{"product_id":"long-lost-isbn-9780451236982","title":"Long Lost","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe bestselling author and creator of the hit Netflix drama \u003ci\u003eThe Stranger\u003c\/i\u003e ratchets up the tension as sports agent Myron Bolitar gets mixed up in some international intrigue in this #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith an early morning phone call, an old flame wakes Myron Bolitar from sleep. Terese Collins is in Paris, and she needs his help. In her debt, Myron makes the trip, and learns of a decade-long secret: Terese once had a daughter who died in a car accident. Now it seems as though that daughter may be alive—and tied to a sinister plot with shocking global implications....\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eLong Lost \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A whirlwind story of international intrigue.”—\u003ci\u003eChicago Sun Times \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“One of those pulse-quickening stories that keeps us madly ripping through the pages.”—\u003ci\u003eSt. Petersburg Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “What is perhaps Harlan Coben’s best written and most suspenseful thriller yet.”—Associated Press\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A roller coaster plot and savvy dialogue.”—\u003ci\u003eNew York Daily News \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Bolitar’s] James Bond exploits put Jerry McGuire to shame...\u003ci\u003eLong Lost\u003c\/i\u003e is a winner.”—\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003ePittsburgh Post-Gazette\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Coben is the master of taking impossible, even outlandish situations and somehow making them realistic. This is sure to please both Bolitar fans and those who have only read Coben’s roller coaster-ride thrillers.”—\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Agent Myron Bolitar returns in a case as twisty and ambitious as Coben’s highly successful stand-alones...will leave the easy chair smoking.”—\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eHarlan Coben\u003c\/b\u003e is the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003eand international bestselling author of more than thirty novels, including \u003ci\u003eI Will Find You\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Match\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eWin\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eFool Me Once\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eStay Close\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eThe Stranger\u003c\/i\u003e, as well as the award-winning Myron Bolitar series. Coben has more than eighty million books in print in more than forty languages worldwide, and several of his novels have been made into Netflix series. The winner of Edgar, Shamus, and Anthony Awards, he lives in New Jersey.\u003cp\u003eTable of Contents\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTitle Page\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCopyright Page\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDedication\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePART ONE\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 2\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 3\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 4\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 5\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 6\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 7\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 8\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 9\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 10\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 11\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 12\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 13\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 14\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 15\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 16\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 17\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 18\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 19\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 20\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 21\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePART TWO\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 22\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 23\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 24\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 25\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 26\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 27\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 28\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 29\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 30\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 31\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 32\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 33\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 34\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 35\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 36\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 37\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 38\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eChapter 39\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAcknowledgements\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eABOUT THE AUTHOR\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eALSO BY HARLAN COBEN\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eDeal Breaker\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDrop Shot\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eFade Away\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eBack Spin\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eOne False Move\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Final Detail\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDarkest Fear\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eTell No One\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eGone for Good\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eNo Second Chance\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eJust One Look\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Innocent\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ePromise Me\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Woods\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eHold Tight\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDUTTON \u003cbr\u003ePublished by Penguin Group (USA) Inc. \u003cbr\u003e375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P \u003cbr\u003e2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.); Penguin Books Ltd, 80 \u003cbr\u003eStrand, London WC2R 0RL, England; Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin \u003cbr\u003e2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd); Penguin Group (Australia), 250 \u003cbr\u003eCamberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson \u003cbr\u003eAustralia Group Pty Ltd); Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, \u003cbr\u003ePanchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India; Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, \u003cbr\u003eRosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd); \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg \u003cbr\u003e2196, South Africa \u003cbr\u003ePenguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England \u003cbr\u003ePublished by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. \u003cbr\u003eFirst printing, April 2009 \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCopyright © 2009 by Harlan Coben\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAll rights reservedREGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA \u003cbr\u003eLIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA \u003cbr\u003eCoben, Harlan, 1962- \u003cbr\u003eLong lost \/ Harlan Coben. \u003cbr\u003ep. cm.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeISBN : 978-1-101-02874-2\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWithout limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication \u003cbr\u003emay be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in \u003cbr\u003eany form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or \u003cbr\u003eotherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the \u003cbr\u003eabove publisher of this book.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other \u003cbr\u003emeans without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please \u003cbr\u003epurchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage \u003cbr\u003eelectronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is \u003cbr\u003eappreciated.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eFor Sandra Whitaker\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe coolest “cuz” in the entire world\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003ePART ONE\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e \u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eHold on.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eThis will hurt more than anything has before.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e—William Fitzsimmons, “I Don’t Feel It Anymore”\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e“ YOU don’t know her secret,” Win said to me.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Should I?”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eWin shrugged.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e“It’s bad?” I asked.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Very,” Win said.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Then maybe I don’t want to know.”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTwo days before I learned the secret she’d kept buried for a decade—the seemingly personal secret that would not only devastate the two of us but change the world forever—Terese Collins called me at five AM, pushing me from one quasi-erotic dream into another. She simply said, “Come to Paris.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI had not heard her voice in, what, seven years maybe, and the line had static and she didn’t bother with hello or any preamble. I stirred and said, “Terese? Where are you?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“In a cozy hotel on the Left Bank called d’Aubusson. You’ll love it here. There’s an Air France flight leaving tonight at seven.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI sat up. Terese Collins. Imagery flooded in—her Class-B-felony bikini, that private island, the sun-kissed beach, her gaze that could melt teeth, her Class-B-felony bikini.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt’s worth mentioning the bikini twice.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I can’t,” I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Paris,” she said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I know.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNearly a decade ago we ran away to an island as two lost souls. I thought that we would never see each other again, but we did. A few years later, she helped save my son’s life. And then, poof, she was gone without a trace—until now.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Think about it,” she went on. “The City of Lights. We could make love all night long.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI managed a swallow. “Sure, yeah, but what would we do during the day?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“If I remember correctly, you’d probably need to rest.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“And vitamin E,” I said, smiling in spite of myself. “I can’t, Terese. I’m involved.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“With the 9\/11 widow?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI wondered how she knew. “Yeah.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“This wouldn’t be about her.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Sorry, but I think it would.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Are you in love?” she asked.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Would it matter if I said yes?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Not really.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI switched hands. “What’s wrong, Terese?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Nothing’s wrong. I want to spend a romantic, sensual, fantasy-filled weekend with you in Paris.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnother swallow. “I haven’t heard from you in, what, seven years?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Almost eight.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I called,” I said. “Repeatedly.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I know.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I left messages. I wrote letters. I tried to find you.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I know,” she said again.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere was silence. I don’t like silence.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Terese?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“When you needed me,” she said, “really needed me, I was there, wasn’t I?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yes.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Come to Paris, Myron.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Just like that?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yes.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Where have you been all this time?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I will tell you everything when you get here.