Driving to San José is an ordeal on the weekdays. No matter what, the 680 is always packed with traffic, and Naomi kills time by listening to audiobooks. As she drives closer to the valley, an orange line of smog stretches across the horizon. The pollution is like a thick blanket, smothering everyone underneath.

  Naomi curses as she navigates the wide freeways and takes the exit for the heart of downtown. She stares straight ahead when a homeless man walks to her window with a beaten-up cardboard sign. It’s not a pretty city. Everything is dilapidated, grimy, and sad.

  After another fifteen minutes of swearing and endless loops around Jacob’s apartment complex, she finds a parking spot in a garage. The engine ticks after she turns off the ignition, and she hears voices echoing. Her heart hammers against her chest, and she scoops the change from her car, dumping it into her purse.

  It takes a brisk five-minute walk for her to reach Jacob’s apartment complex, a depressingly unkempt building where homeless men stinking of urine are sprawled on the sidewalk in front of it.

  "Spare some change?"

  Naomi ignores the throaty voice and makes a beeline for the steps, slipping inside to the stairwell. Her nostrils sting with the unmistakable tang of pot smoke. Kids as young as Candace sit on the stairs, laughing. She heads upstairs to number 432. By the time she clears the four flights, her legs are shaking. Nausea rises like a line in her throat. There’s music booming from apartment 432. She reaches for the door and her hand trembles. Damn it, she shouldn’t this city get to her.

  She balls her fist and knocks hard enough so that even a waste-of-space stoner like those kids downstairs could hear her.

  "Jacob? Could you come to the door, please?"

  She hears nothing but heavy metal music. Why people listen to that unintelligible crap, she’ll never understand.

  "Hello?" She rings the bell like an obnoxious jerk, but no one comes.

  Okay, now she’s pissed. This is the second time this week she’s been ignored, and she can’t stand it. Why have a freaking bell if you never answer it?

  "Come on!" she yells. "I know you’re in there!"

  Bang, bang, bang!

  "I’m not going anywhere!"

  A door opens down the hall, and a hefty woman with long black hair walks out, searching for the noise. Naomi glances at her before hammering again.

  "Hey! Stop banging on that door!"

  "I’m sorry," she says, not sorry at all. "But it’s none of your business."

  "Well, I’m the landlord, so it is."

  She drove all this way just to ask Jacob a few questions, and she’s not giving up now. "I’m trying to reach my son," she says, mentally patting herself on the back for that stroke of genius. "Jacob hasn’t been answering his phone for a few days."

  The landlord crosses her thick arms and gives her a once-over. "I’m sorry, but I can’t unlock the door."

  "Are you serious? He might’ve cracked his head open on the bathtub or something. Just let me in—you can come with me if you want."

  She heaves a sigh. "It just so happens that I haven’t been able to reach him either. Neighbors have been complaining about the noise."

  "I’ll be in and out. Promise."

  The landlord gives her a nod after making some kind of silent judgment call on whether to trust her or not, and then she grabs the giant set of keys hanging on her waist. Naomi’s pulse races with the thrill of duping this woman into breaking into an apartment. She realizes it’s the second one this week and wonders if she’s becoming a criminal.

  The door yawns open, and the heavy metal blasts their ears. "Jacob?"

  It’s almost as though there’s another voice wailing in the song. She steps into the foyer and finds the stereo sitting, of all places, in the entry. The music shuts off when she yanks the cord from the wall. For a moment Naomi thinks she screwed up because the screaming is still piercing her ears, except it sounds a lot more high-pitched.

  "HELP ME!"

  Naomi darts into the cramped living room, eyes watering at the stench. She sees a girl bound in ropes, her hair like a tangled nest around her dirty face. She lunges against the bindings trapping her, and Naomi wonders for one foolish second if this is some wild animal and not a little girl at all.

  Then the girl’s eyes widen. "Naomi?" Her voice cracks. "Help me!"

  "Candace!" Naomi sinks to her knees and wraps her arms around Candace’s thin shoulders as the girl sags against her, sobbing. "I can’t believe you’re here!"

