"We haven’t talked to him in years. Leave. Now."

  "What’s his name?" she shouts.

  "I’m calling the police!"

  The frightened Mrs. Parker raises a phone to her ear as Naomi bolts from the room. She staggers into the hallway. Mrs. Parker’s desperate pleas for help follow her all the way through as she describes the "lunatic" who broke into her house. When the dispatcher asks her over the speakerphone if the suspect is armed, Mrs. Parker replies in a hushed voice, "Maybe."

  Naomi charges through the front door and slams it behind her. The looming threat of sirens somehow scares her less than the vacant stare of the boy.

  Chapter 8

  10:56 AM – LA Express

  The loathsome voice booms in Jules’ head like thunder, and the words roll through her mind: I’ll kill again.

  A horrified silence fills the tiny compartment, broken by the rhythmic thud of the wheels on the train tracks.

  Vinny stares at the speaker on the wall. "What the hell was that?"

  "The man who left this in car two." She bumps the plastic container with her knee.

  His eyes widen. "It has to be a joke."

  "What about this screams prank to you?"

  "Okay, okay. I get it."

  She doesn’t think he does. He’s scared and using every excuse to avoid facing the truth. Jules can’t blame him. How the hell did this escalate from a homicide investigation to a hostage standoff? And how did the killer know she was going to stop the train?

  Jules pinches the bridge of her nose and thinks. The woman in the bohemian dress pops into her mind.

  Jesus, she told them. She practically shouted it out to the entire car. A few minutes after she said the train was coming to a stop, the killer made his little announcement on the PA system.

  He’s in car two. Who knows how many times her gaze swept over his face? Closing her eyes, she tries to make a mental snapshot of the car when she was there. A few familiar faces swim in her head. She takes out her iPhone and jots down notes about who she was certain was in there with her: annoying girl in dress, Charles Hicks, that teenager with the handheld thing, and one of the crew.

  Outside the glass door, Jules hears muffled shouts. It sounds like a zoo. "I have to get back there."

  "What should I do?"

  She’s been saying this all day. "Try to stay calm."

  "Are you effing serious?"

  "Vinny, I swear to God if you lose it I’ll put Herb in control. Just do your job."

  "Don’t stop the train?"

  "That’s right. I gotta go."

  He gives her one last helpless look before she shuts the door, ignoring the questions of the two crewmembers hanging nearby. The sound of hysteria grows, a muffled roar behind the first pneumatic door. It hisses as she forces it open, and her ears are blasted with pure panic.

  Two men, red in the face from screaming, stand inches apart.

  "Don’t touch it!"

  "What are we supposed to do, genius?" the other one screams. "There’s a man killing people!"

  Hicks inserts himself between the two men, palms against their chests to push them apart. "Both of you, stop!"

  A lanky man with thick, dark eyebrows glares at him. "How can you be on his side? There’s a psycho on this train!"

  "Yeah," Hicks says, hammering the man's chest. "And he said he’ll kill the hostage if it's stopped!"

  "Probably done for anyway!"

  Jules steps into the car and lets the door bang shut. "What the hell is going on?"

  All of them look at her and start speaking, their words rolling into each other.

  She waves a hand, silencing them. "There’s a life at risk, people. We are not pulling the emergency brake!" Jules says, following the lanky man's gaze to the red handle against the wall. "Anybody who touches that will be responsible for what happens next."

  Thick Eyebrows pouts. "Hey, that’s not fair!"

  Not fair? This is her day off. She marches up to the idiot who said that, and his lips flatten. "Keep your hands off it!"

  Flustered, he backs away and sits down. She quells the rest of their mutinous looks with another warning. "The life of a human being should be enough reason. Don’t touch it."

  They break out into unhappy mutters as soon as she leaves the vicinity. Her ulcers singe, like snakes twisting inside her guts. Before entering the third car, Jules digs through her purse and pops out more tablets. Her hand shakes and a few of them fall off, rolling on the metallic floor.

