The Stranger by Harlan Coben Read Free Book Online Page A

aren’t there at least an hour before game time.”
    “Right,” Adam said. Then, turning back to Corinne, he tried to keep it light. “We can, uh, chitchat later.”
    But Corinne hesitated for half a second—long enough. “Okay, no problem.”
    He stood on the stoop and watched them walk down the path. Corinne hit the minivan’s remote, and the back yawned open like a giant mouth. Thomas tossed his bag into the back and took the front passenger seat. The mouth closed, swallowing the equipment whole. Corinne gave him a wave. He waved back.
    He and Corinne had met in Atlanta during their five-week precorp training for LitWorld, a charitable enterprise that sent teachers to needy parts of the world to teach reading. This was before the days when every kid took a trip to Zambia to build a hut so they could put it on their college applications. For one thing, all of the volunteers had already graduated college. The trainees were sincere, maybe too sincere, but their hearts were in the right place.
    He and Corinne didn’t meet on the Emory University campus where the training took place but in a bar nearby, where students over twenty-one could drink and hit on one another in peace over bad country music. She had been with a group of her female friends, he with a group of males. Adam had been looking for a one-nighter. Corinne had been looking for something more. Thetwo groups met slowly, the guys coming over to the girls like some clichéd dance scene in a bad movie. Adam asked Corinne if he could buy her a drink. She said sure but that wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He bought her the drink anyway with the awesomely clever line that the night was young.
    The drinks came. They started talking. It went well. Somewhere late into the night, not long before closing time, Corinne told him that she had lost her father at a young age, and then Adam, who had never talked about it with anyone, told her the story of his father’s death and how the world hadn’t cared.
    They bonded over their paternal tragedies. And so it began.
    When they were first married, they lived in a quiet condo off Interstate 78. He was still trying to help people as a public defender. She was teaching in the roughest neighborhoods of Newark, New Jersey. When Thomas was born, it was time to move into a proper house. That, it seemed, was just the way it went. Adam hadn’t cared much where they lived. He didn’t care if the house they chose was contemporary or something more classic like this one. He wanted Corinne happy, not so much because he was a great guy but because it didn’t matter to him much. So Corinne had picked this town for obvious reasons.
    Maybe he should have stopped it then, but as a young man, he hadn’t seen the point. He had let her pick this specific house too, because it was what she wanted. The town. The house. The garage. The cars. The boys.
    And what had Adam wanted?
    He didn’t know, but this house—this neighborhood—had been a financial stretch. Adam ended up leaving his job as a public defender for the far higher pay at the Bachmann Simpson Feagles lawfirm. It hadn’t been what he wanted so much as the smooth, well-paved path that men like him simply ended up taking: a safe place to raise his children, a lovely home with four bedrooms, a two-car garage, a basketball hoop in the driveway, a gas grill on the wooden deck overlooking the backyard.
    Nice, right?
    Tripp Evans had wistfully called it “living the dream.” The American dream. Corinne would have concurred.
    “You didn’t have to stay with her. . . .”
    But of course, that wasn’t true. The dream is made of delicate yet invaluable stuff. You don’t casually destroy it. How ungrateful, selfish, and warped to not realize how lucky you are.
    He opened the door and headed into the kitchen. The kitchen table was a mess, done up in Early American Homework. Thomas’s algebra textbook was open to a problem that asked him to complete the square in the