Chapter Thirty-Seven

Myron sat on one side of the kitchen table. Emily sat on the other side. The only item on the table between them was a phone. It was small and black and a flip model. Myron knew the type. Some people called them "no-contract" or "prepaid" or "pay-as-you-go." Others, like Myron, knew them as disposable or burner phones.

He had not touched it yet.

"Do you have a pair of latex gloves?" Myron asked Emily.

"You mean like surgeons wear?"

"Yes."

"Does this look like a hospital?"

"How about to clean?"

"You mean like rubber gloves?"

"Yes."

"I can look. Why do you need them?"

"Why do you think, Emily?" His voice had a little too much edge in it. He dialed it back and said, "I don't want to leave or smudge fingerprints."

"But I already touched it," she said.

"Tell me about that."

"Tell you what?"

"Where exactly did you find it?"

"Jeremy's room. I told you that. It was taped to the bottom of the bed."

"And you heard it vibrate?"

"Yes. But for all I know, it could have been there for months."

Myron frowned. "And stayed charged?"

"It wasn't like someone was using it. Can't phone batteries last a long time if it's never used?"

Myron saw no reason to get into it with Emily.

"Myron?"

He looked up at her. There were tears in Emily's eyes.

"I'm really scared."

He reached across the table and took her hand. "Step at a time, okay?"

She nodded.

"How did you get the phone out from under the bed?"

"I tried to pull it off with my hand, but the tape wouldn't give. So I went back to the kitchen and got scissors."

"Did you flip it open or anything?"

"No. I called you right away."

Myron nodded. "Could you get the gloves?"

She found them under the sink, but they were far too small for his hands. Myron gave up on them pretty fast—if he messed up some DNA or whatever, so be it. The phone had been taped. Emily had grabbed it. The contamination was already there.

"Wait," Emily said. "Should we call Jeremy first?"

"Okay," Myron said. "But let's not ask him about the phone right now."

"It's probably nothing."

"You're probably right."

"He's in the military. He does a lot of clandestine work. The phone could be a part of that."

"Yes," Myron said. "I agree."

They both stared at one another for a long moment.

"He's our son," Emily said, her voice a plea. "You get that, right?"

Myron said nothing.

"Maybe we shouldn't touch it," she said. "We should wait until he gets here and let him explain."

"Call him," Myron said.

She dialed Jeremy's number, but the call went straight to voicemail. The voice on the message was machine-produced, not Jeremy's. Emily didn't bother leaving a message. She hung up. They sat at the table together. The room was silent. Myron stared at the phone. He glanced up at Emily and then reached across the table and picked up the phone. He flipped it open and checked incoming calls. There were four calls in total, all over the past three days, the most recent being an hour ago.

The caller ID on all of them read Anonymous.

Not helpful.

Myron looked for an option to call the number back. There was nothing there. He clicked the arrow on top of the screen and moved to outgoing calls. Bingo. There were two calls listed. Same number. When Myron saw it, he stiffened.

"What?" Emily said.

He didn't reply. Don't jump the gun, he told himself. Step at a time.

"Myron?"

The number had a 215 area code. That was what had startled him. He put down the phone and picked up his own.

"What are you doing?" Emily asked.

He put the 215 phone number into his own phone. He was about to dial the number, but then thought better of it. Why leave a record of his call? He moved over to the Google app and entered the number in there. If this didn't work—if the number was unlisted or not online in some way—he would send it to Esperanza. She'd be able to find the phone's owner right away.

But no need. The google worked.

The 215 phone number, according to Myron's web search, belonged to the Prine Organization.

Myron closed his eyes.

"What?" Emily asked.

The intercom buzzed, startling them both. Emily pushed back her chair and stood. "I'll be right back."

Myron slid the phone off the marble-top table. It dropped into his palm. He leaned back and jammed the phone into his front pocket. Myron heard Emily tell the doorman to let him up. Myron rose and headed toward the door.

"When I found the phone," Emily explained, "I called you first. Isn't that odd?"

"I don't know. Is it?"

"It was just a gut reaction. But when I hung up, I felt weird."

"So you called someone else," Myron said.

"Yes," she said. "And he's here now too."

