asked. “When she came here.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “She wanted to meet Aaron.”

  * * *

  It made no sense.

  Why would Paige, a seemingly happy college freshman, come here looking for a scumbag like Aaron Corval? How would his daughter even know who he was? Had they met earlier? Not according to Wiley Corval. Paige had specifically come to the inn seeking to meet Aaron. Did she come to him to score drugs? That also seemed a long shot. Driving this distance to score drugs—hours from Lanford College—seemed patently ridiculous.

  Did Aaron and Paige meet online in some way?

  This seemed most likely. They met online, and Paige drove up here to meet in person.

  But how? Why? How did their paths cross? Paige didn’t seem like the type for online dating or Tinder or any of that—and even if she was, even if Simon was being naïve about his own daughter, couldn’t she hook up with someone closer to her school?

  It made no sense.

  Could Wiley be lying about Paige coming to the inn? Could he be trying to muddy the waters and distract from what Enid had told Simon about Aaron’s parentage?

  Simon didn’t think so.

  Wiley Corval was a sleazebag and untrustworthy and maybe—no, probably—worse. But his words about Paige coming here to meet Aaron had that odd yet unmistakable scent of truth.

  Simon drove back to Enid’s club, but she was gone. He hit Yvonne’s speed dial.

  Yvonne answered on the first ring. “If there’s a change, I’ll call you.”

  “No change at all?”

  “None.”

  “And the doctors?”

  “Nothing new.”

  Simon closed his eyes.

  “I spent the day making calls,” Yvonne said.

  “To whom?”

  “Well-connected friends. I wanted to make sure we have the absolute best doctors on this.”

  “And?” he asked.

  “And we do. Fill me in on your visit to the inn.”

  He did. When he finished, Yvonne simply said, “Holy shit.”

  “I know.”

  “So where do you go next?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Yeah, you are,” Yvonne said.

  She knew him too well.

  “Something at that college changed Paige,” he said.

  “I agree. Simon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Call me in three hours. I want to know you arrived at Lanford safely.”

  Chapter

  Nineteen

  That weekend,” Eileen Vaughan told Simon, “Paige borrowed my car.”

  They sat in the four-person common room with cathedral ceiling. The dorm’s oversized bay window looked out over a Lanford College quad dripping so green it might as well have been a still-wet painting. Eileen Vaughan had been Paige’s freshman-year roommate. On Paige’s first day of college, when Simo
n, Ingrid, Sam, and Anya had all brought her to this campus brimming with hope, Eileen Vaughan had been the first to greet them. Eileen was smart and friendly and on the surface, at least, seemed to be the perfect roommate. Simon had taken her phone number, “just in case,” for emergency purposes only, which is why he still had it now.

  Simon and Ingrid had left Lanford College that day on such a high. Squinting into the campus sun, they’d held hands as they walked back to the car, even as Sam grumbled about his parents’ “gross PDA” (Public Display of Affection) and Anya scoffed out an “Ugh, can you not?” Back in the car, Simon had reminisced about his own college years, how he’d lived in a four-person suite like the one he was in now—but not like this one. Simon’s had been littered with empty pizza boxes and emptier beer cans, decorated in Early American Pub Crawl, while Eileen Vaughan’s suite looked like something out of an Ikea catalogue, all pale woods and real furniture and freshly-vacuumed throw carpets. There was nothing ironic or college-y on the walls, no decorative bongs or Che posters or heck, posters of any kind, favoring instead handcrafted tapestries with mild Buddhist designs or geometric patterns. The whole effect was less true collegiate and more model showroom, the dorm you use to sway prospective students (and more, their parents) during campus visits.

  “Had Paige ever done that before?” Simon asked Eileen.

  “Borrowed my car? Never. She told me she didn’t like to drive.”

  It was more than that, Simon thought. Paige didn’t know how to drive. Not really. She’d managed to get her license after taking lessons from a driving school in Fort Lee, but because they lived in Manhattan, she never drove.

  “You know how Paige was,” Eileen continued, not realizing how the “was” rather than “is” struck him deep in the chest. It was appropriate, of course—Paige was a “was” in terms of this campus and probably Eileen’s life, but as he looked at this lovely, healthy-looking girl—yes, he should call her a woman, but right now he only saw Eileen as a girl, a girl like his daughter—there was a deep, heavy thud in his heart reminding him that his daughter should be there, occupying one of the suite’s four bedrooms with a box spring on the floor and a desk with a gooseneck lamp.

  Eileen said, “Even if Paige had to get something at the supermarket or CVS, she’d ask me to drive instead.”

  “So you must have been surprised when Paige asked to borrow the car.”