by Harlan Coben
“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.”
3
“You 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.”
“I want some answers first. I’m entitled to that much.”
She hesitated, looked like she might argue, then nodded wearily. “If it’ll help you get past this—”
“Get past this? Like it’s a kidney stone or something?”
“I’m too tired to fight with you,” she said. “Just go on. Ask your questions.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before now.”
Her eyes drifted over his shoulder. “I almost did,” she said. “Once.”
“When?”
“Do you remember when you came to the house? When Greg first vanished?”
He nodded. He had just been thinking about that day.
“You were looking out the window at him. He was in the yard with his sister.”
“I remember,” Myron said.
“Greg and I were going through that nasty custody battle.”
“You accused him of abusing the children.”
“It wasn’t true. You realized that right away. It was just a legal ploy.”
“Some ploy,” Myron said. “Next time accuse him of war atrocities.”
“Who are you to judge me?”
“Actually,” Myron said, “I think I’m just the person.”
Emily pinned him with her eyes. “Custody battles are war without the Geneva Accords,” she said. “Greg got nasty. I got nasty back. You do whatever you have to in order to win.”
“And that includes revealing that Greg wasn’t Jeremy’s father?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I won custody anyway.”
“That’s not an answer. You hated Greg.”
“Yes.”
“Still do?” he asked.
“Yes.” No hesitation.
“So why didn’t you tell him?”
“Because as much as I loathe Greg,” she said, “I love Jeremy more. I could hurt Greg. I’d probably enjoy it. But I couldn’t do that to my son—take away his father like that.”
“I thought you’d do anything to win.”
“I’d do anything to Greg,” she said, “not Jeremy.”
It made sense, he guessed, but he suspected she was holding something back. “So you kept this secret for thirteen years.”
“Yes.”
“Do your parents know?”
“No.”
“You never told anyone?”
“Never.”
“So why are you telling me now?”
Emily shook her head. “Are you being purposely dense, Myron?”
He put his hands on the table. They weren’t shaking. Somehow he understood that these questions came from more than mere curiosity; they were part of the defense mechanism, the internal barbed wire and moat he’d lavishly built to keep Emily’s revelation from reaching him. He knew that what she was telling him was life altering in a way nothing he’d ever heard before was. The words my son kept floating through his subconscious. But they were just words right now. They’d get through eventually, he guessed, but for now the barbed wire and moat were holding.
“You think I wanted to tell you? I practically begged you to help, but you wouldn’t listen. I’m desperate here.”
“Desperate enough to lie?”
“Yes,” she said, again with no hesitation. “But I’m not, Myron. You have to believe that.”
He shrugged. “Maybe someone else is Jeremy’s father.”
“Excuse me?”
“A third party,” he said. “You slept with me the night before your wedding. I doubt I was the only one. Could be one of a dozen guys.”
She looked at him. “You want your pound of flesh, Myron? Go ahead, I can take it. But this isn’t like you.”
“You know me that well, huh?”
“Even when you got angry—even when you had every right to hate me—you’ve never been cruel. It’s not your way.”
“We’re in uncharted waters here, Emily.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said.
He felt something well up, making it hard to breathe. He grabbed his mug, looked into it as though it might have an answer on the bottom, put it back down. He couldn’t look at her. “How could you do this to me?”
Emily reached ac
ross the table and put her hand on his forearm. “I’m sorry,” she said.
He pulled away.
“I don’t know what else to say. You asked before why I never told you. My main concern was always Jeremy’s welfare, but you were a consideration too.”
“Bull.”
“I know how you are, Myron. I know you can’t just shrug this off. But for now you have to. You have to find the donor and save Jeremy’s life. We can worry about the rest after that.”
“How long has”—he almost said my son—“Jeremy been ill?”
“We learned about it six months ago. When he was playing basketball. He started getting bruised too easily. Then he was short of breath for no reason. He started falling down …” Her voice tailed off.
“Is he in the hospital?”
“No. He lives at home and goes to school and he looks fine, just a little pale. But he can’t play competitive sports or anything like that. He seems to be doing well, but … it’s just a matter of time. He’s so anemic and his marrow cells are so weak that something will get him. Either he’ll contract a life-threatening infection or if he manages to get past that, malignancies will eventually develop. We treat him with hormones. That helps, but it’s a temporary treatment, not a cure.”
“And a bone marrow transplant would be a cure?”
“Yes.” Her face brightened with an almost religious fervor. “If the transplant takes, he can be completely cured. I’ve seen it happen with other kids.”
Myron nodded, sat back, crossed his legs, uncrossed them. “Can I meet him?”
She looked down. The sound of the blender, probably making a frappuccino, exploded while the espresso maker shrieked its familiar mating call to the various lattes. Emily waited for the noise to die down. “I can’t stop you. But I’m hoping you’ll do the right thing here.”
“That being?”
“It’s hard enough being thirteen years old and almost terminally ill. Do you really want to take away his father too?”
Myron said nothing.
“I know you’re in shock right now. And I know you have a million more questions. But you have to forget that for now. You have to work through your confusion, your anger, everything. The life of a thirteen-year-old boy—our son—is at stake. Concentrate on that, Myron. Find the donor, okay?”
He looked back toward the soccer moms, still cooing about their children. Listening to them, he felt an overwhelming pang.