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I can’t. I’m involved with someone.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat damn silence again.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Terese?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Do you remember when we met?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt had been on the heels of the greatest disaster of my life. I guess the same was true for her. We had both been pushed into attending a charity event by well-meaning friends, and as soon as we saw each other, it was as if our mutual misery were magnetic. I’m not a big believer in the eyes being the windows of the soul. I’ve known too many psychos who could fool you to rely on such pseudoscience. But the sadness was so obvious in Terese’s eyes. It emanated from her entire being really, and that night, with my own life in ruins, I craved that.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTerese had a friend who owned a small Caribbean island not far from Aruba. We ran off that very night and told no one where we were going. We ended up spending three weeks there, making love, barely talking, vanishing and tearing into each other because there was nothing else.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Of course I remember,” I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“We both had been crushed. We never talked about it. But we both knew.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yes.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Whatever crushed you,” Terese said, “you were able to move past it. That’s natural. We recover. We get damaged and then we rebuild.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“And you?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I couldn’t rebuild. I don’t even think I wanted to rebuild. I was shattered and maybe it was best to keep me that way.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m not sure I follow.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHer voice was soft now. “I didn’t think—check that, I still don’t think—that I would like to see what my world would look like rebuilt. I don’t think I would like the result.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Terese?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe didn’t reply.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I want to help,” I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Maybe you can’t,” she said. “Maybe there’s no point.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMore silence.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Forget I called, Myron. Take care of yourself.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd then she was gone.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e2\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“AH,” Win said, “the delectable Terese Collins. Now that’s a top-quality, world-class derriere.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe sat in the rickety pullout stands in the Kasselton High School gymnasium. The familiar whiffs of sweat and industrial cleaner filled the air. All sounds, as in every similar gymnasium across this vast continent, were distorted, the strange echoes forming the audio equivalent of a shower curtain.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI love gyms like this. I grew up in them. I spent many of my happiest moments in similar airless confines with a basketball in my hand. I love the sound of the dribbling. I love the sheen of sweat that starts popping up on faces during warm-ups. I love the feel of the pebbly leather on your fingertips; that moment of neo-religious purity when your eyes lock on the front rim and you release the ball and it backspins and there is nothing else in the entire world.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Glad you remember her,” I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Top-quality, world-class derriere.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yeah, I got that the first time.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWin had been my college roommate at Duke and was now my business partner and, along with Esperanza Diaz, my best friend. His real name was Windsor Horne Lockwood III, and he looked like it: thinning blond locks parted by a deity; ruddy complexion; handsome patrician face; golfer’s V-neck burn; eyes the blue of ice. He wore overpriced khakis with a crease to rival the hair part, a blue Lilly Pulitzer blazer with a pink and green lining, a matching pocket hanky that puffed out like a clown’s water-squirting flower.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEffete wear.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“When Terese was on TV,” Win said, his snooty prep-school accent sounding as though he were explaining the obvious to a somewhat slow child, “you couldn’t tell the quality. She was sitting behind the anchor desk.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Uh-huh.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“But then I saw her in that bikini”—for those keeping score, that would be the Class-B-felony one I told you about earlier—“well, it is a wonderful asset. Wasted as an anchorwoman. It’s a tragedy when you think about it.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Like the Hindenburg,” I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Hilarious reference,” Win said. “And oh so timely.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWin’s expression was permanently set on haughty. People looked at Win and would see elitist, snobby, Old-World money. For the most part, they’d be right. But the part where they’d be wrong . . . that could get a man seriously maimed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Go on,” Win said. “Finish your story.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“That’s it.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWin frowned. “So when do you leave for Paris?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m not going.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOn the basketball court, the second quarter began. This was fifth-grade boys’ basketball. My girlfriend—the term seems rather lame but I’m not sure “lady love,” “significant other,” or “love monkey” really apply—Ali Wilder has two children, the younger of whom played on this team. His name is Jack, and he wasn’t very good. I say that not to judge or predict future success—Michael Jordan didn’t start for his high school team until his junior year—but as an observation. Jack is big for his age, husky and tall, and with that often comes lack of speed and coordination. There was a plodding quality to his athleticism.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut Jack loved the game, and that meant the world to me. Jack was a sweet kid, deeply geeky in the absolute best way, and needy, as befit a boy who lost his father so tragically and prematurely.