Three Harlan Coben Novels by Harlan Coben

the economy is so bad, why are there so many cars? The lot’s full! Look at them all.”
    Myron’s mother and father were currently ensconced in a gated community outside of Boca Raton. Dad had finally sold the warehouse in Newark and now spent his days marveling at what most people had been doing for years: “Myron, have you been to a Staples? My God, they have every kind of pen and paper there. And the price clubs. Don’t even get me started. I bought eighteen screwdrivers for less than ten dollars. We go, we buy so much stuff, I always tell the man at the checkout counter, I say—oh, he laughs at this, Myron—I always say, ‘I just saved so much money, I’m going bankrupt.’ ”
    Myron cast a glance at Aimee. He remembered his own teenage years, the war that is adolescence, and thought about how many times he’d deceived his own parents. He’d been a good kid. He never got in trouble, got good grades, was lofted high because of his basketball skills, but he’d hidden stuff from his parents. All kids do. Maybe it was healthy. The kids who are watched all the time, who are under constant parental surveillance—those were the ones who eventually freaked out. You need an outlet. You have to leave kids room to rebel. If not, the pressure just builds until . . .
    “Take that exit over there,” Aimee said. “Linwood Avenue West.”
    He did as she asked. Myron did not really know this area. New Jersey is a series of hamlets. You only knew yours well. He was an Essex County boy. This was Bergen. He felt out of his element. When they stopped at a traffic light he sighed and leaned back, and used the move to take a good hard look at Aimee.
    She looked young and scared and helpless. Myron thought about that last one for a moment. Helpless. She turned and met his eyes, and there was a challenge there. Was helpless a fair assessment? Stupid as it might be to think about it, how much of a role was sexism playing here? Play the chauvinism card for a moment. If Aimee was a guy, a big high school football jock, for example, would he be this worried?
    The truth was, he was indeed treating her differently because she was a girl.
    Was that right—or was he getting mired in some politically correct nonsense?
    “Take the next right, then a left at the end of the road.”
    He did. Soon they were deep in the tangle of houses. Ridgewoodwas an old albeit large village—tree-lined streets, Victorians, curvy roads, hills and valleys. Jersey geography. The suburbs were puzzle pieces, interconnected, parts jammed into other parts, few smooth boundaries or right angles.
    She led him up a steep road, down another, a left, then a right, then another right. Myron obeyed on autopilot, his thoughts elsewhere. His mind tried to conjure up the right words to say. Aimee had been crying earlier tonight—he was sure of that. She looked somewhat traumatized, but at her age, isn’t everything a trauma? She probably had a fight with her boyfriend, the basement-mentioned Randy. Maybe ol’ Randy dumped her. Guys did that in high school. They got off on breaking hearts. Made them a big man.
    He cleared his throat and aimed for casual: “Are you still dating that Randy?”
    Her reply: “Next left.”
    He took it.
    “The house is over there, on the right.”
    “At the end of the cul-de-sac?”
    “Yes.”
    Myron pulled up to it. The house was hunkered down, totally dark. There were no streetlights. Myron blinked a few times. He was still tired, still more foggy-brained than he should be from the earlier festivities. He flashed to Esperanza for a moment, to how lovely she looked, and, selfish as it sounded, he wondered again how this marriage would change things.
    “It doesn’t look like anybody’s home,” he said.
    “Stacy’s probably asleep.” Aimee pulled a key out. “Her bedroom is by the back door. I always just let myself in.”
    Myron shifted into park and turned off the ignition. “I’ll walk with you.”
    “No.”
    “How