Three Harlan Coben Novels by Harlan Coben

that.”
    “So I needed to push past it.”
    “And?”
    “And that’s it.”
    Rex shook his head and smiled.
    “What?”
    “Next time,” Rex said. He picked up his fork. “You’ll tell me next time.”
    “You’re a pain in the ass.”
    “But you love me, remember?”
    By the time they finished dinner and drinks, it was late. Drinking for a second night in a row. Myron Bolitar, lush of the stars. He made sure that Rex was safely back in his residence before heading to his parents’ condo. He had a key. He slipped it in quietly so as to not awaken Mom and Dad. He knew that it would do no good.
    The TV was on. His father sat in the living room. When Myron entered, Dad faked like he was just waking up. He wasn’t. Dad always stayed awake until Myron came home. Didn’t matter what time Myron returned. Didn’t matter that Myron was now in his fourth decade.
    Myron came up behind his father’s chair. Dad turned around and gave him the smile, the one he saved only for Myron, the one that told Myron that he was the single greatest creation in this man’s eyes and how could you beat that?
    “Have fun?”
    “Rex is a pretty cool guy,” Myron said.
    “I used to like his movies.” His father nodded a few times too many. “Sit for a second.”
    “What’s up?”
    “Just sit, okay?”
    He did. Myron folded his hands and put them in his lap. Like he was eight. “Is this about Mom?”
    “No.”
    “Her Parkinson’s is getting worse.”
    “That’s how it is with Parkinson’s, Myron. It gets worse.”
    “Is there anything I can do?”
    “No.”
    “I think I should say something, at least.”
    “Don’t. It’s better. And what would you say that your mother doesn’t already know?”
    Now it was Myron’s turn to nod a few times too many. “So what do you want to talk about?”
    “Nothing. I mean, your mother wants us to have a heart-to-heart.”
    “What about?”
    “Today’s New York Times .”
    “Excuse me?”
    “There was something in it. Your mother thinks you’ll be upset and that we should talk. But I don’t think I’m going to do that. I think what I’m going to do instead is hand you the newspaper and let you read it for yourself and leave you alone for a while. If you want to talk, you come and get me, okay? If not, I’ll give you your space.”
    Myron frowned. “Something in The New York Times ?”
    “Sunday Styles section.” Dad stood and pointed with his chin toward the pile of Sunday papers. “Page sixteen. Good night, Myron.”
    “Good night, Dad.”
    His father moved down the hall. No need to tiptoe. Mom could sleep through a Judas Priest concert. Dad was the night watchman, Mom the sleepy princess. Myron stood. He picked up the Sunday Styles section, turned to page sixteen, saw the photo, and felt the stiletto pierce his heart.
    The New York Times Sunday Styles was upscale gossip. The most well-read pages were for wedding announcements. And there, on page sixteen, in the top left-hand corner, was a photograph of a man with Ken-doll good looks and teeth that were too perfect to be capped. He had a Republican senator’s cleft chin, and his name was Stone Norman. The article said Stone ran and operated the BMV Investment Group, a highly successful financial enterprise specializing in major institutional trades.
    Snore.
    The engagement announcement said that Stone Norman and his wife-to-be would be married next Saturday at Tavern on the Green in Manhattan. A reverend would preside over the ceremony. Then the newlyweds would begin their lives together in Scarsdale, New York.
    More snore. Stone Snore.
    But none of that was what had pierced his heart. No, what did that, what really hurt and made the knees buckle, was the woman ol’ Stone was marrying, the one smiling with him in that photograph, a smile Myron still knew far too well.
    For a moment Myron just stared. He reached out and brushed the bride-to-be’s face with his finger. Her biography stated that she was a best-selling