“Your father lost it. He called Stagger. Told him that they had to find this guy.”
“Aqua?”
“Yes. Your father didn’t know we were roommates, did he?”
Kat had seen no reason to tell him.
“It was late. I don’t know. Two, three in the morning. I was downstairs in the laundry room. Your father broke in. I came back up. . . .”
“And what happened, Jeff?”
“Your father was just beating on him. Aqua’s face . . . he was a mess. His eyes were closed. Your dad was straddling his chest, just whaling on him. I shouted for him to stop. But he wouldn’t listen. He just kept . . .” Jeff shook his head. “I thought maybe Aqua was already dead.”
Kat remembered now that Aqua had been hospitalized after her father’s death. She’d figured he had been admitted for psychiatric help, but now she realized that he had been dealing with other problems as well. He would eventually recover from the physical injuries, but the truth was, Aqua’s mental health had never recovered. There had been psychotic episodes before. But after that night, after her father had beaten him . . .
It was why Aqua kept saying it was his fault. It was why he blamed himself for the breakup, why he wanted to return the debt and protect Jeff, even going so far as to attack Brandon.
“I jumped on top of him,” Jeff said. “We fought. He knocked me over. I was on the floor. He stood up and kicked me in the stomach. I grabbed his boot. He started to reach into his holster. Aqua regained consciousness and tackled him. I still him had by the boot.” Jeff looked off now, his eyes twisted in pain. “And then I remembered you telling me that he always kept a weapon there, a throw-down gun.”
Kat started shaking her head no.
“He was reaching into his holster again. I told him to stop. But he just wouldn’t listen. So I reached into his boot and grabbed his spare gun. . . .”
Kat just sat there.
“Stagger heard the shot. Your dad told him to be a lookout or something. He rushed in. He was panicked. His career, at the very least, was on the line. We would all go to jail, he said. No one would believe us.”
She found her voice. “So you covered it up.”
“Yes.”
“And then you just pretended that nothing happened.”
“I tried to.”
Despite it all, a smile came to her lips. “You’re not like my dad, are you, Jeff?”
“What do you mean?”
“He could live with the lies.” One tear slid down her face. “You couldn’t.”
Jeff said nothing.
“That was why you left me. You couldn’t tell me the truth. And you couldn’t face me with that lie for the rest of your life.”
He didn’t respond. She knew the rest now. Jeff had run away and started what he had called his self-destructive stage. He got into the fight at that bar. Once he was booked, once his fingerprints had finally gotten a hit, they showed up in the homicide file. Stagger had covered it up, but that might not last forever. Stagger had probably gone to Cincinnati then, explained to Jeff that he had to hide, that if anyone ever looked for him, he couldn’t be around.
“Did Stagger help you get the Ron Kochman identity?”
“Yes.”
“So you ended up living a lie anyway.”
“No, Kat,” he said. “It was just a different name.”
“But now you are, right?”
Jeff said nothing.
“These past weeks with me, you’ve been living with the lie. So what were you going to do, Jeff? Now that we’re back together, what was your plan?”
“I didn’t have one,” he said. “At first, I just wanted to be with you. I didn’t care about anything else. You know?”
She did know, but she didn’t want to hear it.
“But after a while,” he said, “I started to wonder.”
“Wonder what?”
“Would it better to live a lie with you or a truth without you?”
She swallowed. “Did you ever come up with an answer?”
“No,” Jeff said. “But now I’ll never have to. The truth is out. The lies are gone.”
“Just like that?”
“No, Kat. Nothing with us is ever ‘just like that.’”
He moved toward the bed and sat next to her. He didn’t try to embrace her. He didn’t try to get too close. She didn’t move toward him either. They just sat there, staring at the wall, letting it all rush over them—the lies and secrets, the death and murder and blood, the years of heartbreak and loneliness. Finally, his hand moved toward hers. Her hand closed the gap, covered his. For a very long time, they both stayed like that, frozen, touching, almost afraid to breathe. And somewhere, maybe on a car radio driving by, maybe just in her head, Kat could hear someone singing, “I ain’t missing you at all.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author wishes to acknowledge the following in no particular order because he can’t remember exactly who helped with what: Ray Clarke, Jay Louis, Ben Sevier, Brian Tart, Christine Ball, Jamie McDonald, Laura Bradford, Michael Smith (yes, “Demon Lover” is a real song), Diane Discepolo, Linda Fairstein, and Lisa Erbach Vance. Any mistakes are theirs. Hey, they’re the experts. Why should I take all the heat?
If I accidentally left your name off this list, just let me know and I’ll throw you in the next book’s acknowledgments. You know how forgetful I am.
I’d also like to give a quick shout-out to: Asghar Chuback Michael Craig John Glass
Parnell Hall Chris Harrop Keith Inchierca Ron Kochman Clemente “Clem” Sison Steve Schrader Joe Schwartz Stephen Singer Sylvia Steiner These people (or their loved ones) made generous contributions to charities of my choosing in return for having their names appear in this novel. If you’d like to participate in the future, visit www.HarlanCoben.com or e-mail [email protected] for details.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
HARLAN COBEN is the internationally bestselling author of more than twenty previous novels, including the #1 New York Times bestsellers Six Years, Stay Close, Live Wire, Caught, Long Lost, and Hold Tight as well as the Myron Bolitar series and, more recently, a series aimed at young adults, featuring Myron’s nephew, Mickey Bolitar. The winner of the Edgar, Shamus, and Anthony awards, he lives in New Jersey.
In 1864, E. P. Dutton & Co. bought the famous Old Corner Bookstore and its publishing division from Ticknor and Fields and began their storied publishing career. Mr. Edward Payson Dutton and his partner, Mr. Lemuel Ide, had started the company in Boston, Massachusetts, as a bookseller in 1852. Dutton expanded to New York City, and in 1869 opened both a bookstore and publishing house at 713 Broadway. In 2014, Dutton celebrates 150 years of publishing excellence. We have redesigned our longtime logotype to reflect the simple design of those earliest published books. For more information on the history of Dutton and its books and authors, please visit www.penguin.com/dutton.