  "Help me! Please, help me!"

  A wordless cry shudders from Naomi’s chest as she holds Candace close. She’s alive! And more or less in one piece. "It’s okay, baby girl," Naomi chokes out. "You’re safe."

  "Holy shit." The landlord says, pointing to something. "That’s a fucking bomb!"

  And then she bolts out.

  Ridiculous. Why would there be a bomb in Jacob’s apartment? Why—

  And then she sees it sitting there as bold as brass.

  The words pressure cooker, wires, and Boston Bombings flash through her mind along with the vivid images of a street painted red with missing limbs.

  Fear kicks Naomi like a hoof to the chest and she sprawls backward, screaming.

  Chapter 10

  12:27 PM – LA Express

  The body of Brandon Hughes lies on the floor, dead from two peanut shells in a half-eaten bag of nuts they found nearby. The cheeks are already sunken, and blue crawls up the veins of his chest and neck. In a couple hours, Brandon will start to smell, and she’s not sure how the body will keep on the train. She shuts her eyes as a cold feeling grips her insides. It never gets easier, especially when they’re kids.

  He’s not the first college-aged boy she’s ever dealt with. Once, she convicted two frat boys in a hazing ritual gone awry with second-degree murder. Their sentencing struck a pang of loss inside her that she hadn't experienced before. Maybe it was because they were so young.

  What a damn waste.

  It doesn’t help that his cheeks are still round with baby fat, although now they’re hollowed with death. She’s seen it before so many times—the transformation from life to death. The way the body seems to deflate and shrink within seconds of a person’s passing always creeps her out, which is surprising. You’d think she’d be used to it.

  "What’s happening?" The woman in the flowery dress stands up, her skinny arms shaking. "What the hell is going on?"

  "He had an allergic reaction, ma’am," the doctor says. "There was nothing I could do."

  Should Jules nod along, repeat the doctor’s words even though she doesn’t believe them? The woman watches her with a judgmental stare until her husband leads her away.

  Jules failed this kid. There’s no way around that. There’ll be time to beat herself up about it, but not now. Shaking, she dives into her purse and pops out more pink pills. They don't do a damn thing for her ulcers.

  The pills won't help her and bodies are piling up around her and she feels overwhelmed—so overwhelmed it’s hard to breathe.

  "You all right?" Doctor Cranston asks.

  Jules is having a goddamn panic attack. "Just—need a minute." She attempts a smile, and judging by the doctor’s alarmed expression she realizes she made a grimace.

  Take a deep breath.

  The roaring sound fades as she sucks down air. Her first attempt is a little shaky, but the second fills her lungs. That’s better. She can't have a panic attack right now. She imagines herself standing outside a locked room and shoves a mirror image of herself inside. The copycat is screaming. Jules slams the door in her face and turns a big metal key, locking it. When she can’t hear the fists pounding on the door, she opens her eyes. When she gazes at Brandon Hughes again it’s with a professional and detached eye.

  There are no ligature marks around his throat. Red dots—burst capillaries—fill his upper eyelids. A quick search through his backpack produces applications to college already filled out. She thumbs through them and can’t help but notice his neat handwriting, the way he loops his l’s, and the comments in red ink written in the margins. A teacher must’ve looked them over as a favor and given him pointers. Then she opens his binder and is surprised to see every subject labeled in the same tidy writing. All his notes are meticulous, almost clinical. She expects doodles on the pages, but not this kid.

  Doctor Cranston thumbs Brandon’s mouth and taps the swollen tongue with her latexed finger. "See that? Classic symptom of anaphylaxis. If someone had an Epi-Pen, he would’ve been fine."

  "So…you think it was an accident."

  The doctor snaps off her gloves. "You don’t?"

  "Look at this kid’s binder. Have you ever seen a teenage boy this organized?" Jules doesn’t know much about Brandon, but the way he color-coded his schedule doesn’t scream dummy.

  She shrugs. "Shit happens, Detective."

  "Believe me, I know. I can’t make sense out of it. Someone with a life-threatening allergy would carry an Epi-Pen everywhere."

