Tell No One

by Harlan Coben

People wonder if I have any regrets. The answer is, only one. I regret that there were moments I wasted doing something other than making Elizabeth happy.

I’m not above making quick judgments based on appearance—or, to use a more politically current term, racial profiling. We all do it. If you cross the street to avoid a gang of black teens, you’re racial profiling; if you don’t cross because you’re afraid you’ll look like a racist, you’re racial profiling; if you see the gang and think nothing whatsoever, you’re from some planet I’ve never visited.

The media, an entity with the collective attention span of a Twinkie-filled two-year-old, immediately focused on this shiny new toy, kicking the old one under the bed.