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First, a brief note from the author...

Dear Smart, Well-Read, and Oh-So-Attractive Reader,

You know what colloquialism I hate?

"You can't have your cake and eat it too."

How dumb. What does that mean exactly? You're at, say, a friend's
birthday party. They start cutting up the cake. They ask you if you
want a piece. Do you take a slice but not eat it?

It doesn't make any sense.

That was the feeling I had when, after six years, an idea-a
terrific idea-came to me. And even better, it was an idea for an
old friend. A guy named Myron Bolitar.

I wanted to have my cake and eat it too. I wanted to write a
gut-wrenching suspense thriller that would top all of my
stand-alones. And I wanted to write a book that would be uniquely
Myron.

I think I did that with Promise Me.

It has been six years since I wrote a Myron Bolitar book. I have
skipped six years in his life. It doesn't matter if you've never
met him before or if he's an old friend. Promise Me is the book to
begin with.

So turn the page. It starts with a shocking discovery . . . and
then there's that promise. . . .

-H.C.

CHAPTER 1

The missing girl --- there had been unceasing news reports, always
flashing to that achingly ordinary school portrait of the vanished
teen, you know the one, with the rainbow-swirl background, the
girl's hair too straight, her smile too self-conscious, then a
quick cut to the worried parents on the front lawn, microphones
surrounding them, Mom silently tearful, Dad reading a statement
with quivering lip --- that girl, that missing girl, had
just walked past Edna Skylar.

Edna froze.

Stanley, her husband, took two more steps before realizing that his
wife was no longer at his side. He turned around. "Edna?"

They stood near the corner of Twenty-first Street and Eighth Avenue
in New York City. Street traffic was light this Saturday morning.
Foot traffic was heavy. The missing girl had been headed
uptown.

Stanley gave a world-weary sigh. "What now?"

"Shh."

She needed to think. That high school portrait of the girl, the one
with the rainbow-swirl background ... Edna closed her eyes. She
needed to conjure up the image in her head. Compare and
contrast.

In the photograph, the missing girl had long, mousy-brown hair. The
woman who'd just walked by --- woman, not girl, because the one
who'd just walked by seemed older, but maybe the picture was old
too --- was a redhead with a shorter, wavy cut. The girl in the
photograph did not wear glasses. The one who was heading north up
Eighth Avenue had on a fashionable pair with dark, rectangular
frames. Her clothes and makeup were both more --- for a lack of a
better word --- adult.

Studying faces was more than a hobby with Edna. She was sixty-three
years old, one of the few female physicians in her age group who
specialized in the field of genetics. Faces were her life. Part of
her brain was always working, even when far away from her office.
She couldn't help it --- Dr. Edna Skylar studied faces. Her friends
and family were used to the probing stare, but strangers and new
acquaintances found it disconcerting.

So that was what Edna had been doing. Strolling down the street.
Ignoring, as she often did, the sights

and sounds. Lost in her own personal bliss of studying the faces of
passersby. Noting cheek structure and mandibular depth, inter-eye
distance and ear height, jaw contours and orbital spacing. And that
was why, despite the new hair color and style, despite the
fashionable glasses and adult makeup and clothing, Edna had
recognized the missing girl.

"She was walking with a man."

"What?"

Edna hadn't realized that she'd spoken out loud.

"The girl."

Stanley frowned. "What are you talking about, Edna?"

That picture. That achingly ordinary school portrait. You've seen
it a million times. You see it in a yearbook and the emotions start
to churn. In one fell swoop, you see her past, you see her future.
You feel the joy of youth, you feel the pain of growing up. You can
see her potential there. You feel the pang of nostalgia. You see
her years rush by, college maybe, marriage, kids, all that.

But when that same photograph is flashed on your evening news, it
skewers your heart with terror. You look at that face, at that
tentative smile, at the droopy hair and slumped shoulders, and your
mind goes to dark places it shouldn't.

How long had Katie --- that was the name, Katie --- how long had
she been missing?

Edna tried to remember. A month probably. Maybe six weeks. The
story had only played locally and not for all that long. There were
those who believed that she was a runaway. Katie Rochester had
turned eighteen a few days before the disappearance --- that made
her an adult and thus lowered the priority a great deal. There was
supposed trouble at home, especially with her strict albeit
quivering-lipped father.