  "Welcome to my world. Not a weekend goes by where I don’t have to pump the stomach of some idiot kid. You have no idea how many twenty-year-olds think they’re indestructible."

  "Why eat a bag of nuts—why even open one?"

  The doctor shrugs but still looks unfazed. "Kids are stupid."

  Jules can’t swallow that down and accept it as fact when there was a dead man in the women’s bathroom. Now there’s another one lying at her feet, also with blond hair and fair skin. Is it an odd coincidence? Is it really some unlucky combination of hunger and stupidity that led Brandon Hughes to keel over dead?

  Kids make dumb choices, yeah, but she doubts someone who knew that a single peanut shell could choke the life out of them would open a bag labeled with: CONTAINS NUTS. Even her diabetic, eight-year-old niece knows not to eat candy that exceeds fifteen grams of sugar.

  It just doesn’t feel right.

  Jules returns to the seat where Brandon was found convulsing. The crumpled bag of peanuts is on the floor. An empty glass sits on the tray table, droplets of water still clinging to the lip. Using her sleeve, she picks it up. She tilts it and sees fingerprints all over the sides.

  A hiss of the doors opening cuts through the sobbing in the car, and Charles Hicks steps through. His eyes widen at the sight of the boy lying on the floor, dead. He irons his face with his hands. "Jesus. Another one?"

  Jules’ insides clench. "Apparently it was an accident."

  "What?"

  "He ate peanuts knowing full well he had a life-threatening allergy. That’s the doctor’s guess, anyway."

  "You don’t sound like you believe that."

  She shakes her head. "I don’t know what to think."

  Looking shocked, he crosses his arms. "How could he have killed him?"

  "That’s what’s stumping me. Everyone says they saw Brandon open the peanuts, and then thirty seconds later he showed symptoms."

  "I guess he could’ve poisoned the peanuts. Closed the bag with a hot glue gun or something, but it seems like such a roundabout way of killing someone. You said the last guy had ligature marks and this one didn’t."

  That’s true.

  "I guess it could be a freak accident." Jules glances at the body again.

  "He said he wouldn’t kill if we kept the train going."

  "Did you really expect the serial killer to keep his word?"

  Hicks shoots her a wounded look. "Point."

  "There’s a million reasons why he said that. I need you to stay here and watch over Brandon while I make calls."

  "All right," he says in a world-weary tone.

  Heading for the unoccupied corner of the car, she grabs the phone in her purse and dials Whitlock’s number.

  "Hey—upda—?"

  "Did you say updates?"

  "Jule—need—update."

  Damn. The reception’s terrible, and Whitlock’s voice keeps cutting in and out. "There’s another body."

  "I—kidding?"

  "You’re breaking up! Look, the doctor on board thinks it’s anaphylaxis, but I don’t buy it."

  A series of garbled words bark out of the speaker. She can’t make sense of them. Perfect timing, damn it!

  "Let’s text instead," Jules says before hanging up the phone.

  Frustration burns in her chest when she types in a message and it takes minutes for it to send. Whitlock’s reply takes just as long: If I heard you correctly, there’s another victim. You need to stop the train.

  Her thumbs hover over the screen before typing her response: That's not a good idea. There might be a hostage.

  The hostage is dead and you don’t have control over the situation.

  Heat rises to her cheeks in fiery patches. Whitlock might as well have reached through the iPhone screen to slap her. She stabs her reply: I don't think he was the hostage. I know what I’m doing. If you have updates, lmk. Otherwise, shut up.

  The text sends, and she shuts the phone off. Going back and forth with Whitlock won’t help. The kid might’ve died from an accident, and if she causes another death by stopping the train she'll never forgive herself. She can't make a rash decision, not with the killer right under her nose.

  Jules glances at Hicks, who moves up and down the car to comfort people. She’s got no leads, just a nagging suspicion that the killer is someone who’s followed her closely. Hicks sure as hell fits the bill, but he’s been doing crowd control this whole time, and she doesn’t see him squeezing in murder in between all his duties.

  Then there’s Vinny. He’s nasty and combative, but he almost lost his lunch when she waved that ear in front of his face. He's also been in that control car the whole time.