The three of them—Myron, Emily, and now Greg Downing—sat at the same kitchen table with the flip phone in the middle, equidistant from all three of them.

Greg spoke first. "It's a setup."

"Yes," Emily said, leaping at Greg's explanation.

"That's what this serial killer has been doing, right?" Greg turned to Myron, ready to make his pitch now. "They kill someone and then they frame someone else for it. This time, they framed Jeremy."

"Exactly," Emily said.

"That would be two separate frame-ups then," Myron said.

"What?"

"The killer framed a woman named Jackie Newton. She was arrested already. Jeremy would be the second person."

Greg locked eyes with Myron. It brought back the memory of the first time they met. Sixth grade. When Myron's Kasselton All-Stars got to play Greg's Glen Rock Greats at a high school gym in Tenafly, both kids had already developed reps as two of the best in the state. Myron had dominated every game so far that season. The Kasselton All-Stars were undefeated. But that day, a few of the guys had come up to him and said Glen Rock got a kid as good as him. Myron and Greg never spoke before the game. They shook hands and played hard. Myron got the better of that battle, though he remembered envying Greg's cool under pressure. Myron showed emotion on the court. Greg never did.

And here too sat the first woman Myron ever loved. She had been an awakening, an explosion, an eruption of pathos. Perhaps it hadn't been built to last, but at the time, when he lost her, Myron had felt as though he would never feel this way again or with anyone else. How wrong he'd been, but hey, youth is wasted on the young. Still, even now, even after all these years, it made no sense. He understood Emily's (frankly) mature decision not to marry him. It had been too soon. So why didn't she just say that? Why break it off altogether? And even if that made sense—and he got that it did, that it is hard to go back after a rejected proposal—why move on so fast to Greg Downing? There were a million guys out there. Why Myron's rival? When Myron was in middle school, his mom continuously played Jim Croce's album You Don't Mess Around with Jim on repeat in the car. Her favorite song from the album, which she always sang along with, was "Operator," a heartbreaker about a man futilely tracking down the lost love of his life with the help of a phone operator. It was a tough listen sometimes, this man who wanted to show his ex-love that he had moved on, that he was doing well, though clearly he hadn't and wasn't, but what made the song extra heart-wrenching for Myron even back then, even when the only thing he knew about relationships were schoolyard crushes, was that the love of this man's life had run off with his "best old ex-friend, Ray." Not bad enough she'd broken his heart. She had made it so damned personal.

"We tell no one about this," Greg said. "Jeremy is innocent. We all know that. If the police accuse him or arrest him, his life will be severely damaged. We can't have that."

"Should we destroy the phone?" Emily asked.

"Whoa," Myron said, "let's slow down here."

"We don't destroy it," Greg said, ignoring Myron. "I'll keep it for now. If push comes to shove, I'll say it's mine."

"And if Jeremy is involved somehow?" Myron asked.

Greg looked at him. "You're not his father."

"Yeah, I know."

"No, I don't think you do," Greg said. "If it comes down to it, I'll take the hit for him. This"—he raised the phone—"officially belongs to me. I bought it. They already have my DNA at one of the crime scenes. So I'm the bad guy. I'm the one who did it."

"Either way, we get Jeremy the help he needs," Emily added. "I don't believe he's involved. Not for a second. But if he is, well, maybe something happened to him overseas. He's experienced horrors we can't understand. We get him the best care possible."

"Myron," Greg said with a nod, "we need to know you're with us on this."

Myron looked at Greg, then back at Emily.

"You're not thinking straight," Myron said. "Neither of you."

Greg now turned his focus on Emily. He shook his head and said, "Why did you call him?"

Emily didn't reply.

"We could have handled this on our own. As his parents."

Emily put her hand on Myron's arm. "I thought you'd understand."

"I do," Myron said to her. Then he turned to Greg. "Take a second. Your strength as a coach was your ability to draw up the perfect game plan. You watched game film tirelessly. You read scouting reports. No one prepared for a game like you did."

Greg leaned forward. "It's why I know this will work," he said.

"Will it?" Myron said. He pointed to the phone. "Calls on that phone were made to the Prine Organization."

"Right."

"Ronald Prine was murdered while you were in custody. Are you going to say you shot him from your prison cell?"

