One False Move - By Harlan Coben Page 0,96

shelves, all tilted slightly forward so the corks would remain properly moist. A giant thermometer. A few wooden barrels, mostly for show. There were no windows. No doors. No other visible entranceways. In the center of the room was a hefty mahogany table.

The table was bare except for a gleaming set of pruning shears.

Myron looked back at Sam. Sam smiled, still holding a gun.

"Label me intimidated," Myron said.

Sam shrugged.

"Where is Brenda?" Arthur demanded.

"I don't know," Myron said.

"And Anita? Where is she?"

"Why don't you ask Chance?" Myron said.

"What?"

Chance sat up. "He's crazy."

Arthur stood. "You're not leaving here until I'm satisfied that you're not holding out on me."

"Fine," Myron said. "Then let's get to it, Arthur. You see, I've been dumb about this whole thing. I mean, the clues were all there. The old phone taps. Your keen interest in all this. The earlier assault on Anita. Ransacking Horace's apartment and taking Anita's letters. The cryptic calls telling Brenda to contact her mother. Sam cutting those kids' Achilles tendons. The scholarship money. But you know what finally gave it away?"

Chance was about to say something, but Arthur waved him into silence. He strummed his chin with his index finger. "What?" he asked.

"The timing of Elizabeth 's suicide," Myron said.

T don't understand."

"The timing of the suicide," Myron repeated, "and more important, your family's attempt to alter it. Why would Elizabeth kill herself at six in the morning - at the exact moment Anita Slaughter was coming to work? Coincidence? Possibly. But then why did you all work so hard to change the time? Elizabeth could have just as easily had her accident at six a.m. as midnight. So why the change?"

Arthur kept his back straight. "You tell me."

"Because the timing was not incidental," Myron said. "Your wife committed suicide when she did and how she did for a reason. She wanted Anita Slaughter to see her jump."

Chance made a noise. "That's ridiculous."

"Elizabeth was depressed," Myron continued, looking straight at Arthur. "I don't doubt that. And I don't doubt that you once loved her. But that was a long time ago. You said she hadn't been herself for years. I don't doubt that either. But three weeks before her suicide Anita was assaulted. I thought one of you beat her. Then I thought that maybe Horace did it. But the most noticeable injuries were scratches. Deep scratches. Like a cat, Wickner said." Myron looked at Arthur. Arthur seemed to be shrinking in front of him, being sucked dry by his own memories.

"Your wife was the one who attacked Anita," Myron said. "First she attacked her, and then three weeks later, still despondent, she committed suicide in front of her -because Anita was having an affair with her husband. It was the final mental straw that broke her, wasn't it, Arthur? So how did it happen? Did Elizabeth walk in on you two? Did she seem so far gone that you got careless?"

Arthur cleared his throat. "As a matter of fact, yes. That's pretty much how it happened. But so what? What does that have to do with the present?".

"Your affair with Anita. How long did it last?"

"I don't see the relevance of that."

Myron looked at him for a long moment. "You're an evil man," he said. "You were raised by an evil man, and you have much of him in you. You've caused great suffering. You've even had people killed. But this wasn't a fling, was it? You loved her, didn't you, Arthur?"

He said nothing. But something behind the facade began to cave in.

"I don't know how it happened," Myron continued. "Maybe Anita wanted to leave Horace. Or maybe you encouraged her. It doesn't matter. Anita decided to run away and start new. Tell me what the plan was, Arthur. Were you going to set her up in an apartment? A house out of town? Surely no Bradford was going to marry a black maid from Newark."

Arthur made a noise. Half scoff. Half groan. "Surely," he said.

"So what happened?"

Sam kept several steps back, his gaze moving from the basement door to Myron. He whispered into his walkie-talkie every once in a while. Chance sat frozen, both nervous and comforted; nervous about what was being unearthed; comforted because he believed it would never leave this cellar. Perhaps he was right.

"Anita was my last hope," Arthur said. He bounced two fingers off his lips and forced up a smile. "It's ironic, don't you think? If you come from a disadvantaged home, you can blame