EDGAR AWARD WINNER • “ What sets Harlan Coben above the crowd are wit and . . . an entertaining plot.”— Los Angeles Times Book Review ONE OF TIME' S 100 BEST MYSTERY AND THRILLER BOOKS OF ALL TIME In novels that crackle with wit and suspense, Harlan Coben has created one of the most fascinating heroes in suspense fiction: the wisecracking, tenderhearted sports agent Myron Bolitar. In this gripping third novel in the acclaimed series, Myron must confront a past that is dead and buried—and more dangerous than ever before. The home is top-notch New Jersey suburban. The living room is Martha Stewart. The basement is Legos—and blood. The signs of a violent struggle. For Myron Bolitar, the disappearance of a man he once competed against is bringing back memories—of the sport he and Greg Downing had both played and the woman they both loved. Now, among the stars, the wannabes, the gamblers, and the groupies, Myron is embarking upon the strange ride of a sports hero gone wrong that just may lead to certain death. Namely, his own. “Brilliant . . . perfect for fans of Sue Grafton, Robert B. Parker, and everyone else.” —Nancy Pickard, author of The Scent of Rain and Lightning “Fast action, snappy dialogue . . . [an] enjoyable read.” — The Toronto Star “Great fun.” —Houston Chronicle Harlan Coben is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of numerous suspense novels, including Don’t Let Go, Home, Fool Me Once, Run Away, The Boy from the Woods, and Win, as well as the multi-award-winning Myron Bolitar series. He has more than seventy-five million copies in print worldwide, he is now published in forty-five languages around the globe, and his books have been #1 bestsellers in more than a dozen countries. Harlan Coben lives in New Jersey. Chapter One Just behave.” “Me?” Myron said. “I’m always a delight.” Myron Bolitar was being led through the corridor of the darkened Meadowlands Arena by Calvin Johnson, the New Jersey Dragons new general manager. Their dress shoes clacked sharply against the tile and echoed through empty Harry M. Stevens food stands, Carvel Ice Cream carts, pretzel vendors, souvenir booths. The smell of sporting-event hot dogs—that sort of rubbery, chemically, yet nostalgically delicious aroma—wafted from the walls. The stillness of the place consumed them; there is nothing more hollow and lifeless than an empty sports arena. Calvin Johnson stopped in front of a door leading to a luxury box. “This may all seem a bit strange,” he said. “Just go with the flow, okay?” “Okay.” Calvin reached for the knob and took a deep breath. “Clip Arnstein, the owner of the Dragons, is in there waiting for us.” “And yet I’m not trembling,” Myron said. Calvin Johnson shook his head. “Just don’t be an ass.” Myron pointed to his chest. “I wore a tie and ?everything.” Calvin Johnson opened the door. The luxury box faced midcourt. Several workers were putting down the basketball floor over the hockey ice. The Devils had played the night before. Tonight was the Dragons’ turn. The box was cozy. Twenty-four cushioned seats. Two tele?vision monitors. To the right was a wood-paneled counter for the food—usually fried chicken, hot dogs, po?tato knishes, sausage and pepper sandwiches, that sort of stuff. To the left was a brass cart with a nicely stocked bar and minifridge. The box also had its own bathroom—this so the corporate high rollers would not have to urinate with the great unwashed. Clip Arnstein faced them, standing. He wore a dark blue suit with a red tie. He was bald with patches of gray over both ears. He was burly, his chest still a barrel after seventy-some-odd years. His large hands had brown spots and fat blue veins like garden hoses. No one spoke. No one moved. Clip glared hard at Myron for several seconds, examining him from head to toe. “Like the tie?” Myron asked. Calvin Johnson shot him a warning glance. The old man made no movement toward them. “How old are you now, Myron?” Interesting opening question. “Thirty-two.” “You playing any ball?” “Some,” Myron said. “You keep in good shape?” “Want me to flex?” “No, that won’t be necessary.” No one offered Myron a seat and no one took one. Of course the only chairs in here were the spectator seats, but it still felt weird to stand in a business setting where you’re supposed to sit. Standing suddenly became difficult. Myron felt antsy. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. He took out a pen and held it, but that didn’t feel right. Too Bob Dole. He stuck his hands in his pockets and stood at a weird angle, like the casual guy in the Sears circular. “Myron, we have an interesting proposition for you,” Clip Arnstein said. “Proposition?” Always the probing interrogatory. “Yes. I was the one who drafted you, you know.” “I know.” “Ten, eleven years ago. When I was with the Celtics.” “I know.” “First round.” “I know all this, Mr. Arnstein.” “You were a hell of a prospect, Myron. You were smart. You had an unbelievab