Maybe Edna had been mistaken. Maybe it wasn't her.

One way to find out.

"Hurry," Edna said to Stanley.

"What? Where are we going?"

There was no time to reply. The girl was probably a block ahead by
now. Stanley would follow. Stanley Rickenback, an ob-gyn, was
Edna's second husband. Her first had been a whirlwind, a
larger-than-life figure too handsome and too passionate and, oh
yeah, an absolute ass. That probably wasn't fair, but so what? The
idea of marrying a doctor --- this was forty years ago --- had been
a fun novelty for Husband One. The reality, however, had not sat as
well with him. He had figured that Edna would outgrow the doc phase
once they had children. Edna didn't --- just the opposite, in fact.
The truth was --- a truth that had not escaped her children ---
Edna loved doctoring more than motherhood.

She rushed ahead. The sidewalks were crowded. She moved into the
street, staying close to the curb, and sped up. Stanley tried to
follow. "Edna?"

"Just stay with me."

He caught up. "What are we doing?"

Edna's eyes searched for the red hair.

There. Up ahead on the left.

She needed to get a closer look. Edna broke into a full-fledged
sprint now, a strange sight in most places, a nicely dressed woman
in her mid-sixties sprinting down the street, but this was
Manhattan. It barely registered a second glance.

She circled in front of the woman, trying not to be too obvious,
ducking behind taller people, and when she was in the right place,
Edna spun around. The possible-Katie was walking toward her. Their
eyes met for the briefest of moments, and Edna knew.

It was her.

Katie Rochester was with a dark-haired man, probably in his early
thirties. They were holding hands. She did not seem too distressed.
She seemed, in fact, up until the point where their eyes met
anyway, pretty content. Of course that might not mean anything.
Elizabeth Smart, that young girl who'd been kidnapped out in Utah,
had been out in the open with her kidnapper and never tried to
signal for help. Maybe something similar was playing here.

Edna wasn't buying it.

The redheaded possible-Katie whispered something to the dark-haired
man. They picked up their pace. Edna saw them veer right and down
the subway stairs. The sign read c and e trains. Stanley caught up
to Edna. He was about to say something, but he saw the look on her
face and kept still.

"Come on," she said.

They hurried around the front and started down the stairs. The
missing woman and the dark-haired man were already through the
turnstile. Edna started toward it.

"Damn it."

"What?"

"I don't have a MetroCard."

"I do," Stanley said.

"Let me have it. Hurry."

Stanley plucked the card from his wallet and handed it to her. She
scanned it, moved through the turnstile, handed it back to him. She
didn't wait. They'd gone down the stairs to the right. She started
that way. She heard the roar of an incoming train and hurried her
steps.

The brakes were squeaking to a halt. The subway doors slid open.
Edna's heart beat wildly in her chest. She looked left and right,
searching for the red hair.

Nothing.

Where was that girl?

"Edna?" It was Stanley. He had caught up to her.

Edna said nothing. She stood on the platform, but there was no sign
of Katie Rochester. And even if there was, what then? What should
Edna do here? Does she hop on the train and follow them? To where?
And then what? Find the apartment or house and then call the
police....

Someone tapped her shoulder.

Edna turned. It was the missing girl.

For a long time after this, Edna would wonder what she saw in the
girl's expression. Was there a pleading look? A desperation? A
calmness? Joy, even? Resolution? All of them.

They just stood and stared at each other for a moment. The bustling
crowd, the indecipherable static on the speaker, the swoosh of the
train --- it all disappeared, leaving just the two of them.

"Please," the missing girl said, her voice a whisper. "You can't
tell anybody you saw me."

The girl stepped onto the train then. Edna felt a chill. The doors
slid closed. Edna wanted to do something, do anything, but she
couldn't move. Her gaze remained locked on the girl's.

"Please," the girl mouthed through the glass.

And then the train disappeared into the dark.

CHAPTER 2

There were two teenage girls in Myron's
basement.       

