The Stranger by Harlan Coben Page B

you check the basket?”
    “I did.”
    “How about your drawers?”
    “I checked there too.”
    You always see your or your spouse’s flaws in your child. Ryan had Corinne’s anxiety over small matters. Big matters—house payments, illness, destruction, accidents—didn’t bother Corinne. She rose to the occasion. Maybe because she overcompensated by worrying the minor stuff into a ground stump, or maybe, in life, like a great athlete, Corinne was clutch when it mattered.
    Of course, to be fair, this was no small matter to Ryan.
    “Then maybe it’s in the washer or dryer,” Adam said.
    “Already looked.”
    “Then I don’t know what to tell you, kid.”
    “When will Mom be home?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Like at ten?”
    “What part of ‘I don’t know’ is confusing you exactly?”
    There was more snap in his tone than expected. Ryan was also, like his mother, supersensitive.
    “I didn’t mean—”
    “I’ll text Mom.”
    “That’s a good idea. Oh, let me know what she says, okay?”
    Ryan nodded and texted.
    Corinne didn’t reply to him right away. Nor in an hour. Or even two. Adam made up some excuse about her teachers’ conference being extended. The boys bought it because the boys never looked too closely at stuff like that. He promised Ryan that he’d find the uniform before his game.
    Adam was, of course, blocking to some extent. Was Corinne safe? Had something terrible happened to her? Should he go to the police?
    The last part felt foolish. The police would hear about their big fight, see Corinne’s text about letting her be, and shake their heads. And really, when you step back, is it so bizarre that his wife would want a little distance after what Adam had just learned?
    Sleep came in small chunks. Adam constantly checked his phone for texts from Corinne. Nothing. At 3:00 A.M. , he sneaked into Ryan’s room and checked his son’s phone. Nothing. This made no sense. Trying to avoid Adam, okay, he could get that. She might be angry or scared or confused or feeling cornered. It would make sense that she might want to get away from him for a few days.
    But her boys?
    Would Corinne really just up and leave her boys in the lurch like this? Did she expect him to just make excuses?
    . . . 
YOU TAKE CARE OF THE KIDS.
DON’T TRY TO CONTACT ME. . . .
    What was that all about? Why shouldn’t he try to contact her? And what about . . . ?
    He sat up as the sun came through the windows. Hello.
    Corinne could abandon him. She could even want to—he didn’t know—force him to take care of the boys.
    But what about her students?
    She took her teaching responsibilities, like most things that mattered, very seriously. She was also a bit of a control freak and hated the idea of some ill-prepared substitute taking over her class for even a day. Funny now that he thought about it. Over the past four years, Corinne had missed only one day of school.
    The day after her “miscarriage.”
    It had been a Thursday. He had come home late from work to find her crying in bed. When the bad cramping started, she had driven herself to the doctor. It was too late, but in truth, she said, the doctor wouldn’t have been able to do anything anyway. These things happen, the doctor had told her.
    “Why didn’t you call me?” Adam had asked.
    “I didn’t want you to worry or rush home. There was nothing you could do.”
    And he had bought it.
    Corinne had wanted to go to work the next day, but Adam put his foot down. She had gone through something traumatic. You don’t just get up and go to work the next day. He had picked up the phone and handed it to her.
    “Call the school. Tell them you won’t be in.”
    She had reluctantly made the call, informing the school that she would be back by Monday. Adam had thought at the time that this was simply Corinne’s way. Get back to life. Get back to work. No reason to dwell. He had been amazed at the speed of her recovery.
    Man, how naïve could one man