The Stranger by Harlan Coben Page A

needed new blood too.
    â€œSo he keeps talking, about the shiny new Kasselton, how it will make the neighborhood safe and bring people back and all that. Then he comes up with his big pot sweetener. The developer has new senior-living housing in the heights. And then he has the gall to lean across and give me the sad eyes and say, ‘You need to think about Eunice.’”
    â€œWow,” Adam said.
    â€œI know, right? Then he says I should take this deal because thenext one will be worse and they can throw me out. Can they really do that?”
    â€œThey can,” Adam said.
    â€œWe bought this house in 1970 off my GI Bill. Eunice . . . she’s fine, but sometimes her mind isn’t on the track it’s supposed to be. So she gets real scared in strange places. She starts to cry and shake even, but then she gets home, right? She sees this kitchen, she sees her creepy figurines or that rusty old refrigerator, and she’s okay again. Do you understand?”
    â€œI do.”
    â€œCan you help us?”
    Adam leaned back. “Oh yes, I think I can.”
    Rinsky studied him for a few moments, his eyes penetrating. Adam shifted in the chair. He could tell what a great cop he must have been. “You got a funny look on your face, Mr. Price.”
    â€œCall me Adam. What kind of funny look?”
    â€œI’m an old cop, remember?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œI pride myself on reading faces.”
    â€œAnd what are you seeing on mine?” Adam asked.
    â€œThat you’re cooking up a badass, killer idea.”
    â€œI may be,” Adam said. “I think I can end this quickly if you have the stomach for it.”
    The old man smiled. “Do I look like I’m afraid of a fight?”

Chapter 12
    W hen Adam got home at six P.M. , Corinne’s car wasn’t in the driveway.
    He didn’t know whether that surprised him. Corinne was usually home before him, but she probably wisely figured that there might be a scene if they met up at home before their Janice’s Bistro dinner, so it would be best to avoid him. He hung up his coat and placed his briefcase in the corner. The boys’ backpacks and sweatshirts were strewn across the floor, as though they were debris from a plane crash.
    â€œHello?” he shouted. “Thomas? Ryan?”
    No answer. There was a time in this world when that meant something, maybe was even a cause of concern, but with the video games and the headphones and the teenage boys’ constant need to“shower”—was that a euphemism?—any concern was short-lived. He started up the stairs. Sure enough, the shower was running. Probably Thomas. The door to Ryan’s room was closed. Adam gave it a brief knuckle rap but opened without waiting for a response. If the headphones were loud enough, Ryan might never reply; if he just opened it, he felt as though he was completely invading his son’s privacy. The knock-and-open somehow felt like a parentally fair way to handle the dilemma.
    As expected, Ryan was lying in bed with his headphones on, fiddling with his iPhone. He slipped them off and sat up. “Hey.”
    â€œHey.”
    â€œWhat’s for dinner?” Ryan asked.
    â€œGood, thanks. Work was busy, sure, but overall, yeah, I’d say I had an okay day. How about you?”
    Ryan just stared at his father. Ryan often just stared at his father.
    â€œHave you seen your mother?” Adam asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œShe and I are going to Janice’s tonight. You want me to order you two a pizza from Pizzaiola?”
    There are few questions more rhetorical than asking your child whether they want you to order them pizza for dinner. Ryan didn’t even bother with the yes, heading straight to the “Can we get buffalo chicken topping?”
    â€œYour brother likes pepperoni,” Adam said, “so I’ll go half-and-half.”
    Ryan