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ISBN 978-0-316-55629-3

E3-20170908-NF-DA

Table of Contents

Cover

Letter from James Patterson

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

About the Authors

BookShots.com

Newsletters

Navigation

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Staten Island Register
Breaking news update
Playground Killer suspect to be released

Thomas Scott, the man arrested in connection with the Playground Killer slayings, is due to be released from custody this afternoon. According to law enforcement sources, key evidence in the case has been dismissed by a judge.

About forty members of the press are waiting outside the front doors of Richmond County Supreme Court. Extra police officers are being called in to help contain the crowd.

The reign of the Playground Killer began in June, when Billy Taylor, 5, was discovered in the early morning hours, laid out on a slide in a playground on the South Shore of Staten Island. Two more victims followed, arranged in a similar fashion: Mei Zhou, 4, in September, and just a few weeks ago, John Kennelly Junior, 5.

All three children had attended the same day care center, Happy Times, in Westerleigh. Suspicion quickly fell on Thomas Scott, 37, who is a part-time custodian at Happy Times.

Police were unable to obtain a warrant to search his home—a small, one-bedroom apartment in Eltingville. Scott reportedly lives alone and has no known immediate family.

A few days ago, an anonymous source turned over to police evidence found in Scott’s apartment. While police will not confirm, sources have told the Register that it was a collection of photographs of the young victims.

But in a shocking twist, emails uncovered by Scott’s lawyer reveal that Detective Rex Hanlon, the lead investigator on the case, collaborated with one of the victims’ parents to break into Scott’s home to search for evidence.

Judge Kelly Reyes ruled that the evidence was obtained in violation of Scott’s constitutional right to privacy. With the only hard evidence against him suppressed, Scott is due to be released.

Detective Hanlon has been suspended with pay. Law enforcement sources say they’re still pursuing Scott as a suspect.

But many fear a killer may be back on the streets.

“I don’t feel safe with him out there,” said Julie Rodriguez, a mother of two who was playing with her children in Silver Lake Park. “I think I’m just going to take my kids home now.”

Keep an eye on the Register website for up-to-the-minute updates from the scene.

Chapter 2

Thomas Scott

THOMAS SCOTT STEPPED out of the glass doors of the Richmond County Courthouse, squinting in the harsh sunlight. He was greeted by a cavalcade of clicking cameras. The shiny bulbs made the press look like a horde of insects, advancing and ready to devour him. That’s pretty much how it felt, too.

He should have asked if there was another exit out of the building. His lawyer had warned him there would be reporters, but he didn’t think it would be this bad. He’d never seen so many people who wanted his attention at one time.

His heart slammed in his chest and he felt light-headed. He looked behind him, hoping he could retreat to the safety of the courthouse, but saw only a line of stone-faced cops blocking the glass doors.

The reporters kept hurling questions at him, yelling over each other to be heard. Each question cut like a knife.

“How do you feel?”

“What did the judge say?”

“What do you plan to do next?”

“Did you kill those children?”

Thomas felt a hand on his arm and turned to find his lawyer, Mark Amato. The handsome young man didn’t betray any concern or nervousness, just smiled that hundred-watt smile of his and whispered, “Don’t say anything.”

Amato ran his hand through his brown hair—like it was a ploy to draw attention to his artfully sculpted haircut—and put up a finger up in the air. The questions stopped and the cameras turned toward him.

“We’re very pleased the judge agreed that the police violated my client’s Fourth Amendment right to privacy with their illegal search,” Amato said. “Mr. Scott is innocent of these heinous crimes. He looks forward to returning to his routine, as well as seeing the real killer brought to justice. We have no further statement at this time.”

Thomas couldn’t help but smile, even though he had been concentrating on looking neutral. Amato warned him that every newspaper tomorrow would run a picture of his face on the front page, and his expression would be endlessly analyzed. Plus, he knew how he looked. His nickname in high school was “Caveman,” thanks to his heavy brow and big hands.

Losing most of his hair in the last few years hadn’t helped anything.

