Harlan Coben - Fool Me Once

T hey buried Joe three days after his murder.

Maya wore black, as befitted a grieving widow. The sun pounded down with an unflagging fury that reminded her of her months in the desert. The family pastor spouted the clichs, but Maya wasnt listening. Her eyes drifted to the schoolyard across the street.

Yes, the cemetery overlooked an elementary school.

Maya had driven past here countless times, the graveyard on the left, the elementary school on her right, and yet the strangeness, if not obscenity, of the placement had never really registered with her before. Which came first, she wondered, the schoolyard or the cemetery? Whod been the one to decide to build a school next to a cemeteryor vice versa? Did it even matter, this life-ending and life-beginning juxtaposition, or was it, in fact, somewhat poignant? Death is so close, always, a breath away, so perhaps it was wise to introduce children to that concept at an early age.

Maya filled her head with inanities like this as she watched Joes casket disappear into the earth. Distract yourself. That was the key. Get through it.

The black dress itched. Over the past decade, Maya had been to a hundred-plus funerals, but this was the first time shed been obligated to wear black. She hated it.

To her right, Joes immediate familyhis mother, Judith; his brother Neil; his sister, Carolinewilted from the combination of high temperatures and deep sorrow. To her left, getting antsy and starting to use Mayas arm as a rope swing, was her (and Joes) two-year-old daughter, Lily. The parenting clich states that children do not come with instruction manuals. That never seemed more true than today. What, Maya had wondered, was the proper etiquette for a situation like this? Do you leave your two-year-old daughter at homeor do you take her to her fathers funeral? That was an issue that they didnt cover on those know-it-all, one-size-fits-all mommy websites. In a fit of pity-anger, Maya had almost posted that question online: Hi, Everyone! My husband was recently murdered. Should I bring my two-year-old daughter to the graveyard or leave her home? Oh, and clothing suggestions? Thanks!

There were hundreds of people at the funeral, and in some dimly lit corner of her brain, she realized that this would have pleased Joe. Joe liked people. People liked Joe. But of course, popularity alone wouldnt explain the crowd. Mourners had been drawn in by the horrible lure of being near the tragic: a young man gunned down in cold blood, the charming scion of the wealthy Burkett familyand the husband of a woman mired in an international scandal.

Lily wrapped both arms around her mothers leg. Maya bent down and whispered, Not much longer, sweetheart, okay?

Lily nodded but held on even tighter.

Maya stood back at attention, smoothing the itchy black dress shed borrowed from Eileen with both hands. Joe would not have wanted her in black. Hed always preferred her in the military formals shed worn back in the days when shed been Army Captain Maya Stern. When theyd first met at a Burkett family charity gala, Joe had walked straight up to her in his tails, given her the rakish smile (Maya hadnt understood the term rakish until she saw that smile), and said, Wow, I thought the turn-on was supposed to be men in uniform.

It was a lame pickup line, just lame enough to make her laugh, which was all the opening a guy like Joe needed. Man, he was so damn handsome. The memory, even now, even standing in this stifling humidity with his dead body feet away, made her smile. A year later, Maya and Joe were married. Lily came not long after that. And now, as though someone had fast-forwarded a life-together tape, here she was, burying her husband and the father of her only child.

All love stories, Mayas father had told her many years ago, end in tragedy.

Maya had shaken her head and said, God, Dad, thats grim.

Yes, but think about it: You either fall out of love, or, if youre really one of the lucky ones, you live long enough to watch your soul mate die.

Maya could still see her father sitting across from her at the kitchen table of yellowing Formica laminate in their Brooklyn town house. Dad wore his customary cardigan sweater (all professions, not just those in the military, wear uniforms of some kind or another), surrounded by the college essays hed have to grade. He and Mom had died years ago, within months of each other, but in truth, it was still hard for Maya to know which category of tragedy their love story fell into.

As the pastor prattled on, Judith Burkett, Joes mother, took hold of Mayas hand in the death grip of the grieving.

This, the old woman mumbled, is even worse.

Maya didnt ask for clarification. She didnt have to. This was the second time Judith Burkett had been forced to bury a child, two of her three sons now gone, one supposedly by tragic accident, one by murder. Maya glanced down at her own child, at the top of Lilys head, and wondered how a mother could live with such pain.

As if she knew what Maya was thinking, the old woman whispered, Itll never be okay, her simple words cutting through the air like a reapers scythe. Never.

Its my fault, Maya said.

She hadnt meant to say it. Judith looked up at her.

I should have...

There was nothing you could have done, Judith said. But there was still something off in the tone. Maya understood, because others were probably thinking the same thing. Maya Stern had saved so many in the past. Why couldnt she have saved her own husband?

Ashes to ashes...

Wow, did the pastor really trot out that hackneyed chestnut or had Maya imagined it? She hadnt been paying attention. She never did at funerals. She had been around death too many times not to understand the secret to getting through them: Go numb. Dont focus on anything. Let all sounds and sights blur to the point of being unrecognizable.