by Harlan Coben
I said nothing.
"What if my dad did do something to her?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know. She kept going on about how she knew something bad about him. What if she was telling the truth? I mean, my father didn't just get her committed to a mental hospital--he also divorced her and remarried. He explained it to me--how they had fallen out of love years ago and how he deserved his own happiness and all that. But still. Did he really have to lock her up? Couldn't he have found another way? This was my mother--the only woman who ever loved me. Shouldn't I give her at least a little benefit of the doubt? If I don't believe her, who else will?"
"So what did you do?"
Now a tear escaped her eye. "I started looking a little harder at my father."
"What do you mean?"
She shook her head. "It doesn't matter."
"What?"
"The police say it was an intruder--maybe two of them. Burglars or something. See, my father was supposed to be away for the night, so I had my mom stay at the house with me. He would have been furious if he knew. I was in my bedroom. Mom was down here, watching television. It was late. I was on the phone with you when I heard voices. I thought maybe my father had come home. So I came down the stairs. I turned the corner . . ."
"And then?"
Rachel shrugged. "I don't remember anything else. I woke up in the hospital."
"You said you heard voices?"
"Yes."
"As in, more than one?"
"Yes."
"Male, female?"
"Both. One was my mother."
"And the others?"
"I told the police that I didn't recognize them."
"But?"
"I don't know. I thought maybe one of them . . . it may have been my father."
Silence.
"But your father would never shoot you," I said.
She didn't reply.
"Rachel?"
"Of course he wouldn't."
"You said you started to check into your father--to see if your mother might be telling the truth. Did you find something?"
"That doesn't matter. The police say it was an intruder. I probably just imagined my father's voice."
But I could hear the evasiveness now in her tone. "Hold up a second. At the hospital, why did Chief Taylor say not to say anything to Investigator Dunleavy?"
"I don't know."
I started to press her. "And why was that butterfly on the door?"
"Why do you think?"
I just looked at her. "You're working for Abeona."
She said nothing.
"How could I have been so stupid?" I almost slapped myself in the head. "You didn't just happen to be the one to help Ashley--you knew why she was hiding in our school, didn't you?"
Again she didn't answer.
"Rachel, after all we've been through, you still don't trust me?"
"I trust you," she said with a sharp edge, "like you trust me."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Are you going to tell me that you've told me everything? Are you going to claim that you trust me as much as you trust Ema?"
"Ema? What does she have to do with it?"
"Who do you trust more, Mickey? Me or Ema?"
"It's not a contest."
"Sure," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Right." Rachel shook her head. "Talk about being stupid. I shouldn't have told you anything."
"Rachel, listen to me." I put my hands on her shoulders and turned her to face me. "I want to help you."
"I don't want your help."
She pulled away.
"But--"
"What's going on here?"
I looked over my shoulder. A man in a business suit stood there, his fist clenched.
Rachel said, "Dad?"
As I turned toward him to introduce myself, Rachel's father reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun. He aimed it straight at my chest.
Whoa.
"Who are you?"
My knees went rubbery. I put my hands up. Rachel slid in front of me and said, "What are you doing? He's a friend of mine!"
"Who is he?"
"I told you. He's a friend. Put that away!"
Her father and that gun stared me down. I didn't know what to do. I stood there with my hands in the air and tried not to shake. Rachel was right in front of me, blocking my path. Through all the panic, I felt cowardly. I wanted to move her out of the way, but I was also worried about making any sudden moves.
Finally Mr. Caldwell lowered the gun. "Sorry, I . . . I guess I'm still on edge."
"Since when do you carry a gun?" Rachel asked.
"Since my daughter and ex-wife got shot in my own home." Mr. Caldwell looked at me. "I'm sorry . . ." He stopped as though searching for my name.
"Mickey," I said. "Mickey Bolitar."
"Rachel, I don't remember you mentioning anyone named Mickey."
