I read three books at a time. Which book I select to read depends on the time of day. For this I divide the day into three parts. The first block is from when I wake until noon. The second block is from noon until 6pm. The third block is from 6pm until I go to bed. As you may have already guessed the books vary in complexity as the day goes on. The morning hours are pointed at meatier books that deal in professional or personal growth. The afternoon hours are used on literature or denser fiction (that you actually have to pay attention to). And the evening hours are the marzipan, or what one of my english profs called literary masturbation. A good marker for that last category are books that have three to five minute chapters, per my kindle, because many times once I head to bed, I have about a three to five minute before I'm lost to the day.
This is my third Harlan Coben book. He falls soundly in the late-evening camp. You will occasionally see a ten minute chapter but most of his fall into a the three to five range. Love that! And, his stories have a wonderful serial quality to them. To do this well, you need to fold in a lot of mini-cliffhangers that leaves the reader eager to return. He is so skilled here it is almost like if you took Charles Dickens and Stephen King and Dan Brown and John Grisham and Joseph Wambaugh and spun them up in a blender, I think you'd get something close to Harlan Coben. Solid end of day fodder thus far.
Adam remembered what Tripp Evans had said at the American Legion Hall the night this all started, how he couldn’t believe how lucky those of them who lived in towns like this were:
“We’re living the dream, you know.”
Tripp was right, of course, but it was interesting how we described our personal paradise as a “dream.” Dreams are fragile. Dreams don’t last. One day you wake up and poof, the dream is gone. You stir and feel it pull away from you as you helplessly grab at the smoky remnants. But it’s useless. The dream dissolves, gone forever. And standing there, watching his son play the game he loved, Adam couldn’t help but feel that since the stranger’s visit, they were all on the verge of waking up.
The waitress came over and gave the ladies the check. Everyone dug into their purses with care and produced cash. The woman who had the linguini did the math, dividing the bill up with precision. The two Crabfest eaters pulled out bills one at a time. Then they each opened their change purse as though it were a rusted chastity belt.
Some might think it was being boastful. It was actually the opposite. With his teammates and coaches, Thomas was modest and generous. He always gave credit to someone else—the guy who made the pass, the kid who made the steal—and grew shy and embarrassed whenever he was made the center of attention on an athletic field.
But alone with his family, Thomas felt comfortable cutting loose. He loved to go into details about the game, not just about his goals but about the entirety of play, what the other kids said, who had played well, who hadn’t. Home was a secure haven for that—a familial cone of honesty, if you will. Corny as it sounded, that was what family should be. He didn’t have to worry about sounding like a braggart or a phony or any of that. He just spoke freely.
Thomas still couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong with his parents, but he knew that it was bad. Big-time bad. He also knew that Dad hadn’t told him the full truth yet. Parents always think it’s best to “protect” you, even though by “protect,” they mean “lie.” They think they’re helping by shielding you, but in the end, it makes it worse. It’s like Santa Claus. When Thomas had first realized that Santa Claus wasn’t real, he didn’t think, “I’m growing up” or “That stuff is for babies” or any of that. His first thought was more basic: “My parents lied to me. My mom and dad looked me in the eye, and for years and years, they lied to me.”