  Nothing jumps out about the other employees. Herb’s been helpful. Could be him, but—no. He was there with Vinny when she told them about Mark Nilsen, who was being dragged away at that very second by the killer to car number two, where he left the lovely ear on the chair.

  She racks her brains for any similarities between the bodies. Mark died of strangulation, but there were no marks on Brandon’s body. Both men are blond. That’s about where the comparisons begin and end.

  Face it, you’ve got nothing.

  Not nothing. She knows he’s a serial killer who likes to collect trophies. He has no problem taking responsibility for a murder.

  Jules returns to the seat where Brandon died and runs over the cushions with her hands. Crouching down, she looks underneath and sees old wads of multicolored gum. She opens the tray table, extends it, and shuts it again. The pockets in front have beaten-up travel magazines and a complimentary barf bag. She digs at the cushion, convinced he would have left something. There’s nothing there but crumbs of food. Irritated, she stands up.

  Her head smashes into the overhead compartment. "Shit!"

  A passenger gives her a reproachful look.

  The stupid thing is so low, she’s surprised people don’t hit their heads more often. Glancing up, she looks at the round knob that controls the air and swears a second time, earning a "Really?" from the same woman.

  Jules pays her no mind. She curses herself for missing the one-way ticket stuck to the ceiling.

  Chapter 11

  1:30 PM – San José

  A pressure-cooker bomb wired to explode sits two feet away from Detective Landry’s shoes. Horror pierces his chest as he imagines a ball of fire engulfing them all, incinerating the apartment and leveling the floor.

  There’s an honest-to-God IED smack dab in San José’s downtown.

  Waves of shock roll through him, obliterating every other sensation. A violent urge to jump backward grips him. The bomb is close enough to kill him, or at least blow his legs off. A collage of maimed Afghanistan veterans slides through his head.

  He assumed it was another one of Naomi’s crackpot theories. If she knew it was dangerous why call him? Being a missing persons detective hardly qualified him to dismantle bombs, but she called him anyway. He drove here thinking he’d find a hollowed-out alarm clock. Instead he found something lethal.

  It sits in front of a decaying Christmas tree, the stainless steel body reflecting his legs. The blast cap and the cell phone taped to its side are a dead giveaway, and the way it’s wrapped up in tape. Pressure cooker IEDs work by amplifying explosions in closed environments. The more steam that’s trapped inside, the more violent the explosion. He looks around its sides. There’s no timer anywhere he can see. The cell phone has a battery pack hooked up to it, and there’s a wire running through the phone, which is attached to a blast cap. If that thing rings, they’re all dead. It’ll go off at the whim of whoever the hell made this. It could blow any second, and Landry would be lucky to be able to scream before it killed him.

  "See?" Naomi’s aggravating voice breaks his numbing shock. "I told you there was a bomb!"

  His mouth dry, he blinks once, and the filmy cloud obscuring his vision dissolves. The explosive device is still there. So is Naomi. She’s sitting on the filthy floor with her arms wrapped around Candace Parker, the girl he was supposed to find. Him, not the idiot who dumped a foot on his desk. 'Course, he’s the one who responded to a bomb threat without calling for backup.

  He’s going to get so much shit. "I can’t believe this."

  "Is that all you have to say?"

  Oh, he has plenty of things he’d like to say. The maddening look of superiority on her thin face is enough to make him fly into a rage. "Why the hell didn’t you call 9-1-1? It’s a bomb! This is completely—I’m a missing persons detective, damn it!"

  "I thought you should know I did your job for you. You’re welcome."

  The child in her arms lets out a small whimper. For the second time, he snaps his attention toward Candace. The sight of her dirty cheeks and hollowed stare fill him with gut-wrenching shame.

  "I need to get her out of here." He gazes around the apartment, which is a total dump. The whole place is saturated with the sharp scent of unwashed bodies. The living room is narrow. Shelves stack on the sides, crammed to the brim with books. Stuffed animals, picture frames, coffee mugs are jammed in every free space. There could be more explosives hidden within all the junk.