That was how it began. Later, when Myron looked back on all the
loss and heartbreak, this first series of what-ifs would rise up
and haunt him anew. What if he hadn't needed ice. What if he'd
opened his basement door a minute earlier or a minute later. What
if the two teenage girls --- what were they doing alone in his
basement in the first place? --- had spoken in whispers so that he
hadn't overheard them.

What if he had just minded his own business.

From the top of the stairs, Myron heard the girls giggling. He
stopped. For a moment he considered closing the door and leaving
them alone. His small soiree was low on ice, not out of it. He
could come back.

But before he could turn away, one of the girls' voices wafted
smoke-like up the stairwell. "So you went with Randy?"

The other: "Oh my God, we were like so wasted."

"From beer?"

"Beer and shots, yeah."

"How did you get home?"

"Randy drove."

At the top of the stairs, Myron stiffened.

"But you said --- "

"Shh." Then: "Hello? Is someone there?"

Caught.

Myron took the stairs in a trot, whistling as he went. Mr. Casual.
The two girls were sitting in what used to be Myron's bedroom. The
basement had been "finished" in 1975 and looked it. Myron's father,
who was currently lollygagging with Mom in some condo near Boca
Raton, had been big on two-sided tape. The adhesive wood paneling,
a look that aged about as well as the Betamax, had started to give.
In some spots the concrete walls were now visible and noticeably
flaking. The floor tiles, fastened down with something akin to
Elmer's Glue, were buckling. They crunched beetle-like when you
stepped on them.

The two girls --- one Myron had known her whole life, the other he
had just met today --- looked up at him with wide eyes. For a
moment no one spoke. He gave them a little wave.

"Hey, girls."

Myron Bolitar prided himself on big opening lines.

The girls were both high school seniors, both pretty in that
coltish way. The one sitting on the corner of his old bed --- the
one he had met for the first time an hour ago --- was named Erin.
Myron had started dating Erin's mother, a widow and freelance
magazine writer named Ali Wilder, two months ago. This party, here
at the house Myron had grown up in and now owned, was something of
a "coming out" party for Myron and Ali as a couple.

The other girl, Aimee Biel, mimicked his wave and tone. "Hey,
Myron."

More silence.

He first saw Aimee Biel the day after she was born at St. Barnabas
Hospital. Aimee and her parents, Claire and Erik, lived two blocks
away. Myron had known Claire since their years together at Heritage
Middle School, less than half a mile from where they now gathered.
Myron turned toward Aimee. For a moment he fell back more than
twenty-five years. Aimee looked so much like her mother, had
the

same crooked, devil-may-care grin, it was like looking through a
time portal.

"I was just getting some ice," Myron said. He pointed toward the
freezer with his thumb to illustrate the point.

"Cool," Aimee said.

"Very cool," Myron said. "Ice cold, in fact."

Myron chuckled. Alone.

With the stupid grin still on his face, Myron looked over at Erin.
She turned away. That had been her basic reaction today. Polite and
aloof.

"Can I ask you something?" Aimee said.

"Shoot."

She spread her hands. "Was this really your room growing up?"

"Indeed it was."

The two girls exchanged a glance. Aimee giggled. Erin did
likewise.

"What?" Myron said.

"This room ... I mean, could it possibly be lamer?"

Erin finally spoke. "It's like too retro to be retro."

"What do you call this thing?" Aimee asked, pointing below
her.

"A beanbag chair," Myron said.

The two girls giggled some more.

"And how come this lamp has a black lightbulb?"

"It makes the posters glow."

More laughs.

"Hey, I was in high school," Myron said, as if that explained
everything.

"Did you ever bring a girl down here?" Aimee asked.

Myron put his hand to his heart. "A true gentleman never kisses and
tells." Then: "Yes."

"How many?"

"How many what?"

"How many girls did you bring down here?"

"Oh. Approximately" --- Myron looked up, drew in the air with his
index finger --- "carry the three... I'd say somewhere between
eight and nine hundred thousand."

That caused rip-roaring laughter.

"Actually," Aimee said, "Mom says you used to be real cute."

Myron arched an eyebrow. "Used to be?"