"He's a new friend," Rachel said, and I thought I heard an edge in her tone. Mr. Caldwell heard it too. I thought that maybe he wanted to ask something more, but he turned back to me instead.
"Mickey, I'm really sorry about the gun. As Rachel may have told you, we had something of an incident here."
He waited for me to respond, but I gave him nothing. Was Rachel supposed to tell me? I didn't know, so I neither confirmed nor denied that I knew about the murder.
"Someone broke into our home and shot my daughter and her mother," he said. "Rachel was just released from the hospital, and I specifically told her not to let anyone in the house, so when I saw you two arguing . . ."
"I understand," I said, not sure whether I did or I didn't. The man was carrying a gun. He had whipped it out and aimed it at me. I was having trouble gathering my thoughts.
"You should probably leave now," Rachel said to me. "I know you have basketball."
I nodded, but I didn't like the idea of leaving her alone with her . . . her dad? I searched her face, but she turned away and started for the door. As I passed Mr. Caldwell, he reached out his hand. I shook it. His grip was firm.
"Nice to meet you, Mickey."
Yeah, I thought, nothing like pulling a gun on someone during your first encounter. Some "nice to meet you."
"You too," I said.
Rachel opened the door. She didn't say good-bye. She didn't say we'd talk later. She closed the door behind me, leaving her alone inside with her father.
I had started down the road, lost in my thoughts, when I heard a souped-up car slow as it approached me. I looked up and saw two scary-looking guys staring daggers at me. The guy in the passenger seat wore a bandana and had a long scar running down his right cheek. The driver had aviator sunglasses hiding his eyes. Talk about a danger vibe. I swallowed and hurried my step. The car picked up speed and kept pace with me.
I was about to veer off the sidewalk when the guy with the scar rolled down his window.
"That the Caldwell house?" he asked.
He pointed at it. I didn't know what to say, but I figured that it would be okay to say yes because there was a security gate. I nodded.
The guy with the scar didn't bother saying thanks. The souped-up car drove up to the gate. I stood and watched, but then Scarface turned around and glared at me again. "What are you looking at?"
I started to walk away. They wouldn't get past the gate anyway.
I risked a look behind me and saw the gate open. Scarface and his friend drove through it.
I didn't like this. I didn't like it all.
The car stopped and the two men got out of the car. I had my phone out, ready to dial 911 or at least call Rachel. Warn her. But warn her about what exactly? The two men moved toward the door. Without conscious thought, I started running toward her house, but then the front door opened, and I saw Mr. Caldwell step outside. He smiled and greeted the men. They all clearly knew each other. There were lots of smiles and backslaps.
Then I saw Mr. Caldwell get into the car, and they all drove off together.
CHAPTER 30
Half an hour after I had a gun pointed at me, I was in the locker room getting changed to try out with varsity. I could hardly wait. Now more than ever, I needed the sweet escape I only found on the basketball court. As I laced up my high-tops, my stomach started to do flips.
I was nervous.
It wasn't as though I had any friends on the court yesterday, but I knew these guys on varsity actively hated me. From the other side of the locker room I could hear a bunch of guys, including Troy and Buck, laughing. The noise sounded alien in my ears. Would I ever be a part of that? Would I ever be welcomed?
It was hard to imagine.
I finished dressing and took a deep breath. To stall, I texted Rachel and again made sure she was okay. She said she was fine and wished me luck at the tryouts. I was about to put away my phone when it buzzed again. I figured that it was one more text from Rachel, but I was wrong. It was Ema saying good luck.
I smiled. Thanks. Then I added: Guess what?
Ema: what?
Me: The old Nazi photograph. It was Photoshopped. That wasn't the butcher.
Ema: no way!
A whistle sounded in the distance. I quickly explained via text, then I put away the phone. It was time to head out on the court. When I opened up the door to the gym, it was like one of those scenes in a movie when the guy walks into a bar and everything goes quiet. All balls stopped bouncing. No one took a shot. I felt as if all eyes were on me. My face turned red.
