Three Harlan Coben Novels

by Harlan Coben

  Grace had spent the extra dollar and ordered a second set of prints. Her fingers dipped into the envelope and plucked out the photographs. The first two were the ones of Emma and Max on the hayride. Next came Max with his arm stretched up to pick a Gala apple. There was the compulsory blurry shot of flesh, the one where Jack’s hand had slipped too close to the lens. She smiled and shook her head. Her big doofus. There were several more shots of Grace and the children with a variety of apples, trees, baskets. Her eyes grew moist, the way they always did when she looked at photographs of her children.

  Grace’s own parents had died young. Her mother was killed when a semi crossed the divide on Route 46 in Totowa. Grace, an only child, was eleven at the time. The police did not come to the door like in the movies. Her father had learned what happened from a phone call. Grace still remembered the way her father, wearing blue slacks and a gray sweater-vest, had answered the phone with his customary musical hello, how his face had drained of color, how he suddenly collapsed to the floor, his sobs first strangled and then silent, as if he could not gather enough air to express his anguish.

  Grace’s father raised her until his heart, weakened from a childhood bout with rheumatic fever, gave out during Grace’s freshman year of college. An uncle out in Los Angeles volunteered to take her in, but Grace was of age by now. She decided to stay east and make her own way.

  The deaths of her parents had been devastating, of course, but they had also given Grace’s life a strange sense of urgency. There is a left-behind poignancy for the living. Those deaths added amplification to the mundane. She wanted to jam in the memories, get her fill of the life moments and—morbid as it sounds—make sure her kids had plenty to remember her by when she too was no more.

  It was at that moment—thinking about her own parents, thinking about how much older Emma and Max looked now than in last year’s apple-picking photo shoot—when she stumbled across the bizarre photograph.

  Grace frowned.

  The picture was near the middle of the pack. Closer to the back maybe. It was the same size, fitting neatly in with the others, though the backing sheet was somewhat flimsier. Cheaper stock, she thought. Like a high-end office-supply photocopy maybe.

  Grace checked the next picture. No duplicate this time. That was strange. Only one copy of this photograph. She thought about that. The picture must have fallen in somehow, mixed up with another roll.

  Because this photograph did not belong to her.

  It was a mistake. That was the obvious explanation. Think for a moment about the quality workmanship of, say, Fuzz Pellet. He was more than capable of screwing up, right? Of putting the wrong photograph in the middle of her pack?

  That was probably what was going on here.

  Someone else’s photograph had gotten mixed in with hers.

  Or maybe . . .

  The photograph had an old look about it—not that it was black-and-white or antique sepia. Nothing like that. The print was in color, but the hues seemed . . . off somehow—saturated, sun-faded, lacking the vibrancy one would expect in this day and age. The people in it too. Their clothes, their hair, their makeup—all dated. From fifteen, maybe twenty years ago.

  Grace put it down on the table to take a closer look.

  The images in the photograph were all slightly blurred. There were four people—no, wait, one more in the corner—five people in the photograph. There were two men and three women, all in their late teens, early twenties maybe—at least, the ones she could see clearly enough appeared to be around that age.

  College students, Grace thought.

  They had the jeans, the sweatshirts, the unkempt hair, that attitude, the casual stance of budding independence. The picture looked as if it’d been snapped when the subjects were not quite ready, in mid-gather. Some of the heads were turned so you only saw a profile. One dark-haired girl, on the very right edge of the photo, you could only see the back of her head, really, and a denim jacket. Next to her there was another girl, this one with flaming-red hair and eyes spaced wide apart.

  Near the middle, one girl, a blonde, had—God, what the hell was that about?—her face had a giant X across it. Like someone had crossed her out.

  How had this picture . . . ?

  As Grace kept staring, she felt a small ping in the center of her chest. The three women—she didn’t recognize them. The two men looked somewhat alike, same size, same hair, same attitude. The guy on the far left too was not someone she knew.

  She was sure, however, that she recognized the other man. Or boy. He wasn’t really old enough to call a man. Old enough to join the army? Sure. Old enough to be called a man? He was standing in the middle, next to the blonde with the X through her face. . . .

  But it couldn’t be. His head was in mid-turn for one thing. That adolescent-thin beard covered too much of his face. . . .

  Was it her husband?

  Grace bent closer. It was, at best, a profile shot. She hadn’t known Jack when he was this young. They had met thirteen years ago on a beach in the Côte d’Azur in southern France. After more than a year of surgery and physical therapy, Grace was still not all the way back. The headaches and memory loss remained. She had the limp—still has it now—but with all the publicity and attention from that tragic night still suffocating her, Grace had just wanted to get away for a while. She matriculated at the University of Paris, studying art in earnest. It was while on break, lying in the sun on the Côte d’Azur, that she met Jack for the first time.

  Was she sure it was Jack?

  He looked different here, no doubt about it. His hair was a lot longer. He had this beard, though he was still too young and baby-faced for it to come in full. He wore glasses. But there was something in the way he stood, the tilt of his head, the expression.

  This was her husband.