  This isn’t working. She’s been in pain for hours.

  A silent howl runs through her. Jules stares at the handful of pills that might as well be placebos before slapping them in her mouth. She grinds them down and swallows the gummy paste.

  This is the worst day.

  It’s not just the ulcers determined to burn holes in her stomach or the serial killer running amok. Her father keeps texting her: When are you coming home? Why are you ignoring me? Can’t we talk?

  Can’t talk. Serial killer on train.

  Jules deletes the text and turns the notifications off. Even if she wanted to, there’s nothing she could tell him. As soon as she swipes the phone closed, the screen lights up with a call from her least favorite person in the world.

  "Hello, Whitlock."

  "Jules, I need an update."

  "He’s threatening to kill a hostage if we stop the train. I think he’s watching me."

  He blows out a quick breath. "Any idea where he might be keeping them?"

  "No, I haven’t had time to search."

  "What the hell? Jules—you need to figure this out."

  "I’m doing the best I can with what I have. I need blueprints of the train, research on the employees here, a passenger manifest.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “He keeps causing distractions that slow me down. There are only so many places to hide a person on a train. I’ll find them eventually."

  "That's not good enough!"

  No shit. "I can't be in fifty places at once."

  "Sawyer, remember who you’re dealing with. He knows every nook and cranny."

  "He’s doing this to spread me thin. I’m spending my time putting out fires and keeping the peace instead of searching for him."

  "Well, don’t stop the train. We need to wind him down, not give him reasons to kill more people. I know a hostage negotiator I can contact. If the killer makes good on his promise, we’ll have him in LA, anyway."

  "One of the crew is supposed to be gathering a list of former employees. I’ll forward it to you as soon as I get it."

  "Good. In the meantime, Jules, keep searching. Check every corner of that damn train."

  "I will. Bye."

  The screen goes dark, and Jules holds the phone to her heart as though it can quell its frantic beating. Whitlock told her nothing she didn’t already know. Risking a hostage’s life is out of the question, especially without a tactical team ready to intervene. Even if the killer was probably lying. There’s nothing she can do about it. She can’t stop the train, not with lives at risk.

  Suck it up.

  So she heaves the doors open and steps into the well-lit and much quieter third car. There are seats with tables scattered around with a bar to her immediate left. It’s a tiny wooden counter with a small wall of snacks and alcohol. A bartender wearing a stiff white shirt and a black tie gives her a warm smile that she doesn’t return.

  "Would you like a drink, ma’am?"

  "I’d love one, but it’s not the best idea. Thanks, though."

  "Something without booze, then." He slaps a tumbler on the bar and fills it with club soda and Torani strawberry syrup. With a flourish, he adds a maraschino cherry and gives her a toothy grin. "On the house."

  "Thanks."

  He stirs the drink so that the red clouds the entire glass, and then he pushes it toward her. The fruit sits over the ice where bubbles rise to the top and pop. She imagines the syrup sliding down her tongue with a hollow clench in her stomach. She wraps her fingers around the cool drink.

  "You’re the cop, right?"

  "How’d you know?"

  "Word travels fast. Um, is it true what they’re saying? I keep hearing something about an ear—"

  "Unfortunately, yes." He makes a face, and Jules can’t blame him. "Decorating a train with body parts is just about the sickest thing I’ve ever seen."

  "It does seem…extreme."

  "You didn’t see anything suspicious, did you? Anyone lugging a big suitcase they were struggling with?"

  "No, ma’am. Sorry."

  Apparently, no one opens their eyes on this train. "Great."

  "Officer—I mean, Detective." Herb appears at her elbow with a piece of paper. "I have a list for you."

  "Awesome." She relinquishes the drink and moves away from the bartender to grab the piece of paper, scanning the names. "This is great, thanks."

  Without access to a database she can’t do a whole lot here, but at least she can forward it to Whitlock with a text: Send me headshots. After doing just that, she turns her attention to Herb.

