Promise Me by Harlan Coben

were, both of them, at the airport with dark suntans and fresh liver spots. When Myron came down the escalator, Mom ran over and wrapped her arms around her boy as if this were a POW homecoming in 1974. Dad stayed in the background with that satisfied smile. Myron hugged her back. Mom felt smaller. That was how it was down here. Your parents withered and got smaller and darker, like giant shrunken heads.
    Mom said, “Let’s get your luggage.”
    “I have it here.”
    “That’s it? Just that one bag?”
    “I’m only down for a night.”
    “Still.”
    Myron watched her face, checked her hands. When he saw the shake was more pronounced, he felt the thud in his chest.
    “What?” she said.
    “Nothing.”
    Mom shook her head. “You’ve always been the worst liar. Remember that time I walked in on you and Tina Ventura and you said nothing was going on? You think I didn’t know?”
    Junior year of high school. Ask Mom and Dad what they did yesterday, they won’t remember. Ask them about anything from his youth, and it’s like they studied replays at night.
    He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Got me.”
    “Don’t be such a smart guy. And that reminds me.”
    They reached Dad. Myron kissed him on the cheek. He always did. You never outgrow that. The skin felt loose. The smell of Old Spice was still there, but it was fainter than usual. There was something else there, some other smell, and Myron thought it was the smell of the old. They started for the car.
    “Guess who I ran into?” Mom said.
    “Who?”
    “Dotte Derrick. Remember her?”
    “No.”
    “Sure you do. She had that thing, that what-you-call-it, in her yard.”
    “Oh, right. Her. With that thing.”
    He had no idea what she was talking about, but this was easier.
    “So anyway, I saw Dotte the other day and we start talking. She and Bob moved down here four years ago. They have a place in Fort Lauderdale, but Myron, it’s really run-down. I mean, it hasn’t been kept up at all. Al, what’s the name of Dotte’s place? Sunshine Vista, something like that, right?”
    “Who cares?” Dad said.
    “Thanks, Mr. Helpful. Anyway, that’s where Dotte lives. And this place is awful. So run-down. Al, isn’t Dotte’s place run-down?”
    “The point, El,” Dad said. “Get to the point.”
    “I’m getting there, I’m getting there. Where was I?”
    “Dotte Something,” Myron said.
    “Derrick. You remember her, right?”
    “Very well,” Myron said.
    “Right, good. Anyway, Dotte still has cousins up north. The Levines. Do you remember them? No reason you should, forget it. Anyway, one of the cousins lives in Kasselton. You know Kasselton, right? You used to play them in high school—”
    “I know Kasselton.”
    “Don’t get snappy.”
    Dad spread his arms to the sky. “The point, El. Get to the point.”
    “Right, sorry. You’re right. When you’re right, you’re right. So to make a long story short—”
    “No, El, you’ve never made a long story short,” Dad said. “Oh, you’ve made plenty of short stories long. But never, ever, have you made a long story short.”
    “Can I talk here, Al?”
    “Like anyone could stop you. Like a large gun or big army tank—like even that could stop you.”
    Myron couldn’t help but smile. Ladies and gents, meet Ellen and Alan Bolitar or, as Mom liked to say, “We’re El Al—you know, like the Israeli airline?”
    “So anyway, I was talking to Dotte about this and that. You know, the usual. The Ruskins moved out of town. Gertie Schwartz had gall stones. Antonietta Vitale, such a pretty thing, she married some millionaire from Montclair. That kind of thing. And then Dotte told me—Dotte told me this, by the way, not you—Dotte said you’re dating someone.”
    Myron closed his eyes.
    “Is it true?”
    He said nothing.
    “Dotte said you were dating a widow with six children.”
    “Two children,” Myron said.
    Mom stopped and smiled.
    “What?”
    “Gotcha.”
    “Huh?”
    “If I