  She quickly sifted through the rest of the roll. There were more hayrides, more apples, more arms raised in mid-pick. She saw one that she’d taken of Jack, the one time he’d let her have the camera, control freak that he was. He was reaching so high, his shirt had moved up enough to show his belly. Emma had told him that it was eeuw, gross. That, of course, made Jack pull up the shirt more. Grace had laughed. “Work it, baby!” she’d said, snapping the next photo. Jack, much to Emma’s ultimate mortification, obliged and undulated.

  “Mom?”

  She turned. “What’s up, Max?”

  “Can I have a granola bar?”

  “Let’s grab one for the car,” she said, rising. “We need to take a ride.”

  • • •

  Fuzz Pellet was not at the Photomat.

  Max checked out the various themed picture frames—“Happy Birthday,” “We Love You, Mom,” that kind of thing. The man behind the counter, resplendent in a polyester tie, pocket protector, and short-sleeve dress shirt flimsy enough to see the V-neck tee beneath it, wore a name tag that informed one and all that he, Bruce, was an assistant manager.

  “May I help you?”

  “I’m looking for the young man who was here a couple of hours ago,” Grace said.

  “Josh is gone for the day. Something I can do for you?”

  “I picked up a roll of film a little before three o’clock. . . .”

  “Yes?”

  Grace had no idea how to put this. “There was a photo in there that shouldn’t have been.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “One of the pictures. I didn’t take it.”

  He gestured toward Max. “I see you have young children.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Assistant Manager Bruce pushed his glasses up off the end of his nose. “I was just pointing out that you have young children. Or at least, one young child.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Sometimes a child picks up the camera. When the parent isn’t looking. They snap a picture or two. Then they put the camera back.”

  “No, it’s not that. This picture had nothing to do with us.”
>
  “I see. Well, I’m sorry for the inconvenience. Did you get all the photos you took?”

  “I think so.”

  “None were missing?”

  “I really didn’t check that closely, but I think we got them all.”

  He opened a drawer. “Here. This is a coupon. Your next roll will be developed for free. Three by fives. If you want the four by sixes, there is a small surcharge.”

  Grace ignored his outstretched hand. “The sign on the door says you develop all the pictures on site.”

  “That’s right.” He petted the large machine behind him. “Old Betsy here does the job for us.”

  “So my roll would have been developed here?”

  “Of course.”

  Grace handed him the Photomat envelope. “Could you tell me who developed this roll?”

  “I’m sure it was just an honest error.”

  “I’m not saying it wasn’t. I just want to know who developed my roll.”

  He took a look at the envelope. “May I ask why you want to know?”

  “Was it Josh?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Why did he leave?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I picked up the photos a little before three o’clock. You close at six. It’s nearly five now.”

  “So?”

  “It seems strange that a shift would end between three and six for a store that closes at six.”

  Assistant Manager Bruce straightened up a bit. “Josh had a family emergency.”

  “What kind of emergency?”

  “Look, Miss . . .”—he checked the envelope—“Lawson, I’m sorry for the error and inconvenience. I’m sure a photograph from another set fell into your packet. I can’t recall it happening before, but none of us are perfect. Oh, wait.”

  “What?”

  “May I see the photograph in question please?”

  Grace was afraid he’d want to keep it. “I didn’t bring it,” she lied.

  “What was it a picture of?”

  “A group of people.”

  He nodded. “I see. And were these people naked?”

  “What? No. Why would you ask that?”

  “You seem upset. I assumed that the photograph was in some way offensive.”

  “No, nothing like that. I just need to speak to Josh. Could you tell me his last name or give me a home phone number?”

  “Out of the question. But he’ll be in tomorrow first thing. You can talk to him then.”

  Grace chose not to protest. She thanked the man and left. Might be better anyway, she thought. By driving here she had merely reacted. Check that. She had probably overreacted.

  Jack would be home in a few hours. She would ask him about it then.

  • • •

  Grace had homebound carpool duties for the swim practice. Four girls, ages eight and nine, all delightfully energetic, piled two into the backseat and two into the “way, way” back of the minivan. There was a swirl of giggles, of “Hello, Ms. Lawson,” wet hair, the gentle perfume of both YMCA chlorine and bubble gum, the sound of backpacks being shucked off, of seat belts fastening. No child sat in the front—new safety rules—but despite the chauffeur feel, or maybe because of it, Grace liked doing carpool. It was time spent seeing her child interact with her friends. Children spoke freely during carpool; the driving adult might as well have been in another time zone. A parent could learn much. You could find out who was cool, who was not, who was in, who was out, what teacher was totally rad, what teacher was most assuredly not. You could, if you listened closely enough, decipher where on the pecking order your child was currently perched.

  It was also entertaining as all get-out.

  Jack was working late again, so when they got home, Grace quickly made Max and Emma dinner—veggie chicken nuggets (purportedly healthier and, once dipped in ketchup, the kids can never tell the difference), Tater Tots, and Jolly Green Giant frozen corn. Grace peeled two oranges for dessert. Emma did her homework—too big a load for an eight-year-old, Grace thought. When she had a free second, Grace headed down the hallway and flipped on the computer.