He wasn’t handsome like Amato. The guy was young, probably no more than 30, but he was confident and smooth. He looked like the kind of lawyer you saw on television. When Thomas was first arrested, he got a dozen offers from attorneys looking to represent him. Amato was the only one who made him feel comfortable. It helped that Amato offered to take the case pro bono, too.

But while he was good, he wasn’t that good. The press didn’t want to hear that there’d be no further statement. They continued to shout questions, pushing closer. Beyond them were people screaming “monster” and “murderer” and “psychopath.” Thomas felt like if the press wasn’t in between him and them, the crowd would tear him apart.

Amato gripped Thomas’s arm and pulled him through the crowd. One of the reporters grabbed his other arm, trying to get his attention, and Thomas yanked it away. Anger and fear and confusion were buzzing in his head like a swarm of flies. He tried to distract himself as they pushed through the crowd. Focus on something good.

He thought about home. He wondered if it had gotten dusty in the five days that he was gone. Probably did. He’d have to sweep, but then he’d have to mop, too. Just to be sure. That’s the thing about dirt—it’s a constant battle just to keep it at bay.

He thought about his bathroom, too. His clean bathroom. It would be a welcome sight, after the cold metal toilet bolted to the wall in his cell. It looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since it was installed. Thomas couldn’t bring himself to sit on it. He had to hover over it, his legs aching and cramped because of the awkward angle.

Early on, Amato had been hopeful the judge would set bail, but given the high profile nature of the case and the clear and present danger to the community, Thomas was remanded to Rikers Island. Amato warned him it wasn’t going to be a pleasant visit, that anyone who was believed to have perpetrated violence against children wasn’t safe in a prison setting. There was a hierarchy, and an alleged child-murderer would be at the bottom.

That became clear on the first day. Thomas was waiting to use the phone to call Amato when a young man called him a kiddie-killer and cracked him in the jaw. He went tumbling to the floor and a group of inmates surrounded him. Through their kicking feet he could see one guard rushing to help him—and another guard step in his way, to make him wait. To give the inmates a few minutes to beat on him.

After a doctor who wouldn’t look Thomas in the eye confirmed he didn’t have any cracked ribs or internal bleeding, the guards decided to put him in solitary confinement. “The Bing,” people called it.

It was a small room with a cot, a thin foam mattress, and a toilet/sink combo. He was alone for twenty-three hours a day. That lone hour of freedom was for the shower, or walking around in a circle in a small activity room.

In the beginning it wasn’t so bad, outside of the pain. He would roll over in his sleep and a jolt would travel through his torso and he’d wake up. But Thomas didn’t mind the rest. The solitary part. He was used to being alone.

It was the filth that got to him. Being locked in a place where dirt had won the war, it was pretty much his worst nightmare come true.

The grimy window and the crud on the toilet. The dirt in the corners that he couldn’t quite wipe away with a wad of wet toilet paper. The occasional roach that would scurry across the floor. He could never figure out where they came from. They just appeared. He asked a corrections officer for a bucket of cleaning supplies, figuring that cleaning would help pass the time. The officer just laughed at him. Thomas didn’t understand why. He wanted to help.

All he ever wanted to do was help.

It turned out, though, he wasn’t safe just because he was alone. The guards would push him, yell at him. One guard in particular would shove his food tray hard enough through the slot that it would clatter to the floor, the contents spilling across the concrete. Thomas would do his best to clean it up but couldn’t bring himself to eat any of the spoiled food.

By the fourth night, he was crying himself to sleep, his sobs drowned out by the sounds of the men screaming and yelling in the cells next to him. If there is a Hell, that was what it is like.

But that didn’t matter anymore, because he was out.

As Thomas and Amato approached the curb, where a shiny black car Amato had arranged was waiting, they were peppered with more questions.

“What do you think about the judge’s decision?”

“Do you still trust the police?”

“Do you have anything to say to the parents?”

And then, a yell cut through the crowd.

“You son of a bitch!”

The press parted, turning their clicking cameras and outstretched recorders toward the man barreling Thomas’s way.

