Harlan Coben - Tell No One; Gone for Good

You race to turn the pages both suspenseful and often surprisingly funny.

People

Myron Bolitar is one of the most engaging heroes in mystery fiction.

Dennis Lehane

Like fellow wisecracking P.I.s Spenser and Elvis Cole, Myron Bolitar is great fun in the best hard-boiled tradition.

Houston Chronicle

Fast-paced and layered with both fun and tenderness Coben [is] a gifted storyteller.

Denver Post

Dont let Cobens wry observations fool you. They gift-wrap keen insights into our society.

Washington Post Book World

Coben has melded sly humor, sophisticated plotting, and solid storytelling with bizarre yet believable characters.

Chicago Tribune

What sets Harlan Coben above the crowd are wit and an entertaining plot.

Los Angeles Times Book Review

TELL NO ONE/GONE FOR GOOD
A Delta Book / February 2008

Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
1745 Broadway
New York, New York 10019

These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved

Tell No One copyright 2001 by Harlan Coben
Gone for Good copyright 2002 by Harlan Coben

Delta is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

eISBN: 978-0-307-49174-9

These titles were originally published individually by Bantam Dell.

www.bantamdell.com

v3.1_r1

In loving memory of my niece
Gabi Coben
19972000
Our wonderful little Myszka

Small said, But what about when we are dead and gone, will you love me then, does love go on?

Large held Small snug as they looked out at the night, at the moon in the dark and the stars shining bright. Small, look at the stars, how they shine and glow, some of the stars died a long time ago. Still they shine in the evening skies, for you see, Small, love like starlight never dies.

Debi Gliori
No Matter What
(Bloomsbury Publishing)

Right then. Before we start, Id like to introduce the band:

editor extraordinaire Beth de Guzman, as well as Susan Corcoran, Sharon Lulek, Nita Taublib, Irwyn Applebaum, and the rest of the prime-time players at Bantam Dell

Lisa Erbach Vance and Aaron Priest, my agents

Anne Armstrong-Coben, M.D., Gene Riehl, Jeffrey Bedford, Gwendolen Gross, Jon Wood, Linda Fairstein, Maggie Griffin, and Nils Lofgren for their insight and encouragement

and Joel Gotler, who pushed and prodded and inspired

T here should have been a dark whisper in the wind. Or maybe a deep chill in the bone. Something. An ethereal song only Elizabeth or I could hear. A tightness in the air. Some textbook premonition. There are misfortunes we almost expect in lifewhat happened to my parents, for exampleand then there are other dark moments, moments of sudden violence, that alter everything. There was my life before the tragedy. There is my life now. The two have painfully little in common.

Elizabeth was quiet for our anniversary drive, but that was hardly unusual. Even as a young girl, shed possessed this unpredictable melancholy streak. Shed go quiet and drift into either deep contemplation or a deep funk, I never knew which. Part of the mystery, I guess, but for the first time, I could feel the chasm between us. Our relationship had survived so much. I wondered if it could survive the truth. Or for that matter, the unspoken lies.

The cars air-conditioning whirred at the blue MAX setting. The day was hot and sticky. Classically August. We crossed the Delaware Water Gap at the Milford Bridge and were welcomed to Pennsylvania by a friendly toll collector. Ten miles later, I spotted the stone sign that read LAKE CHARMAINEPRIVATE . I turned onto the dirt road.

The tires bore down, kicking up dust like an Arabian stampede. Elizabeth flipped off the car stereo. Out of the corner of my eye, I could tell that she was studying my profile. I wondered what she saw, and my heart started fluttering. Two deer nibbled on some leaves on our right. They stopped, looked at us, saw we meant no harm, went back to nibbling. I kept driving and then the lake rose before us. The sun was now in its death throes, bruising the sky a coiling purple and orange. The tops of the trees seemed to be on fire.

I cant believe we still do this, I said.

Youre the one who started it.

Yeah, when I was twelve years old.

Elizabeth let the smile through. She didnt smile often, but when she did, pow, right to my heart.

Its romantic, she insisted.

Its goofy.

I love romance.

You love goofy.

You get laid whenever we do this.

Call me Mr. Romance, I said.

She laughed and took my hand. Come on, Mr. Romance, its getting dark.

Lake Charmaine. My grandfather had come up with that name, which pissed off my grandmother to no end. She wanted it named for her. Her name was Bertha. Lake Bertha. Grandpa wouldnt hear it. Two points for Grandpa.

Some fifty-odd years ago, Lake Charmaine had been the site of a rich-kids summer camp. The owner had gone belly-up and Grandpa bought the entire lake and surrounding acreage on the cheap. Hed fixed up the camp directors house and torn down most of the lakefront buildings. But farther in the woods, where no one went anymore, he left the kids bunks alone to rot. My sister, Linda, and I used to explore them, sifting through their ruins for old treasures, playing hide-and-seek, daring ourselves to seek the Boogeyman we were sure watched and waited. Elizabeth rarely joined us. She liked to know where everything was. Hiding scared her.

When we stepped out of the car, I heard the ghosts. Lots of them here, too many, swirling and battling for my attention. My fathers won out. The lake was hold-your-breath still, but I swore I could still hear Dads howl of delight as he cannonballed off the dock, his knees pressed tightly against his chest, his smile just south of sane, the upcoming splash a virtual tidal wave in the eyes of his only son. Dad liked to land near my sunbathing mothers raft. Shed scold him, but she couldnt hide the laugh.

I blinked and the images were gone. But I remembered how the laugh and the howl and the splash would ripple and echo in the stillness of our lake, and I wondered if ripples and echoes like those ever fully die away, if somewhere in the woods my fathers joyful yelps still bounced quietly off the trees. Silly thought, but there you go.

Memories, you see, hurt. The good ones most of all.

You okay, Beck? Elizabeth asked me.

I turned to her. Im going to get laid, right?

Perv.

She started walking up the path, her head high, her back straight. I watched her for a second, remembering the first time Id seen that walk. I was seven years old, taking my bikethe one with the banana seat and Batman decalfor a plunge down Goodhart Road. Goodhart Road was steep and windy, the perfect thoroughfare for the discriminating Stingray driver. I rode downhill with no hands, feeling pretty much as cool and hip as a seven-year-old possibly could. The wind whipped back my hair and made my eyes water. I spotted the moving van in front of the Ruskins old house, turned andfirst powthere she was, my Elizabeth, walking with that titanium spine, so poised, even then, even as a seven-year-old girl with Mary Janes and a friendship bracelet and too many freckles.