Think Twice (Myron Bolitar, #12)

by Harlan Coben

What’s the harm, right? You ever try edibles?” “No.” “That’s his problem.” That was Myron’s mother, squawk-shouting in the background. This was how they always operated—one parent on the phone, the other shouting color commentary. “Give me the phone, Al.” Then: “Myron?” “Hi, Mom.” “You should get high.” “If you say so.” “Try the stevia strain.” Dad: “Sativa.” “What?” “It’s called sativa. Stevia is an artificial sweetener.”

“Present,” Win said in that haughty prep-school tone as he—to quote the opening lines of the Carly Simon song Win’s entire being emanated—walked into the party like he was walking onto a yacht.

The young agent who looked like a beluga whale leaned forward a little and glared at Win. He spoke for the first time, his voice deeper than Myron expected. Or maybe Myron had expected a high-pitched whale call.

Two minutes later, Myron heard Big Cyndi squeal, a sound that makes children cringe and your cat hide under the couch.

It would be grossly inadequate to call what Big Cyndi gave those she loved merely a “hug.” Big Cyndi’s embraces were all-encompassing, all-consuming, like your entire body was being wrapped up in damp attic insulation.

“You know how this works, Win. We knock on doors and stir the pot and muck things up and hope something rises to the surface.” “Our usual carefully crafted plan, then.” “Correct.”

The screen jerked, and now Myron could see his mother’s face. She wore huge sunglasses that looked like someone had glued two manhole covers together.

We are our mistakes. Sometimes they are the best part of us.

“Nothing ages you faster than someone else’s child.”

“What percentage of your clients do you think commit the crimes of which they are accused?” “Seventy-three percent.” “Pretty specific.” “If I say three out of four, you’d think I was making it up. Seventy-three percent gives the illusion of specificity and thus believability.”

“You have to go back to New York and, I don’t know, catch a serial killer or something.” “Even though you don’t like it.” Terese put her arms around his neck. “You tilt at windmills, my love. I’ve been the beneficiary of that. It’s one of the reasons I love you.” “The other being my prowess in the sack?” “Or your susceptibility to self-delusion.” “Ouch.”

To people outside the area, New Jersey is a mystery; to people inside the area, New Jersey is an enigma.