One False Move - By Harlan Coben Page 0,32

driveway, peewee football, dance classes, the whole suburbia scene."

"And again I say, so?"

Win spread his arms. "So I would argue that marriages and the like never work. They inevitably lead to divorce or disillusionment or the deadening of dreams or at the very least, bitterness and resentment. I might -similar to you - point to my own family as an example."

"It's not the same thing, Win."

"Oh, I recognize that. But the truth is, we all take facts and compute them through our own experiences. You had a wonderful family life; thus you believe as you do. I am of course the opposite. Only a leap of faith could change our positions."

Myron made a face. "Is this supposed to be helping?"

"Heavens, no," Win said. "But I do so enjoy philosophical folly."

Win picked up the remote and switched on the television. Nick at Night. Mary Tyler Moore was on. They grabbed fresh drinks and settled back to watch.

Win took another sip, reddening his cheeks. "Maybe Lou Grant will have your answer."

He didn't. Myron imagined what would happen if he treated Esperanza the same way Lou treated Mary. If Esperanza were in a good mood, she'd probably tear out his hair until he looked like Murray.

Bedtime. On his way to his room, Myron checked on Brenda. She was sitting lotus-style on the antique Queen Something-or-other bed. The large textbook was open in front of her. Her concentration was total, and for a moment he just watched her. Her face displayed the same serenity he'd seen on the court. She wore flannel pajamas, her skin still a little wet from a recent shower, a towel wrapped around her hair.

Brenda sensed him and looked up. When she smiled at him, he felt something tighten in his stomach.

"You need anything?" he asked.

"I'm fine," she said. "You solve your business problem?"

"No."

"I didn't mean to eavesdrop before."

"Don't worry about it."

"I meant what I said earlier. I'd like you to be my agent."

"I'm glad."

"You'll draw up the papers?"

Myron nodded.

"Good night, Myron."

"Good night, Brenda."

She looked down and turned a page. Myron watched her for another second. Then he went to bed.
Chapter 12

They took Win's Jaguar to the Bradford estate because, as Win explained, people like the Bradfords "don't do Taurus". Neither did Win.

Win dropped Brenda off at practice and headed down Route 80 to Passaic Avenue, which had finally completed a widening program that began when Myron was in high school. They finished up on Eisenhower Parkway, a beautiful four-lane highway that ran for maybe five miles. Ah, New Jersey.

A guard with enormous ears greeted them at the gate of, as the sign said, Bradford Farms. Right. Most farms are known for their electronic fences and security guards. Wouldn't want anyone getting into the carrots and corn. Win leaned out the window, gave the guy the snooty smile, and was quickly waved through. A strange pang struck Myron as they drove through. How many times had he gone past the gate as a kid, trying to peer through the thick shrubs for a glance at the proverbial greener grass, dreaming up scenarios for the lush, adventure-filled life that lay within these manicured grounds?

He knew better now, of course. Win's familial estate, Lockwood Manor, made this place look like a railroad shanty, so Myron had seen up close how the superrich lived. It was indeed pretty, but pretty doesn't mean happy. Wow. That was deep. Maybe next time Myron would conclude that money can't buy happiness. Stay tuned.

Scattered cows and sheep helped keep the farm illusion - for the purpose of nostalgia or a tax write-off, Myron could not say, though he had his suspicions. They pulled up to a white farmhouse that had undergone more renovations than an aging movie queen.

An old black man wearing gray butler's tails answered the door. He gave them a slight bow and asked them to follow him. In the corridor were two goons dressed like Secret Service men. Myron glanced at Win. Win nodded. Not Secret Service guys. Goons. The bigger of the two smiled at them like they were cocktail franks heading back to the kitchen. One big. One skinny. Myron remembered Mabel Edwards's descriptions of her attackers. Not much to go on if he couldn't check for a tattoo, but worth keeping in mind.

The butler or manservant or whatever led them into the library. Rounded walls of books climbed three stories high, topped by a glass cupola that let in the proper amount of fresh light. The room