The Stranger by Harlan Coben Page B

frowned.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œJust one pie?”
    â€œIt’s only the two of you.”
    Ryan did not seem placated.
    â€œIf that’s not enough, there are Chipwiches in the freezer for dessert,” Adam said. “That okay?”
    Grudgingly: “I guess.”
    Adam headed back down the hall and into his bedroom. He sat on the bed and called the pizzeria, adding an order of mozzarella sticks. Feeding teenage boys was like filling a bathtub with a grapefruit spoon. Corinne was always complaining—happily, for the most part—that she had to food shop every other day at the least.
    â€œHey, Dad.”
    Thomas wore a towel around his waist. Water dripped from his hair. He smiled and said, “What’s for dinner?”
    â€œI just ordered you guys pizza.”
    â€œPepperoni?”
    â€œHalf pepperoni, half buffalo chicken.” Adam held up his hand before Thomas could say more. “And an order of mozzarella sticks.”
    Thomas gave his father a thumbs-up. “Nice.”
    â€œYou don’t have to eat it all. Just leave the leftovers in the fridge.”
    Thomas made a confused face. “What is this leftovers of which you speak?”
    Adam shook his head and chuckled. “Did you leave me any hot water?”
    â€œSome.”
    â€œGreat.”
    Adam normally wouldn’t shower and change, but he had time and felt oddly nervous. He showered quickly, managing to stay seconds ahead of the hot water, and shaved away the HomerSimpson five-o’clock shadow. He reached into the back of his cabinet and pulled out an aftershave he knew Corinne liked. He hadn’t worn it in a while. Why he hadn’t worn it recently, he couldn’t say. Why he had chosen to wear it tonight, he couldn’t say either.
    He put on a blue shirt because Corinne used to say that blue worked with his eyes. He felt stupid about that and almost changed, but then he figured, what the hell. When he started out the bedroom door, he turned around and took a long look at this room that had been theirs for so long. The king-size bed was neatly made. There were too many pillows on it—when had people started putting so many pillows on a bed?—but he and Corinne had spent a lot of years here. A simple and insipid thought, but there you go. It was just a room, just a bed.
    Yet a voice in Adam’s head couldn’t help but wonder: Depending on how this dinner went, he and Corinne might never spend another night in here together.
    That was melodramatic, of course. Pure hyperbole. But if hyperbole couldn’t feel free to roam in his head, where could it roam?
    The doorbell rang. No movement from the boys. There never was. They had been trained somehow to never answer the house phone (it wasn’t for them, after all) and to never answer the doorbell (it was usually a delivery guy). As soon as Adam paid and closed the door, the boys clumped down the stairs like runaway Clydesdales. The house shook but held its ground.
    â€œPaper plates okay?” Thomas asked.
    Thomas and Ryan would eat on paper plates exclusively because it meant easier cleanup, but tonight, with the parents away, it was pretty much a given that if he forced real plates on them, they’d be in the sink when he and Corinne came home. Corinnewould then complain to Adam. Adam would then have to scream for the boys to come down and put their plates in the dishwasher. The boys would claim that they were just about to do it—yeah, right—but not to worry because they’d be down and do it when their show was over in five (read: fifteen) minutes. Five (read: fifteen) minutes would pass, and then Corinne would complain to Adam again about how irresponsible the boys were, and he’d shout up to them with a little more anger in his voice.
    The cycles of domesticity.
    â€œPaper plates are fine,” Adam said.
    The two boys attacked the pizza as if they were rehearsing the finale of
The
Day of the