  "What can you say about them? Would they have any reason to have a chip on their shoulder?"

  "There’s not much to tell. Business has been slow with all the tech companies hiring shuttles for their employees. The express train boosted it, but we still had to make some layoffs."

  "When did you join the company?"

  "Two years ago. It was this or college, and, I dunno. It’s not a bad job. You walk down the cars a couple times and open the doors to check around the bends every so often." He shrugs.

  "While the train is moving?"

  "Yeah, standard safety checks."

  This must be how the killer is littering the countryside with body parts. No one would glance twice at an employee opening the doors. He could be a crewmember. She could be talking to him right now.

  Sobering thought. "Have you ever noticed an employee messing with the doors without permission?"

  "Nope, never saw a passenger do anything like that either."

  "What about frequent fliers—er—passengers? Got any of those?"

  Herb nods. "Sure. I can point them out if you like."

  "Yes, please."

  She slaps a five-dollar bill on the counter. The bartender slides it back to her. "Keep it."

  "Thanks."

  The bartender winks at her. "Just catch the guy, and that’ll be thanks enough."

  "Planning on it."

  She heads for the opposite end, toward the following car. She forces the barrier open—damn heavy doors—and takes one step through the door.

  "Detective!"

  Not again.

  The scream comes from behind.

  Herb moves out of the way as another employee sprints down the bar car, his face flushed. "Someone needs help!"

  "What happened?"

  "I don’t know, but he’s dying!"

  Jules shoves him as she runs past the shocked bartender into the second car. Panicked screams seem to erupt from all directions. There’s a group of bodies blocking her way into the thick of the chaos.

  "Detective Sawyer!" she shouts. "Move!"

  She grabs one of them and pushes them aside. Through the tangled mess of limbs, she glimpses a blue-tinged face. She elbows people away to see a young man gasping for breath on the floor and a middle-aged woman bent over his chest.

  The woman rips out the earpieces of her stethoscope, irritated. "Shut the hell up, all of you. I can’t hear anything!"

  A passenger waves her arms. "Quiet down! Doctor Cranston needs silence!"

  The voices die down into panicked sobs as the doctor rifles through the black purse at her side. The boy claws at his throat, gouging painful streaks down his neck.

  Jules kneels down beside her. "What do you need?"

  "I need an Epi-Pen!" She tosses her bag aside, angry. "Does anyone have an Epi-Pen? He’s dying!"

  At the word dying, their voices rise like a wave. Several shouts of "Oh my God!" echo around her. They shake their heads when she repeats the question. Jules snarls at the employee staring at the boy. "Go find one!"

  He sprints down the aisle, and even before he reaches the door Jules knows it’ll be no good. The young man is already blue, mouth gaping as his tongue swells and chokes his air. A desperate, strangling sound echoes throughout the car, and everyone falls silent as though struck dumb. His bloodshot eyes find hers.

  "Do something!"

  "I am!" she screams. "He needs a dose of epinephrine. There’s nothing else I can without it!"

  Jules searches the crowd. "Does anyone have an Epi-Pen?"

  They stare back at her, frightened. Helpless.

  "They don't have one!"

  "What about a defibrillator?"

  "We only have them at stations!" Herb says.

  The boy’s gasps are getting faint. Jules takes his hand when it falls limp at his side. Then it happens so fast she could’ve missed it by blinking. His eyelids flutter and stay shut. The pulse fades from his wrist.

  He’s gone.

  The doctor presses two fingers into his neck, swearing. Then she puts both hands on his chest and administers CPR, and the sheep scream again.

  The young man’s body jerks with the force of her palms, but no spark of life returns to his bloodshot eyes. There’s no sputtering, no pulse, nothing except cyanosis tingeing his lips with blue.

  After a while the doctor stops, and the screaming has faded into soft wails of despair. She exchanges a glance with Jules. "Time of death: 11:46 AM."

