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‘Yeah,’ Mike said. ‘I need a shirt.’

The man’s mouth came ajar, the fringe of his white mustache hanging over his upper lip.

Mike said, ‘Give me your shirt.’

The man pressed a smile onto his face. Shep helped him out of his jacket, and then the man loosened his tie, unbuttoned his
shirt, and handed it to Mike.

Mike pulled it on, grimacing, and began pushing the buttons through the holes. ‘Thanks. You’re all fired.’

He and Shep continued on toward the Mustang.

‘You need us,’ the man called after him. ‘Who will run the casino?’

Mike said, over his shoulder, ‘You’ll have to talk to my chief of operations.’

The man, bare-chested beneath his suit jacket, climbed back into the town car, and the dark car eased away. They came up on
the Mustang, and Mike ran a finger along one of the racing stripes.

Shep said, ‘Chief of operations?’

Mike tilted his head at him.

‘Yeah?’ Shep said. ‘How much?’

‘How much you want?’

‘Can I still pull jobs?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

Mike tugged open the door, and Shep gripped his hands and
helped lower him down into the bucket seat. Shep tossed in a wad of cash and his cell phone – the sole surviving Batphone
– and Mike rested both by the e-brake and swung the door closed. The engine roared to life, but before Mike could back out,
Shep tapped the glass.

When Mike rolled down the window, Shep said, ‘They always say it doesn’t solve anything. Revenge. But when you killed them,
did it feel good?’

‘Yes,’ Mike said, and drove off.

The few times he stopped for gas, food, or caffeine, he drew odd stares. Fair enough – with his dress shirt, scrub bottoms,
and bare feet, he did look like he’d escaped from an asylum. He popped Advil for the pain, but it was mostly adrenaline that
kept him pushing through. The drive was long, and he dreamed a little.

He’d get immunity or wouldn’t, but either way he’d return Kat and Annabel to their home and they’d have enough money from
the casino to be taken care of for the rest of their lives. He could repay his countless debts of gratitude – to Hank’s survivors,
to Jocelyn Wilder, to Jimmy. Hell, he could repipe all of Green Valley with vitri-fucking-fied clay or pay back the fraudulent
green subsidies. Those houses would be the first place he’d spend the casino’s money, a public penance for the lie that had
put all this into motion.

And whether as a free man or on prison release, he would have a quiet little ceremony for his parents. John and Danielle Trainor.
Proper caskets. He would lay them in the ground and turn over the first spadeful.

At long last he would put them to rest.

At a truck stop an hour away, sipping Coke and eating a Snickers, he caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror. A
few drops of blood, probably from a dripping IV line, had dried on the lobe of his ear, and whoever had shaved him had missed
a patch of stubble at the corner of his jaw. He licked his
thumb and tried to wipe the blood off, and it wasn’t until he saw how badly his hand was shaking that he realized how nervous
he was. He went into the bathroom, washed his face, and did his best to make himself look human again. Still, by the time
he got the Mustang back on the road, his pain had taken a backseat to the hum of fear running like a current between his ears.

He entered Parker, Arizona, passing the movie theater where he’d taken Kat, the little dress shop, the diner at which they’d
eaten their last meal. Nausea returned like a muscle memory, and, flustered, he lost his way. He got turned around, winding
through suburban circles, his frustration bringing him to the verge of tears.

The Batphone rang. Praying for help, he answered.

‘Graham, it seems, was shot during a random home-invasion robbery.’

It took him a few seconds to place the voice. Bill Garner.

Garner continued. ‘Would you like to contradict that account?’

Mike thought of how far back it all went with Graham. Mike’s father, Just John, struggling to the death. The last name that
Mike had been saddled with as a four-year-old, assigned by a faceless smart-ass in Social Services. And now it had come full
circle. The record would show that Graham had been killed by an unidentified suspect – a John Doe.

‘No,’ Mike said.

‘I had to go to the wall to get Shepherd White included under your immunity deal,’ he said. ‘It was closer than you’d ever
like to know. I’ll say one thing, Mike, you’ve got stamina.’

Mike said, ‘And loyalty.’

A street opened up off a curve. He’d looped past it twice before but somehow not seen it.

Garner was saying, ‘—DA can send the documents on to—’

Mike came off the turn, and there ahead was the rambling ranch house and the backyard filled with play structures and girls
in motion. ‘I have to go.’

‘We’re talking about your immunity,’ Garner said. ‘You got somewhere more important to be?’

‘Yeah,’ Mike said. ‘I do.’

He eased in to the curb where he’d parked before, where he and Kat had struck their dire deal.

You will come back for me.

I will come back for you.

Before he could brace himself, he saw her, off the front porch, pouring water from a plastic bucket onto a wilted fern. She
was wearing the yellow gingham dress he’d bought her, though the sleeve was torn and the hem ragged.

He got out of the Mustang, his legs barely able to sustain him. At the slam of the car door, she looked up, a smudge of dirt
on her cheek. She looked right at him.

And then she turned and walked inside.

A breeze blew across his face, an empty, desert sound, and for a moment he actually thought it would shatter him. He stood
trembling. He did his best to put himself back together, piece by piece, before he felt steady enough to follow her in.

An older girl answered the door. ‘Are you . . .?’

He said, ‘Yes.’

A husband. A father
.

The girl stepped aside.

Over on the couch, Jocelyn took note of him and beckoned the swirl of children in the room, corralling them magically around
her. They hushed and looked with darting eyes.

