Harlan Coben Read Online Free

different circles.”
    â€œI see,” he said. “And just so I have it straight, you bought your house four months ago and you hadn’t seen your sister in six months, correct?”
    â€œCorrect.”
    â€œSo your sister has never visited you at your current residence?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    Regan turned to me. “We found a set of Stacy’s fingerprints at your house.”
    I said nothing.
    â€œYou don’t seem surprised, Marc.”
    â€œStacy is an addict. I don’t think she’s capable of shooting me and kidnapping my daughter, but I’ve underestimated how low she could sink before. Did you check her apartment?”
    â€œNo one has seen her since you were shot,” he said.
    I closed my eyes.
    â€œWe don’t think your sister could pull off something like this by herself,” he went on. “She might have had an accomplice—a boyfriend, a dealer, someone who knew your wife was from a wealthy family. Do you have any thoughts?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “So, what, you think this whole thing was a kidnapping plot?”
    Regan started clawing at his soul patch again. Then he gave a small shrug.
    â€œBut they tried to kill us both,” I went on. “How do you collect ransom from dead parents?”
    â€œThey could have been so doped up that they made a mistake,” he said. “Or maybe they thought they could extort money from Tara’s grandfather.”
    â€œSo why haven’t they yet?”
    Regan did not reply. But I knew the answer. The heat, especially afterthe shooting, would be too much for crack-heads. Crack-heads don’t handle conflict well. It is one of the reasons they snort or shoot themselves up in the first place—to escape, to fade away, to avoid, to dive down into the white. The media would be all over this case. The police would be making inquiries. Crack-heads would freak under that kind of pressure. They would flee, abandon everything.
    And they would get rid of all the evidence.
    Â 
    But the ransom demand came two days later.
    Now that I had regained consciousness, my recovery from the gunshot wounds was proceeding with surprising smoothness. It could be that I was focused on getting better or that lying in a quasi-catatonic state for twelve days had given my injuries time to heal. Or it could be that I was suffering from a pain way beyond what the physical could inflict. I would think of Tara and the fear of the unknown would stop my breath. I would think of Monica, of her lying dead, and steel claws would shred me from within.
    I wanted out.
    My body still ached, but I pressed Ruth Heller to release me. Noting that I was proving the adage about doctors making the worst patients, she reluctantly gave me the okay to go home. We agreed that a physical therapist would come by every day. A nurse would pop by periodically, just to be on the safe side.
    On the morning of my departure from St. Elizabeth, my mother was at the house—the former crime scene—getting it “ready” for me, whatever that meant. Oddly enough, I wasn’t afraid to go back there. A house is mortar and brick. I didn’t think the sight of it alone would move me, but maybe I was just blocking.
    Lenny helped me pack and get dressed. He is tall and wiry with a face darkened by a Homer Simpson five-o’clock shadow that pops up six minutes after he shaves. As a child Lenny wore Coke-bottle glasses and too-thick corduroy, even in the summer. His curly hair had a habit of getting outgrown to the point where he’d start resembling a stray poodle. Now he keeps the curls religiously close cropped. He had laser eye surgery two years ago, so the glasses are gone. His suits lean toward the upscale side.
    â€œYou sure you won’t stay with us?” Lenny said.
    â€œYou have four kids,” I reminded him.
    â€œOh yeah, right.” He paused. “Can I stay with you?”
    I tried to