Run Away

by Harlan Coben

Strawberry Fields is a triangular-shaped area off Seventy-Second Street and Central Park West dedicated to the memory of John Lennon, who was shot and killed across the street. The centerpiece of this memorial is a round mosaic of inlaid stones with a simple caption in the middle: IMAGINE

Pooh-pooh it all you want. Money may not buy happiness, but…well, nonsense. Money, pretty much more than anything else you might be able to control, can conjure up and elevate that elusive ideal we call happiness. Money eases stress. It provides better education, better food, better doctors—some level of peace of mind. Money provides comfort and freedom. Money buys you experiences and conveniences and most of all, money buys you time, which, Simon had realized, was right up there with family and health.

“And I’d like to tongue-bathe Hugh Jackman,” Hester said, “so both of us are going to have to live with a little disappointment.”

He loved her. She loved him. Simple but there you have it. You both have careers and you raise kids and there are victories and

defeats and you just sort of coast along, living your life, the days long, the years short, and then every once in a while, you remember to pull up and look at your partner, your life partner, really look at the one who travels down the lonely road right by your side, and you realize how much you are in this together.

part of the human condition is that all decent people think they are phonies and don’t belong at some point or another.

“Kids don’t come with instruction manuals,” and you quickly learn that your child comes to you hardwired, that in the battle of nature vs nurture, nature kicks complete and total ass—still, when things go wrong, when something this dark invades your child’s soul, you can only wonder where the hell you went wrong.

This part would be a pain in the ass. Cops and egos. Tough recipe. Add in a dollop of territorial bullshit and customary dick swinging plus the rarity

of landing a single murder case let alone a double murder, and Elena expected a shitshow of epic proportions.

That was a fact, a sad one perhaps, but as she kept hearing in this pathetic political climate, facts don’t care about your feelings.

LOVE YOUR PARENTS. WE ARE SO BUSY GROWING UP, WE OFTEN FORGET THEY ARE GROWING OLD.