Greg turned his gaze toward Emily. Emily gave a helpless shrug.

"I need you to listen to me," Myron said to Greg. "The FBI doesn't know how many people were murdered—and framed—by this serial killer. At least half a dozen, probably a lot more. There was one in Texas, one in New York, one in Las Vegas, one in Nebraska… all over. There were zero connections between all the cases. Zero. Nothing the FBI could put their finger on. Not a clue. The killer could have continued to operate like this for years. They may have never been caught, except one thing blew open the case."

They both waited. Greg reached across the table and took Emily's hand. For the briefest of moments, she looked unhappy about it, even repulsed by his touch, but then it was as though she realized that they were in it together, as Jeremy's parents, the two of them against the suddenly strange interloper named Myron.

"You, Greg. Don't you see? Your DNA ends up at the Callister murder scene. And you are connected to Jordan Kravat."

"How?" Greg asked. "Jordan Kravat was, what, my girlfriend's son's ex-boyfriend. I mean, that's not much of a connection."

"But it isn't a coincidence, Greg. I need you to stop and think about this. Who else is connected to both? Who could have framed you for Cecelia Callister and framed Joey Turant for the murder of Jordan Kravat?"

"What are you trying to say?" Greg asked. "That Jeremy is the connection?"

"No. I'm asking—"

"Because I hadn't seen Jeremy in months before I went to Vegas." He turned to Emily. "You remember. He was on some mission and incommunicado for four months."

"I remember," Emily said.

Greg folded his hands and put them on the table. "Myron, listen to me. We need to buy a little time, so we can sort this out between us—before we tell anyone else, okay? Maybe you're right. Maybe I need to take a step back and do what I do best. Scout. Plan. Get methodical. The three of us."

It was then that Myron's phone rang.

He checked the caller ID.

It was Jeremy.

Everyone at the table froze.

"Why is he calling you?" Emily asked.

Myron didn't wait for Greg or Emily to offer advice on how to handle the call. He hit the answer button.

"Hey," Myron said.

"Hey," Jeremy replied.

There was an awkward silence. Myron switched the phone from his right hand to his left. Emily and Greg stared at him.

"I thought I'd see you at Greg's release."

"I got held up," Jeremy said.

His voice, Myron realized, was probably loud enough for Greg and Emily to make out what he was saying. Myron debated whether that mattered or not and decided to let it go.

"Are you at Win's?" Jeremy asked.

"Not right now, no."

"Oh, sorry. Am I interrupting anything?"

"No, not at all."

"I'm about an hour out," Jeremy said. "Can we meet?"

"Sure."

"I want to explain… well, you know. About the discharge and IT job."

"Yeah, okay, sure." Myron felt numb. "Win's place work?"

"That'll be perfect. I'll see you in an hour."

When Myron hung up, Greg said, "What was that all about?"

"He's an hour away. We are going to meet at the Dakota."

Emily pushed her hair back behind her ears. "What was he talking about with the discharge and IT stuff?"

Myron rose, their necks craning up to follow him. "It's not my place to say."

"What the hell does that mean?" Greg asked.

"It means you can ask him yourself."

"Discharge?" Emily said again. "So he's not in the military anymore?"

"He came back to New York when he heard you were being freed," Myron said to Greg. "That's what he told me a few hours ago. I'm sure he'll reach out to you both."

"Wait," Emily said.

"What?"

"You can't just…" Emily began. She stopped and started again, her voice firmer now. "He's our son, not yours."

"Yeah, you keep telling me that," Myron said, "except when it's convenient."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Emily snapped.

"When he was thirteen and needed to find that bone marrow donor, suddenly I'm his father. Just now, when you found that phone hidden in his room, suddenly I'm his father. Look, I didn't raise him. I get that. I'm just a sperm donor or an accident of biology or whatever. I've been respectful. I've kept my distance. It may not be up to me what my relationship is with Jeremy, but it certainly isn't up to you two either. He called me. He wants to talk to me. I'm going."

Myron started to the door. Emily and Greg followed him.

"Are you going to tell him about the phone?" Greg asked.

"I don't know."

"Don't, okay?" Greg said. "Just trust me on this."

"I don't trust you on anything," Myron said, and then he left.