With my head down, I jogged toward the free basket in the corner.
The balls started bouncing again, and shots started clanking off the rim. This was what I'd always longed for--to be part of a school team--and I don't think I'd ever felt so out of place. I took a few shots, got my own rebounds, took a few more. I had to wonder how Troy and Buck were reacting to my being there. I risked a glance toward them.
Troy was grinning at me in a way I didn't like.
"Well, that's weird," someone behind me said.
I spun toward the voice. It was Brandon Foley, team captain. There weren't many people in this school I had to look up to, but Brandon, at six foot eight, was one of them.
"What's that?" I said.
"Troy looks happy," Brandon said. "I figured he'd be furious to see you here."
I didn't know what to say to that. Brandon stuck his hand out. "I'm Brandon Foley."
"Yeah, I know. I'm Mickey Bolitar."
"Welcome."
"Thanks."
"Troy isn't so bad."
I figured that once again it would be best not to reply. Brandon took a shot. It swished through the basket, so I threw the ball back to him. We got into a nice rhythm and kept shooting. We didn't talk much. We didn't have to.
"Mickey?"
It was Coach Stashower.
"Coach Grady wants to see you in his office."
He vanished. I looked at Brandon. Brandon shrugged. "Coach probably wants to introduce you to the team or something."
"Yeah," I said, hoping he was right. "Thanks for shooting around with me."
"No problem."
As I left the court, I saw Troy out of the corner of my eye. The grin looked even bigger.
I hurried to Coach Grady's office.
"You wanted to see me, Coach?"
"Yes, Mickey, come in and close the door. Have a seat."
I did as he asked. Coach Grady was wearing gray sweatpants and a polo shirt with the Kasselton Camel mascot as a logo. For a few moments, he said nothing. He had his head down, his eyes on the desk.
"Have you read this, Mickey?"
"Read what, Coach?"
With a heavy sigh, Coach Grady rose from his chair. He walked over to me and handed me the Kasselton High School student manual. I looked at it and then up at him.
"Have you read it?" he asked again.
"I've skimmed it, I guess."
He moved back behind his desk and sat down. "How about the part on conduct?"
"I think so."
"Last year, two seniors on the football team were caught drinking beers by the field. They were suspended for six games. One kid on the hockey team got into a fight at a movie theater--off school grounds. It didn't matter. He was thrown off the team. We have a zero-tolerance policy. Do you understand?"
I nodded numbly. I thought about Troy's grin. I thought that maybe now I understood its meaning.
"You were arrested last night, weren't you, Mickey?"
"But I didn't do it."
"This isn't a court of law. Those boys who got caught drinking--they weren't put on trial. All charges were dropped on the hockey player who got in the fight. It didn't matter. You understand that, right?"
"But the arrest was all a misunderstanding."
"And your little tussle with Troy Taylor last week?"
I felt my heart sink. "We talked about that already," I said, hearing the panic in my own voice.
"Correct, and I was able to give you the benefit of the doubt. But I spoke to Chief Taylor today. He told me that in the past week you've been involved in several incidents. He said you drove a car when you aren't old enough to have a license. He said you used a fake ID to get into a club. Any of these things alone would get you thrown off the team."
I felt the panic in my chest. "Please, Coach Grady, I can explain it all."
"Did you do those things," Coach Grady asked, "or is Chief Taylor lying?"
"It's not that simple," I said.
"I'm sorry, Mickey, but my hands are tied here."
"Coach." I could hear the begging in my voice. "Please don't--"
"You're off the team."
I swallowed. "For how long?"
"For the season, son. I'm sorry."
CHAPTER 31
I had to pass through the gym in order to get to the locker room. Troy was still grinning like an idiot, and it took all my willpower not to run up and clock him. I felt numb. How could this have happened? Basketball was my life. My parents quit the Abeona Shelter and returned to the United States just so I could have a chance to play high school basketball.
Now that, along with everything else in my life, was gone.
