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Darkest Fear

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Darkest Fear Cover

 

Synopses & Reviews

Publisher Comments:

An hour before his world exploded like a ripe tomato under a stiletto heel, Myron bit into a fresh pastry that tasted suspiciously like a urinal cake.

Well? Mom prompted.

Myron battled his throat, won a costly victory, swallowed. Not bad.

Mom shook her head, disappointed.

What?

I'm a lawyer, Mom said. You'd think I'd have raised a better liar.

You did the best you could, Myron said.

She shrugged and waved a hand at the, uh, pastry. It's my first time baking, bubbe. It's okay to tell me the truth.

It's like biting into a urinal cake, Myron said.

A what?

In men's public bathrooms. In the urinals. They put them there for the smell or something.

And you eat them?

No--

Is that why your father takes so long in there? He's having a little Tastykake? And here I thought his prostate was acting up.

I'm joking, Mom.

She smiled through blue eyes tinged with a red that Visine could never hope to get out, the red you can only get through slow, steady tears. Normally Mom was heavily into histrionics. Slow, steady tears were not her style. So am I, Mr. Smarty Pants. You think you're the only one in this family with a sense of humor?

Myron said nothing. He looked down at the, uh, pastry, fearing or perhaps hoping it might crawl away. In the thirty-plus years his mother had lived in this house, she had never baked — not from a recipe, not from scratch, not even from one of those Pillsbury morning croissant thingies that came in small mailing tubes. She could barely boil water without strict instructions and pretty much never cooked, though she could whip up a mean Celeste frozen pizza in the microwave, her agile fingers dancing across the numerical keypad in the vein of Nureyev at Lincoln Center. No, in the Bolitar household, the kitchen was more a gathering place — a Family Room Lite, if you will — than anything related to even the basest of the culinary arts. The round table held magazines and catalogs and congealing white boxes of Chinese takeout. The stovetop saw less action than a Merchant-Ivory production. The oven was a prop, strictly for show, like a politician's Bible.

Something was definitely amiss.

They were sitting in the living room with the dated pseudo-leather white modular couch and aqua-tinged rug whose shagginess reminded Myron of a toilet-seat cover. Grown-up Greg Brady. Myron kept stealing glances out the picture window at the For Sale sign in the front yard as though it were a spaceship that had just landed and something sinister was about to step out.

Where's Dad?

Mom gave a weary wave toward the door. He's in the basement.

In my room?

Your old room, yes. You moved out, remember?

He did — at the tender age of thirty-four no less. Childcare experts would salivate and tsk-tsk over that one — the prodigal son choosing to remain in his split-level cocoon long after the deemed appropriate deadline for the butterfly to break free. But Myron might argue the opposite. He might bring up the fact that for generations and in most cultures, offspring lived in the

Synopsis:

A friend's son is gravely ill and the potential bone-marrow donor who could save his life has disappeared, so detective Myron Bolitar has no choice but to investigate, even though his sports agency desperately needs his attention. Reprint.

Synopsis:

An hour before his world exploded like a ripe tomato under a stiletto heel, Myron bit into a fresh pastry that tasted suspiciously like a urinal cake.

Well? Mom prompted.

Myron battled his throat, won a costly victory, swallowed. Not bad.

Mom shook her head, disappointed.

What?

I'm a lawyer, Mom said. You'd think I'd have raised a better liar.

You did the best you could, Myron said.

She shrugged and waved a hand at the, uh, pastry. It's my first time baking, bubbe. It's okay to tell me the truth.

It's like biting into a urinal cake, Myron said.

A what?

In men's public bathrooms. In the urinals. They put them there for the smell or something.

And you eat them?

No--

Is that why your father takes so long in there? He's having a little Tastykake?

About the Author

Harlan Coben is the winner of the Edgar, Shamus, and Anthony awards. His critically acclaimed novels have been published in thirty-three languages around the world and have been number one bestsellers in more than half a dozen countries. In addition to the Myron Bolitar series (Deal Breaker, Drop Shot, Fade Away, Back Spin, One False Move, The Final Detail, Darkest Fear, and the upcoming Promise Me), he is also the author of Tell No One, Gone for Good, The Innocent, The Woods, and Hold Tight.

Product Details

ISBN:
9780307483584
Publisher:
Random House Publishing Group
Subject:
Fiction : Suspense
Author:
Coben, Harlan
Subject:
Sports agents
Subject:
New york (n.y.)
Subject:
Mystery & Detective - Series
Subject:
Suspense
Subject:
Bolitar, Myron
Subject:
New York
Subject:
Mystery fiction
Subject:
Mystery-A to Z
Subject:
Popular Fiction-Suspense
Subject:
main_subject
Subject:
all_subjects
Publication Date:
20010508
Binding:
ELECTRONIC
Language:
English
Pages:
352

Related Subjects

Fiction and Poetry » Literature » A to Z
Fiction and Poetry » Mystery » A to Z
Fiction and Poetry » Popular Fiction » Contemporary Thrillers
Fiction and Poetry » Popular Fiction » Suspense

Darkest Fear
0 stars - 0 reviews
$ In Stock
Product details 352 pages Random House Publishing Group - English 9780307483584 Reviews:
"Synopsis" by , A friend's son is gravely ill and the potential bone-marrow donor who could save his life has disappeared, so detective Myron Bolitar has no choice but to investigate, even though his sports agency desperately needs his attention. Reprint.
"Synopsis" by , An hour before his world exploded like a ripe tomato under a stiletto heel, Myron bit into a fresh pastry that tasted suspiciously like a urinal cake.

Well? Mom prompted.

Myron battled his throat, won a costly victory, swallowed. Not bad.

Mom shook her head, disappointed.

What?

I'm a lawyer, Mom said. You'd think I'd have raised a better liar.

You did the best you could, Myron said.

She shrugged and waved a hand at the, uh, pastry. It's my first time baking, bubbe. It's okay to tell me the truth.

It's like biting into a urinal cake, Myron said.

A what?

In men's public bathrooms. In the urinals. They put them there for the smell or something.

And you eat them?

No--

Is that why your father takes so long in there? He's having a little Tastykake?

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