Found by Harlan Coben Page B

history books are wrong.
    “Are you okay?” I asked her.
    The last time I was in her house, the sandy-haired man with the green eyes burned it to the ground. I had not seen her since.
    “I’m fine,” she said.
    She loomed over me, looking larger and stronger than she had in the past. Maybe that was because she had traded in her tattered, long white nightgown for hospital scrubs. The gray hair that normally flowed down past her shoulders was tied into a bun.
    She made her way toward the front of Spoon’s bed and checked his chart. Her face looked grim.
    “Can’t you do something?” I asked. “He can’t walk.”
    “I’m not a doctor, Mickey.”
    “But can’t you . . . ?”
    “No,” she said. She moved toward Spoon’s head. She reached down and smoothed back his hair. “I’m sorry.”
    “That’s not good enough.”
    “It never is.”
    “It’s our fault,” I said.
    “Perhaps.” She turned toward me. “We save many, but there is always a cost.”
    I gestured toward the bed. “He shouldn’t be the one to pay for it.”
    She almost smiled. “Do you want to lecture me about how life isn’t fair, Mickey?”
    “No, ma’am.” I shifted in the chair. “Where have you been?”
    “That’s not important.” She looked down at Spoon. “He’s meant for great things, you know.”
    “So he’s going to be okay?”
    “I didn’t say that.” She turned toward me. “My house is gone.”
    “The paramedic. He burned it down.”
    “I know.”
    “He tried to kill me.”
    She didn’t respond to that.
    “I still don’t understand.” I opened up the drawer next to Spoon’s bed and pulled out the old black-and-white picture. “Why did you give me this?”
    She didn’t respond to that either.
    “You told me that it’s the Butcher of Lodz from World War Two,” I said, trying to control my anger. “But that’s not who it is at all. I mean, the body is, I guess. But the face . . . that’s the paramedic who told me that my dad was dead. Why did you give this to me?”
    “The Butcher of Lodz killed my family,” she said.
    “I know.”
    “This man,” she said. “He is your Butcher.”
    I shook my head. “So he’s, what, my enemy?”
    She said nothing.
    “And I still don’t get why you put his face on this body.”
    “It was,” she said, “a test.”
    “How so?”
    “I wanted to see your reaction. I needed to see if you were on our side. Or his.”
    “Wait, you’re not making any sense. Who is he?”
    “The last time you were in my house, you went upstairs, yes?”
    I nodded.
    “You saw the Hall of the Rescued.”
    “Is that what you call it?”
    “You saw it?”
    I had seen it. When I went up the stairs of the old house, the hallway had been blanketed with pictures of children and teenagers. Hundreds, thousands, maybe tens of thousands. They’d been everywhere, crawling up both walls, clinging to the ceiling. There were layers upon layers of them. Some were black and white. Some were color. There were so many of them, you couldn’t find the walls or the ceiling.
    Only photographs of the children.
    Missing children. Check that: rescued children.
    “The pictures were burned in the fire,” I said.
    “I know.”
    “I still don’t get it,” I said. “What do the pictures have to do with the guy?”
    “If you’d had the chance to study the hall closer,” she said, “you might have found a photograph of a sandy-haired little boy with green eyes.”
    I frowned. “He was one of the children you rescued?”
    “Not me,” she said.
    “Then who?”
    She just looked at me.
    “My father?”
    She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
    “My father rescued this guy?” I opened my mouth but no words came out. I closed it and then tried again. “But now he’s my enemy?”
    “He is,” she said slowly, “worse than that.”
    “He set the fire. It nearly killed me.”
    Again she just stood there.
    “Did he kill my father?”
    “I don’t know. You said he was