He was a big guy, heavy around the midsection, sandy hair thinning, meaty fists balled up. The kind of guy who’d played football in college and could still do some damage. And damage seemed to be his goal.

Thomas recognized him. John Junior’s father.

John Junior was—had been—smart and funny and energetic. Always said hello to Thomas, asked him how his day was. Always said please and thank you. He was a good kid.

His father didn’t look nearly as amiable.

John launched himself into Thomas, hitting him in the midsection, and the two of them tumbled to the ground. Thomas felt his head smack off the pavement, pain radiating through his skull and his still-bruised torso. He tried to roll over. Some reporters were caught in the scuffle and knocked down with them. Others were throwing elbows and swinging cameras, jockeying for position, trying to get the best view of the melee. And as a result, more of them ended up falling into the tangle of limbs.

Thomas tried to extricate himself from the scrum and felt a fist bounce off his chin. He looked up and saw John Junior’s dad, rearing back to hit him again. So completely consumed by anger, he looked like a wild animal. Two cops appeared and pulled him away, his feet kicking into the air.

Thomas climbed to his feet and stood there, numb, as Amato dusted him off and said, “Let’s get to the car. Now.”

Thomas turned to his right and found a cop staring at him. An older, lanky guy with a bushy mustache. The cop leaned in, getting so close to Thomas’s ear that Thomas could feel his hot breath. He grabbed Thomas’s elbow, digging his thumb into the funny bone nerve. Thomas tried to twist away and found he couldn’t, pain throbbing from his hand to his shoulder.

“I had my way, I’d lock you in a room with that guy and let him rip you apart,” the cop said, nearly whispering. “You’re lucky there are so many cameras here.”

The cop let go, leaned back, smiled, and winked.

Thomas was struck by a wave of terror and looked around, hoping one of the reporters might have heard it, but of course, no one had. He turned and leapt for the car, yanking the door open and climbing across the seat. Amato followed and pulled the door shut. The reporters descended, some of them pressing the cameras directly onto the window, but the sound of their questions was muffled by the glass.

“Are you okay?” Amato asked.

“No,” Thomas said.

“We can press charges…”

“No.”

“He tried to kill you.”

“I just want to go home.”

Amato nodded and fell back into the plush leather seat, unbuttoning his navy suit jacket. The driver inched the car forward, careful not to run over any of the reporters blocking their path.

“What about this Detective Hanlon?” Amato asked. “I can start the paperwork to file a civil suit. The city likes to settle. They’ll throw a few hundred thousand at you, easy, just to get it to go away. We make a little noise, maybe they throw in a little more.”

“I just want this to be over,” Thomas said, putting more emphasis on the words, annoyed that he had to. For a smart guy, Amato didn’t always seem to be good at listening.

“That bastard was intent on seeing you spend the rest of your life in jail,” Amato said. “And for what? So he could say he closed a case?”

Thomas turned toward Amato and looked him in the eye, hoping that would convey how serious he was. “I want this to be over.”

Amato recoiled in the seat a little. It made Thomas wonder what Amato thought of him. If the lawyer was just as scared as most other people seemed to be. He thought maybe he should apologize, but he just turned and looked out the rear window of the car as the driver pulled forward and made a hard left toward Bay Street.

As the assembly of press disappeared from view, Thomas thought about the quiet sanctuary of his empty apartment.

And the clean bathroom.

Chapter 3

John Kennelly

THOMAS SCOTT’S APARTMENT hadn’t accumulated any dust.

The surfaces were so cleanly polished they seemed to glow, even in the dim light. It had the quality of a magazine catalogue—the design sparse and minimalistic, everything carefully arranged, so tidy that dust would fear to tread.

John Kennelly wasn’t sure what to expect from the apartment of his son’s killer, but he knew it wasn’t sterile neatness.

Scott’s shirts, even his t-shirts, were ironed and hanging in the closet. The socks in the dresser were folded into pairs. In the pantry, boxes of cereal and pasta were lined up in size order. As John opened the cabinets and checked in the closets, the word that kept coming to him was meticulous.

