Live Wire

254 Pages·2010·0.89 MB·English

by  Coben Harlan

Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY HARLAN COBEN
Play Dead
Miracle Cure
Deal Breaker
Drop Shot
Fade Away
Back Spin
One False Move
The Final Detail
Darkest Fear
Tell No One
Gone for Good
No Second Chance
Just One Look
The Innocent
Promise Me
The Woods
Hold Tight
Long Lost
Caught
DUTTON
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Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First printing, March 2011
Copyright (c) 2011 by Harlan Coben All rights reserved
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eISBN : 978-1-101-47616-1
Set in Sabon
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For Anne, because the best is yet to come
1
The ugliest truth, a friend once told Myron, is still better than the prettiest of
lies.
Myron thought about that now as he looked down at his father in the hospital
bed. He flashed back sixteen years, to the last time he had lied to his father, the
lie that caused so much heartbreak and devastation, a lie that started a tragic
ripple that, finally, disastrously, would end here.
His father's eyes remained closed, his breathing raspy and uneven. Tubes
seemed to snake out from everywhere. Myron stared down at his father's
forearm. He remembered as a child visiting his dad in that Newark warehouse,
the way his father sat at his oversized desk, his sleeves rolled up. The forearm
had been powerful enough back then to strain the fabric, making the cuff work
tourniquet-like against the muscle. Now the muscle looked spongy, deflated by
age. The barrel chest that had made Myron feel so safe was still there, but it had
grown brittle, as though a hand pressing down could snap the rib cage like dried
twigs. His father's unshaven face had gray splotches instead of his customary
five o'clock shadow, the skin around his chin loose, sagging down like a cloak
one size too big.
Myron's mother--Al Bolitar's wife for the past forty-three years--sat next to
the bed. Her hand, shaking with Parkinson's, held his. She too looked shockingly
frail. In her youth, his mother had been an early feminist, burning her bra with
Gloria Steinem, wearing T-shirts that read stuff like "A Woman's Place Is in the
House . . . and Senate." Now, here they both were, Ellen and Al Bolitar ("We're
El-Al," Mom always joked, "like the Israeli airline") ravaged by age, hanging on,
luckier by far than the vast majority of aging lovers--and yet this was what luck
looked like in the end.
God has some sense of humor.
"So," Mom said to Myron in a low voice. "We agree?"
Myron did not reply. The prettiest of lies versus the ugliest truth. Myron
should have learned his lesson back then, sixteen years ago, with that last lie to
this great man he loved like no other. But, no, it wasn't so simple. The ugliest
truth could be devastating. It could rock a world.
Or even kill.
So as his father's eyes fluttered open, as this man Myron treasured like no
other looked up at his oldest son with pleading, almost childlike confusion,
Myron looked at his mother and slowly nodded. Then he bit back the tears and