Jocelyn said, ‘She’s outside.’

Mike’s mouth moved twice before he could speak. ‘Thank you.’

Kat was sitting past the swing set on a patch of cracked asphalt, playing with a doll. Legless Barbie. She was mumbling to
herself, manipulating the arms this way and that. Her hair was uncombed and her nails dirty.

Mike reached her. She did not look up. Given the staples and
sutures, it took him a while to lower himself to the ground opposite her. He watched her play. Still she did not raise her
head.

He reached into the pocket of his scrub pants, tugged out Snowball II, and set it on the ground between them. In a burst of
anger, Kat picked up the tiny stuffed polar bear and threw it off into the weeds at the base of the fence.

Mike said, ‘Okay.’

The staples gnawed at his skin, but he wouldn’t move. He watched her hands, the scab on her knee, the top of her head. He
was aching to hold her, but he forced himself to sit still, to let her arrive at this moment on her own time. She tilted her
head, and he caught a glimpse of her cheek. It was quivering. She banged Barbie against the asphalt.

He said, ‘How’s she feel about having one leg?’

Kat said, ‘She’s angry.’

‘I bet.’

He wanted so badly to reach out and touch her arm, to stroke her hair, to take her hand. Overhead, a woodpecker knocked its
face against a telephone pole.

‘It’s okay now,’ he told her.

Kat banged the doll a few more times, then set it down. Tentatively, keeping her face pointed at the ground, she crawled across
into his lap. She curled against his chest, and pain rocketed through to his spinal cord, but he didn’t give a damn. All he
cared about was her head tucked beneath his chin.

‘Look at me,’ he said gently.

She didn’t move.

‘Honey, look at me.’

Slowly, she lifted her eyes.

He said, ‘It’s okay now.’

And then she was sobbing, screaming, pulling his shirt and pounding her fists against his collarbone. He held her, grunting
against the pain, his forehead pressed to hers, rocking her. It was
gray with dusk, and still he sat, aching, legs splayed out awkwardly before him, holding her as she quieted, holding her
until the only movement was the shuddering of her breath moving through her, holding her, holding her, holding her.

Several experts took time to offer valuable guidance on matters medical, logistical, editorial, and tactical. Thanks to Kristin
Baird, M.D., John Cayanne, Philip Eisner, Tyler Felt, Marjorie Hurwitz, Missy Hurwitz, M.D., Don McKim, James Murphy, Bret
Nelson, M.D., Andrew Plotkin, Emily Prior, and Maureen Sugden. Any flaws in the book are due not to them but to the author’s
inherent obstinacy.

Thanks to my supportive and untiring representatives: attorneys Marc H. Glick and Stephen F. Breimer, and agents Rich Green,
Aaron Priest, and the irrepressible Lisa Erbach Vance. Incisive (and patient) editor Keith Kahla and my crew at St. Martin’s
– including but certainly not limited to publisher Sally Richardson, Matthew Baldacci, Jeff Capshew, Tara Cibelli, Kathleen
Conn, Ann Day, Brian Heller, Ken Holland, Loren Jaggers, Sarah Madden, John Murphy, Matthew Shear, Tom Siino, Martin Quinn,
and George Witte. Additionally, I’d like to acknowledge David Shelley, Daniel Mallory, and rest of the UK Sphere contingent,
as well as my other publishing partners around the world. Also my Rhodesian ridgeback, Simba, present for the vast majority
of the keyboard’s rattling.

And Delinah, there for me every day with a smile that, ten years later, I still feel in my hip pocket.

Gregg Hurwitz

‘Tough, true, well-written, and memorable as hell . . .’ James Patterson

When bestselling thriller writer Andrew Danner wakes up in a hospital bed with no idea how he got there, he is horrified to
be told that he is responsible for the murder of his ex-fiancee.

In the resulting celebrity trial, Drew is exonerated on the grounds of temporary insanity caused by a recent brain tumour.
But he still has no idea if he did kill Genevieve, and is desperate to find out. Haunted by what appear to be his bizarre
night-time actions, Drew is shocked when another woman is discovered dead, murdered in the same way as Genevieve.

Trying to clear his name and understand what’s happening to him, Drew enlists the help of a tame forensic scientist, a sympathetic
detective, his staunch friend Chic who has helpful underworld connections, and an over-confident teenager. Can Drew discover
what really happened that night and unmask the real killer?

‘A thrilling, mind-bending journey, it is also deeply humane and beautifully written. You’ll turn the final page with profound
regret’ Dennis Lehane

978-0-7515-3977-6

Gregg Hurwitz

‘The breathtaking pace of this thriller is set from the opening scene’
Sunday Telegraph

A good job, a decent flat in Los Angeles, a quiet life – Nick Horrigan has finally put his traumatic past behind him. Or so
it seems, until a SWAT team smashes into his place in the middle of the night. Still in pyjamas, he’s dragged outside to a
waiting helicopter. He’s told that a terrorist has seized control of a nuclear power plant and is threatening to blow it up
. . . unless he can talk to Nick.

Flown into a deadly intrigue, Nick is charged with a dangerous secret, one that will take him from the dark alleys of the
city to behind the scenes of a Presidential race. As he rockets toward the truth, peeling back layer after layer of lies and
deception, only one thing is certain: the long-buried secret, tied to the traumas of his own past, threatens his life at every
turn.

‘This tight thriller begins explosively, keeps up the suspense, and the denouement truly delivers’
Best

978-0-7515-3977-6