  Chapter 9

  12:15 PM – Sunol

  Fear crawls across her skin in raised goose bumps as Naomi reads the boy’s information in her darkened bedroom. She drew the shades as though to hide what she was doing from the whole world. It turns out adoptions are a matter of public record. It also turns out that one can find out pretty much anything about another person. All it takes is a credit card. With a click of her mouse, she found out the name of the boy the Parkers fostered, his address, phone number, and email.

  That’s creepy.

  Naomi feels uncomfortable with the fact that in this instance, she’s the creep. She tells herself it’s for the greater good. All she wants is to find that little girl, and if it turns out she’s wrong, she’ll only be guilty of violating a man’s privacy. That’s not as bad as the guilt from doing nothing.

  Her ancient printer chugs out the sheet of information she dug on Jacob Parker. No pictures, unfortunately, even when she tried to search for his Facebook profile. She had a moment of pride for thinking of social media until the list of Jacob Parkers popped up. There are too many of them in California alone for her to weed out, and she didn’t find one living close to her in San José.

  After she gets her things together, she’ll drive there and knock on his door. Who knows? Maybe he’s seen his sister. It’s possible they might’ve run into each other, even in a city as big as San José.

  Five minutes pass before the infernal printer spits out the page—she really needs a new one—and then she grabs her keys, heading out. The plastic she taped over the gaping hole in her window ripples in the wind. She really shouldn’t leave her house unprotected like this—but what choice does she have? The repair guy will come in a couple days, and she can’t stay here another minute.

  As she grabs the doorknob, Cooper gives her a short bark as though to remind her he’s still there.

  "No," she says, turning her head around. "I can’t take you. You don’t like car rides, and Jacob might not like dogs. Stay here and guard the place."

  She doesn’t know why she bothers to give orders to the dog. Cooper barks in protest as she twists the handle, and keeps wailing when she steps outside. His voice rings clear across the street. The neighbors will probably throw a second brick through her windows.

  An acid feeling gouges the pit of her stomach as she walks past the House of Horrors. Yesterday, Naomi got off with a firm warning from the police officer who responded to the call. She swore up and down she only wanted to make sure Mrs. Parker was fine.

  Who’s going to look after Naomi?

  That troubling thought sits with her when she slides into the car, hand halfway to the ignition. With a resigned sigh, she digs through her purse for her last-generation iPhone and dials the number for the police department, hitting the extension for Landry.

  He picks up immediately. "Detective Landry."

  "It’s Naomi." She bristles when he groans. "That’s incredibly rude."

  "I told you to limit your phone calls, Ms. Friedman."

  "Something’s come up. I’m following a lead."

  "Sorry—what?"

  Is he dumb or what? "A lead—like a clue. I’m driving to San José right now."

  "I know what that is. Is it about Candace?"

  "Of course it is. And guess what? It only took me twenty-five dollars and the internet to find it out."

  "Naomi, listen to me. Go back to your house and wait for me. There is no circumstance where you should pursue this on your own. I mean it, damn it. If I find out you’ve handled another foot—"

  "I am not going home. I’ve spent too much time sitting on my hands waiting for you to do your job, and I’m sick of it!"

  He’s screaming into the phone now. "Do not go to San José!"

  "I found her brother." Naomi smiles when she hears his flustered response.

  "What? There is no—what are you talking about?"

  "Jacob Parker."

  "Him—you’re bothering me about him? We already cleared the guy weeks ago! Jesus Christ, you are wasting my time with this shit. Stop calling me!"

  The phone dies, and Naomi stares at it in shock. He’s never used profanity against her. She doesn’t know why she’s surprised. Everything about Landry screams unevolved.

  Cleared—yeah, whatever. She watched him "clear" the nature reserve, too. Oh, and he also "cleared" the Parkers even though there’s something seriously wrong with those people. No, she’ll meet Jacob Parker for her own peace of mind. If there’s one thing she’s learned, it’s that nothing gets done unless she does it herself.