Both girls high-fived and fell about the place. Myron shook his
head and grumbled something about respecting their elders. When
they quieted down, Aimee said, "Can I ask you something
else?"

"Shoot."

"I mean, seriously."

"Go ahead."

"Those pictures of you upstairs. On the stairwell."

Myron nodded. He had a pretty good idea where this was going.

"You were on the cover of Sports Illustrated."

"That I was."

"Mom and Dad say you were like the greatest basketball player in
the country."

"Mom and Dad," Myron said, "exaggerate."

Both girls stared at him. Five seconds passed. Then another
five.

"Do I have something stuck in my teeth?" Myron asked.

"Weren't you, like, drafted by the Lakers?"

"The Celtics," he corrected.

"Sorry, the Celtics." Aimee kept him pinned with her eyes. "And you
hurt your knee, right?"

"Right."

"Your career was over. Just like that."

"Pretty much, yes."

"So like" --- Aimee shrugged --- "how did that feel?"

"Hurting my knee?"

"Being a superstar like that. And then, bam, never being
able to play again."

Both girls waited for his answer. Myron tried to come up with
something profound.

"It sucked big-time," he said.

They both liked that.

Aimee shook her head. "It must have been the worst."

Myron looked toward Erin. Erin had her eyes down. The room went
quiet. He waited. She eventually looked up. She looked scared and
small and young. He wanted to take her in his arms, but man, would
that ever be the wrong move.

"No," Myron said softly, still holding Erin's gaze. "Not even close
to the worst."

A voice at the top of the stairs shouted down, "Myron?"

"I'm coming."

He almost left then. The next big what-if. But the words he'd
overheard at the top of the stairs --- Randy drove ---
kept rattling in his head. Beer and shots. He couldn't let
that go, could he?

"I want to tell you a story," Myron began. And then he stopped.
What he wanted to do was tell them about an incident from his high
school days. There had been a party at Barry Brenner's house. That
was what he wanted to tell them. He'd been a senior in high school
--- like them. There had been a lot of drinking. His team, the
Livingston Lancers, had just won the state basketball tournament,
led by All-American Myron Bolitar's forty-three points. Everyone
was drunk. He remembered Debbie Frankel, a brilliant girl, a live
wire, that sparkplug who was always animated, always raising her
hand to contradict the teacher, always arguing and taking the other
side and you loved her for it. At midnight Debbie came over and
said good-bye to him. Her glasses were low on her nose. That was
what he remembered most --- the way her glasses had slipped down.
Myron could see that Debbie was wasted. So were the other two girls
who would pile into that car.

You can guess how the story ends. They took the hill on South
Orange Avenue too fast. Debbie died in the crash. The smashed-up
car was put on display in front of the high school for six years.
Myron wondered where it was now, what they'd eventually done to
that wreck.

"What?" Aimee said.

But Myron didn't tell them about Debbie Frankel. Erin and Aimee had
undoubtedly heard other versions of the same story. It wouldn't
work. He knew that. So he tried something else.

"I need you to promise me something," Myron said.

Erin and Aimee looked at him.

He pulled his wallet from his pocket and plucked out two business
cards. He opened the top drawer and found a pen that still worked.
"Here are all my numbers --- home, business, mobile, my place in
New York City."

Myron scribbled on the cards and passed one to each of them. They
took the cards without saying a word.

"Please listen to me, okay? If you're ever in a bind. If you're
ever out drinking or your friends are drinking or you're high or
stoned or I don't care what. Promise me. Promise me you'll call me.
I'll come get you wherever you are. I won't ask any questions. I
won't tell your parents. That's my promise to you. I'll take you
wherever you want to go. I don't care how late. I don't care how
far away you are. I don't care how wasted. Twenty-four-seven. Call
me and I'll pick you up."

The girls said nothing.

Myron took a step closer. He tried to keep the pleading out of his
voice. "Just please ... please don't ever drive with someone who's
been drinking."

They just stared at him.

"Promise me," he said.

And a moment later --- the final what-if? --- they did.

Excerpted from PROMISE ME © Copyright 2011 by Harlan
Coben. Reprinted with permission by Signet, an imprint of Penguin
Group (USA). All rights reserved.

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