I heard a laugh and then Troy called out in a mocking tone, "See ya, Mickey."
"Yeah," Buck added, "see ya, Mickey."
I felt my anger rise up, but I knew pummeling those two buffoons wouldn't help. Right now I just needed to get as far away from here as possible. I quickly threw on my street clothes and sprinted toward the exit.
I welcomed the outside. I squeezed my eyes shut and gulped down the fresh air. I dropped to my knees. I felt as though I was drowning and lost. I know, I know--it's just a sport. But basketball was more than that to me. It was my center, my core. It didn't define me, but it was what I wanted to do more than anything else. To have it snatched away like that--the grounding constant still in my life--it made my world teeter one more time.
"You're early."
I looked up and saw Ema. When she saw my face, her eyes widened with concern.
"What's wrong?"
"I was just thrown off the team."
As I told her what happened, Ema sat next to me and watched me. When I looked at her eyes--and yes, I know how this will sound--I saw kindness and goodness. They were almost . . . angelic. I looked into them and saw so many things. I drew strength from them.
Earlier, Rachel accused me of not trusting her as much as I do Ema. The truth is somewhat more complex: I trust no one as much as I trust Ema. I didn't hide how I felt from her. I didn't pretend that I wasn't angry and bitter and devastated. I didn't care what I looked like or sounded like. I just ranted, and Ema just listened.
"You try to do the right thing," Ema said, "and this is the thanks you get? It's so wrong."
She just gets it. Simple as that. Here was something else remarkable about Ema: She was able, even now, to make me feel better. I flashed back to that horrible moment at the nightclub, when I was sure that Ema was going to die. There had been a knife against h
er throat, and I had never felt so helpless or known such fear.
Tears came to my eyes. Seeing them, Ema said, "It'll be okay. We'll figure something out. There has to be a way to get you back on the team--"
Without thought, I reached out and hugged her hard. For a moment she stiffened, but then her arms slid around and she gripped me too. We just stayed that way, her head against my chest, neither of us moving, almost as though we were afraid of what would come after we let go.
"Uh, what are you two doing?"
It was Spoon. Ema and I quickly released each other.
"Nothing," I said.
Spoon looked at me, then at Ema, then somewhere between the two of us. "Studies have shown that hugging can cure depression, reduce stress, and boost the body's immune system."
Spoon spread his arms. "So how about a group hug?"
"Don't make me punch you," Ema said.
Spoon just stayed there, arms spread. "This is for all our health." Ema looked at me. I looked at her. We both shrugged and gave Spoon a hug at the same time. He relished it, and I wondered about how starved for physical contact we all suddenly seemed.
"I do this with my parents all the time," Spoon said. "It's great, right?"
We all took this as a cue to let go. We sat down on a curb.
"How come you're not at tryouts?" Spoon asked.
Ema shushed him, but I quickly explained. First I told him about the photograph of the Butcher of Lodz being Photoshopped. Spoon's reaction: "Well, duh. I mean, did we really think he was some weird Nazi who never aged?"
Then I told him about getting thrown off the team. Spoon's reaction to this news was interesting. Rather than commiserating, Spoon just got red-faced angry at the injustice of it all. It was like the sweet, naive kid was suddenly going to a dark place. Ema changed subjects.
"So did you visit Rachel?" Ema asked.
"Yes."
"Is she okay?" Spoon asked.
"The wounds were only superficial. She has a bandage on her head."
"But not on her face?" Spoon looked relieved. "Thank goodness."
Ema punched him in the arm. Then we got serious. I told them all about my visit with Rachel, every detail. When I finished, Ema asked, "So what do you make of it?"
"I'm not sure. Here her mother makes these crazy accusations against her father . . ."
"And she ends up dead," Spoon said.
Silence.
Ema stood and started pacing. "You said that Rachel started to believe her mother--about her father, I mean?"
I thought about that. "I don't know if it was that strong. I think at some point Rachel decided that if she wasn't on her mother's side, who would be?"