  Grace might not be into digital photography, but she understood the necessity and even advantages of computer graphics and the World Wide Web. There was a site that featured her work, how to buy it, how to commission a portrait. At first, this had hit her as too much like shilling, but as Farley, her agent, reminded her, Michelangelo painted for money and on commission. So did Da Vinci and Raphael and pretty much every great artist the world has ever known. Who was she to be above it?

  Grace scanned in her three favorite apple-picking photos for safekeeping and then, more on a whim than anything else, she decided to scan in the strange photograph too. That done, she started bathing the children. Emma went first. She was just getting out of the tub when Grace heard his keys jangle in the back door.

  “Hey,” Jack called up in a whisper. “Any hot love monkeys up there waiting for their stud muffin?”

  “Children,” she said. “Children are still awake.”

  “Oh.”

  “Care to join us?”

  Jack bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The house shook from the onslaught. He was a big man, six-two, two-ten. She loved the substance of him sleeping beside her, the rise and fall of his chest, the manly smell of him, the soft hairs on his body, the way his arm snaked around her during the night, the feeling of not only intimacy but safety. He made her feel small and protected, and maybe it was un-PC, but she liked that.

  Emma said, “Hi, Daddy.”

  “Hey, Kitten, how was school?”

  “Good.”

  “Still have a crush on that Tony boy?”

  “Eeuw!”

  Satisfied with the reaction, Jack kissed Grace on the cheek. Max came out of his room, stark naked.

  “Ready for your bath, mah man?” Jack asked.

  “Ready,” Max said.

  They high-fived. Jack scooped Max up in a sea of giggles. Grace helped Emma get in her pajamas. Laughter spilled from the bath. Jack was singing a rhyming song with Max where some girl named Jenny Jenkins couldn’t decide what color to wear. Jack would start off with the color and Max filled in the rhyme line. Right now they were singing that Jenny Jenkins couldn’t wear “yellow” because she’d look like a “fellow.” Then they both cracked up anew. They did pretty much the same rhymes every night. And they laughed their asses off over them every night.

  Jack toweled Max off, got him into his pajamas, and put him to bed. He read two chapters of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Max listened to every word, totally riveted. Emma was old enough to read by herself. She lay in her bed, devouring the latest tale of the Baudelaire orphans from Lemony Snicket. Grace sat with her and sketched for half an hour. This was her favorite time of the day—working in silence in the same room as her eldest child.

  When Jack finished, Max begged for just one more page. Jack stayed firm. It was getting late, he said. Max grudgingly acquiesced. They talked for another moment or two about Charlie’s impending visit to Willy Wonka’s factory. Grace listened in.

  Roald Dahl, both her men agreed, totally rocked.

  Jack turned down the lights—they had a dimmer switch because Max didn’t like complete darkness—and then he entered into Emma’s room. He bent down to give Emma a kiss good night. Emma, a total Daddy’s Girl, reached up, grabbed his neck, and wouldn’t let him go. Jack melted at Emma’s nightly technique for both showing affection and stalling going to sleep.

  “Anything new for the journal?” Jack asked.

  Emma nodded. Her backpack was next to her bed. She dug through it and produced her school journal. She turned the pages and handed it to her father.

  “We’re doing poetry,” Emma said. “I started one today.”

  “Cool. Want to read it?”

  Emma’s face was aglow. So was Jack’s. She cleared her throat and began:

  “Basketball, basketball,

  Why are you so round
?

  So perfectly bumpy,

  So amazingly brown.

  Tennis ball, tennis ball,

  Why are you so fizzy,

  When you’re hit with a racket,

  Do you feel kind of dizzy?”

  Grace watched the scene from the doorway. Jack’s hours had gotten bad lately. Most of the time Grace didn’t mind. Quiet moments were becoming scarce. She needed the solace. Loneliness, the precursor to boredom, is conducive to the creative process. That was what artistic meditation was all about—boring yourself to the point where inspiration must emerge if only to preserve your sanity. A writer friend once explained that the best cure for writer’s block was to read a phone book. Bore yourself enough and the Muse will be obligated to push through the most slog-filled of arteries.

  When Emma was done, Jack fell back and said, “Whoa.”

  Emma made the face she makes when she’s proud of herself but doesn’t want to show it. She tucks her lips over and back under her teeth.

  “That was the most brilliant poem I’ve ever heard ever ever,” Jack said.

  Emma gave a head-down shrug. “It’s only the first two verses.”

  “That was the most brilliant first two verses I’ve ever heard ever ever.”

  “I’m going to write a hockey one tomorrow.”

  “Speaking of which . . .”

  Emma sat up. “What?”

  Jack smiled. “I got tickets for the Rangers at the Garden on Saturday.”

  Emma, part of the “jock” group as opposed to the group who worshipped the latest boy band, gave a yippee and reached up for another hug. Jack rolled his eyes and accepted it. They discussed the team’s recent performance and set odds on their chances of beating the Minnesota Wild. A few minutes later, Jack disentangled himself. He told his daughter that he loved her. She told him that she loved him too. Jack started for the door.