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAli couldn’t get here until halftime and I am, if nothing else, supportive.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWin was still frowning. “Let me get this straight: You turned down spending a weekend with the delectable Ms. Collins and her world-class derriere in a boutique hotel in Paris?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt was always a mistake talking relationships with Win.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“That’s right,” I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Why?” Win turned toward me. He looked genuinely perplexed. Then his face relaxed. “Oh, wait.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“She’s put on weight, hasn’t she?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWin.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I have no idea.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“So?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You know, so. I’m involved, remember?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWin stared at me as if I were defecating on the court.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What?” I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe sat back. “You’re such a very big girl.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe game horn sounded, and Jack pulled on his goggles and lumbered toward the scorer’s table with that wonderfully goofy half-smile. The Livingston fifth-grade boys were playing their archrivals from Kasselton. I tried not to smirk at the intensity—not so much the kids’ as the parents’ in the stands. I try not to generalize but the mothers usually broke down into two groups: the Gabbers, who used the occasion to socialize, and the Harried, who lived and died each time their offspring touched the ball.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe fathers were often more troublesome. Some managed to keep their anxiety under wraps, muttering under their breaths, biting nails. Other fathers screamed out loud. They rode refs, coaches, and kids.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOne father, sitting two rows in front of us, had what Win and I had nicknamed “Spectator Tourette’s,” spending the entire game seemingly unable to stop himself from berating everyone around him out loud.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy perspective on this is clearer than most. I had been that rare commodity—the truly gifted athlete. This came as a shock to my entire family since the greatest Bolitar athletic accomplishment before I came around was my uncle Saul winning a shuffleboard tournament on a Princess Cruise in 1974. I graduated from Livingston High School as a \u003ci\u003eParade\u003c\/i\u003e All-American. I was a star guard for Duke, where I captained two NCAA championship teams. I had been a first-round draft pick of the Boston Celtics.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd then, kaboom, it was all gone.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSomeone yelled, “Substitution.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJack adjusted his goggles and ran onto the court.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe coach of the opposing team pointed at Jack and shouted, “Yo, Connor! You got the new man. He’s big and slow. Drive around him.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTourette’s Dad bemoaned, “It’s a close game. Why are they putting him in now?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBig and slow? Had I heard right?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI stared at the Kasselton head coach. He had highlight-filled, mousse-spiked hair and a dark goatee neatly trimmed so that he resembled an aging boy-band bass. He was tall—I’m six four and this guy had two inches on me, plus, I would guess, twenty to thirty pounds.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“ ‘ He’s big and slow’?” I repeated to Win. “Can you believe the coach just yelled that out loud?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWin shrugged.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI tried to shake it off too. Heat of the game. Let it go.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe score was tied at twenty-four when disaster struck. It was right after a time-out and Jack’s team was inbounding the ball under the opposing team’s hoop. Kasselton decided to throw a surprise press at them. Jack was free. The ball was passed to him, but for a moment, with the defense on him, Jack got confused. It happens.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJack looked for help. He turned toward the Kasselton bench, the one closest to him, and Big Spiky-Haired Coach yelled, “Shoot! Shoot!” and pointed to the basket.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe wrong basket.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Shoot!” the coach yelled again.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd Jack, who naturally liked to please and who trusted adults, did.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe ball went in. To the wrong hoop. Two points for Kasselton.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe Kasselton parents whooped with cheers and even laughter. The Livingston parents threw up their hands and moaned over a fifth grader’s mistake. And then the Kasselton coach, the guy with the spiky hair and boy-band goatee, high-fived his assistant coach, pointed at Jack, and shouted, “Hey, kid, do that again!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJack may have been the biggest kid on the court, but right now he looked as if he were trying very hard to be as small as possible. The goofy half-smile fled. His lip twitched. His eyes blinked. Every part of the boy cringed and so did my heart.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA father from Kasselton was whooping it up. He laughed, cupped his hands into a flesh megaphone, and shouted, “Pass it to the big kid on the other team! He’s our best weapon!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWin tapped the man on the shoulder. “You will shut up right now.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe father turned to Win, saw the effete wear and the blond hair and the porcelain features. He was about to smirk and snap a comeback, but something—probably something survival basic and reptilian brained—made him think better of it. His eyes met Win’s ice blues and then he lowered them and said, “Yeah, sorry, that was out of line.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI barely heard. I couldn’t move. I sat in the stands and stared at the smug, spiky-haired coach. I felt the tick in my blood.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe buzzer sounded, signaling halftime. The coach was still laughing and shaking his head in amazement. One of his assistant coaches walked over and shook his hand. So did a few of the parents and spectators.