“A compelling and original suspense thriller.”— Los Angeles Times “Harlan Coben is the modern master of the hook-and-twist.”—Dan Brown For Dr. David Beck, the loss was shattering. And every day for the past eight years, he has relived the horror of what happened. The gleaming lake. The pale moonlight. The piercing screams. The night his wife was taken. The last night he saw her alive. Everyone tells him it’s time to move on, to forget the past once and for all. But for David Beck, there can be no closure. A message has appeared on his computer, a phrase only he and his dead wife know. Suddenly Beck is taunted with the impossible—that somewhere, somehow, his wife is alive . . . and he’s been warned to tell no one. “Harlan Coben's Tell No One begins at a run and in no time is moving at an all-out sprint. . . . The characters are engaging and the strange goings-on will leave readers rapidly turning pages in search of fresh clues. . . . [Coben] writes with wit and a shrewd sense of plotting.” — San Francisco Chronicle “Fifteen pages into this book, you're sucked in and Coben never lets the pace stall. . . . If it takes more than two days to finish this one, you're working too many hours. A hot summer rush.” — Detroit News “Compelling, cinematic . . . with surprises in store for the reader until the very last page . . . [readers will] savor every clue, every detail.” — USA Today “Coben knows how to move pages, and he generates considerable suspense.” — Publishers Weekly “A gloriously exciting yarn . . . A quest for answers that will have you burning the midnight oil till 3:00 a.m.” — Kirkus Reviews “ Tell No One is such a terrific thriller, you'll want to tell everyone! Harlan Coben delivers the near-impossible—a can't-put-it-down page-turner with a slam-bang surprise ending. You'll read this book in one breathless gulp!” —Lisa Scottoline, New York Times bestselling author of Moment of Truth “Suspense at its finest.” —Jeffery Deaver “Non-stop action with plot twists galore.” —Phillip Margolin “A thriller of runaway tension.” —Iris Johansen With more than seventy million books in print worldwide,  Harlan Coben  is the #1  New York Times  bestselling author of more than thirty novels, including the Myron Bolitar series and a series aimed at young adults featuring Myron's nephew, Mickey Bolitar. His books are published in forty-three languages around the globe and have been number one bestsellers in more than a dozen countries. The winner of the Edgar, Shamus, and Anthony Awards, he lives in New Jersey. Eight Years Later Another girl was about to break my heart. She had brown eyes and kinky hair and a toothy smile. She also had braces and was fourteen years old and— "Are you pregnant?" I asked. "Yeah, Dr. Beck." I managed not to close my eyes. This was not the first time I'd seen a pregnant teen. Not even the first time today. I've been a pediatrician at this Washington Heights clinic since I finished my residency at nearby Columbia-Presbyterian Medical Center five years ago. We serve a Medicaid (read: poor) population with general family health care, including obstetrics, internal medicine, and, of course, pediatrics. Many people believe this makes me a bleeding-heart do-gooder. It doesn't. I like being a pediatrician. I don't particularly like doing it out in the suburbs with soccer moms and manicured dads and, well, people like me. "What do you plan on doing?" I asked. "Me and Terrell. We're real happy, Dr. Beck." "How old is Terrell?" "Sixteen." She looked up at me, happy and smiling. Again I managed not to close my eyes. The thing that always surprises me—always—is that most of these pregnancies are not accidental. These babies want to have babies. No one gets that. They talk about birth control and abstinence and that's all fine and good, but the truth is, their cool friends are having babies and their friends are getting all kinds of attention and so, hey, Terrell, why not us? "He loves me," this fourteen-year-old told me. "Have you told your mother?" "Not yet." She squirmed and looked almost all her fourteen years. "I was hoping you could tell her with me." I nodded. "Sure." I've learned not to judge. I listen. I empathize. When I was a resident, I would lecture. I would look down from on high and bestow upon patients the knowledge of how self-destructive their behavior was. But on a cold Manhattan afternoon, a weary seventeen-year-old girl who was having her third kid with a third father looked me straight in the eye and spoke an indisputable truth: "You don't know my life." It shut me up. So I listen now. I stopped playing Benevolent White Man and became a better doctor. I will give this fourteen-year-old and her baby the absolute best care possible. I won't tell her that Terrell will never stay, that she's just cut her future off at the pass, that if she is like most of the patients here, she'll be in a similar state with at least two more men bef