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I must depart,” Win said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI did not respond.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Should I stick around? Just in case?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWin gave a curt nod and left. I still had my gaze locked on that Kasselton coach. I rose and started down the rickety stands. My footsteps fell like thunder. The coach started for the door. I followed. He headed into the bathroom grinning like the idiot he undoubtedly was. I waited for him by the door.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen he emerged, I said, “Classy.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe words “Coach Bobby” were sewn in script onto his shirt. He stopped and stared at me. “Excuse me?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Encouraging a ten-year-old to shoot at the wrong basket,” I said. “And that hilarious line about ‘Hey, kid, do it again’ after you help humiliate him. You’re a class act, Coach Bobby.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe coach’s eyes narrowed. Up close he was big and broad and had thick forearms and large knuckles and a Neanderthal brow. I knew the type. We all do.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Part of the game, pal.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Mocking a ten-year-old is part of the game?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Getting in his head. Forcing your opponent to make a mistake.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI said nothing. He sized me up and decided that, yeah, he could take me. Big guys like Coach Bobby are sure they can take pretty much anyone. I just stared at him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You got a problem?” he said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“These are ten-year-old kids.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Right, sure, kids. What are you—one of those namby-pamby, touchy-feely daddies who thinks everyone should be equal on the  court? No one should get their feelings hurt, no one should win or lose . . . hey, maybe we shouldn’t even keep score, right?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe Kasselton assistant coach came over. He had on a matching shirt that read “Assistant Coach Pat.” “Bobby? Second half’s about to start.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI took a step closer. “Just knock it off.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCoach Bobby gave me the predictable smirk and reply. “Or what?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“He’s a sensitive boy.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Boo hoo. If he’s that sensitive, maybe he shouldn’t play.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“And maybe you shouldn’t coach.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAssistant Coach Pat stepped forward then. He looked at me, and that knowing smile I was all too familiar with spread across his face. “Well, well, well.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCoach Bobby said, “What?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Do you know who this guy is?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Who?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Myron Bolitar.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYou could see Coach Bobby working the name, as if his forehead had a window and the squirrel running on the little track was picking up speed. When the synapses stopped firing, Coach Bobby’s grin practically ripped the boy-band goatee at the corners.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“That big ‘superstar’”—he actually made quotation marks with his fingers—“who couldn’t hack it in the pros? The world-famous first-round bust?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“The very one,” Assistant Coach Pat added.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Now I get it.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Hey, Coach Bobby?” I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Just leave the kid alone.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe brow thickened. “You don’t want to mess with me,” he said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You’re right. I don’t. I want you to leave the kid alone.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Not a chance, pal.” He smiled and moved a little closer to me. “You got a problem with that?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I do, very much.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“So how about you and me discuss this further after the game? Privately?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFlares started lighting up my veins. “Are you challenging me to a fight?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Yep. Unless, of course, you’re chicken. Are you chicken?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m not chicken,” I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSometimes I’m good with the snappy comebacks. Try to keep up.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I got a game to coach. But then you and me, we settle this. You got me?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Got you,” I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAgain with the snappy. I’m on a roll.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCoach Bobby put his finger in my face. I debated biting it off—that always gets a man’s attention. “You’re a dead man, Bolitar. You hear me? A dead man.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“A deaf man?” I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“A dead man.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Oh, good, because if I were a deaf man, I wouldn’t be able to hear you. Come to think of it, if I were a dead man, I wouldn’t be able to either.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe horn sounded. Assistant Coach Pat said, “Come on, Bobby.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Dead man,” he said one more time.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI cupped my hand to my ear, hard-of-hearing style, and shouted, “What?” but he had already spun away.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI watched him. He had that confident, slow swagger, shoulders back, arms swaying a tad too much. I was going to yell out something stupid when I felt a hand on my arm. I turned. It was Ali, Jack’s mother.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What was that all about?” Ali asked.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Dutton","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300701589733,"sku":"NP9780451236982","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780451236982.jpg?v=1767731705","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/long-lost-isbn-9780451236982","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}