It wasn’t until he got to the DVD rack, sitting on the floor next to a small flat-screen television mounted to the wall, that he paused, dread rolling in like an oncoming storm.

The rack was completely filled with stuff for kids. Disney movies, from the old cartoon stuff like The Little Mermaid up through the newer Pixar films. Box sets of the Batman and Superman cartoons. The entire SpongeBob SquarePants series.

No movies for adults. Nothing that wasn’t animated.

And Scott didn’t have any kids.

A chill traveled up John’s spine. The apartment suddenly took on a sinister tone. What kind of man was so devoted to cleanliness and kids’ movies? What kind of weird combination was that?

At the kitchen counter, he eyed the knife block. Grasped the black handles, sliding the knives out one by one, wondering which was sharpest. He pulled out the biggest and touched his thumb to it. He felt a tiny jolt of pain and a thin red sliver appeared on his skin. He put the knife back and stuck his finger into his mouth.

No, he thought. No knife. He’d do it with his hands.

He moved to the bathroom. The room glowed orange from a small nightlight. The room smelled like bleach. There was a toothbrush in a holder, a tube of toothpaste, and a bar of soap in a soapdish, all placed neatly on the counter. John stepped inside and sat on the closed toilet, his knee twinging from when he’d slammed it into the pavement earlier.

It was so stupid to attack Scott in public like that, but he couldn’t help himself. The second he saw Scott, the whole world went red.

At least here he’d have some privacy. Nobody to pull him off.

More important than that, he’d have time. All the time he wanted.

In an hour, he was supposed to be at the Friends of Compassion meeting, in the basement of St. Francis Church, down the block from his house. He was supposed to take comfort in the support group for parents who had lost young children. He was supposed to sit and drink bad coffee and listen to parents who were completely lost, unsure of what to do with themselves in the face of such cataclysmic loss.

John wouldn’t be attending. He wasn’t lost. He knew what he wanted. What he needed.

He moved the shower curtain aside. There wasn’t a hint of mold or mildew. The tub looked brand new. He ran his hand across it and found the surface was smooth and cold.

He wondered if that was where John Junior died.

Drowned in the tub, struggling to breathe, and that son of a bitch holding him down under the water until the life was gone from the most perfect thing John had ever made.

He was breathing faster, his vision blurring. He could never tell which memory was going to smack into the side of his head like a fist. They just came at random. This one was from the Staten Island Ferry. Eight months ago? It was a clear spring day, and they were headed to their first Yankees game.

“Just the boys!” John Junior proclaimed for days, marching around the house in his brand-new Yankees cap. It was a few sizes too big and came down over his ears. John wanted it to be something John Junior could wear for the rest of his life. It would fit one day.

The boy loved the hat. He wouldn’t take it off, not even when he got into bed.

When they got on the boat, John sat his son on the rail. They watched as the boat approached the Manhattan skyline, the buildings sparkling in the sunlight. John had taken that boat five days a week for years, to his brokerage firm on Vesey Street. That day, seeing it through his son’s eyes, the wonder and the excitement, it was like seeing the majesty and grandeur of the city for the first time.

John reached up and adjusted the cap on his head. It was a little too small for him, but he hated to take it off. When he wore it, he felt like he could live inside that memory. And that memory was preferable to this hollow, hateful reality.

It was his fault. All his fault. He dropped John Junior off at school one morning, and somehow the boy went missing between the front door and his first activity of the day. No one noticed for four hours. After getting the call and chewing out the administrators for their foolish lack of responsibility, John combed the neighborhood around the school, thinking the boy had wandered off—John Junior had a habit of wandering.

He wouldn’t allow himself to let in that primal fear, the fear every parent has. Refusing to believe that the worst could have happened.

And then the worst did happen.

A jogger found John Junior in Hamilton Park. Laid out on a slide, his clothes damp, arms folded across his chest. The third victim of the Playground Killer.

No. The third victim of Scott. It was Scott who did this.

John slipped off the toilet and folded over the lip of the tub, running his hands across the bottom of it, wishing with everything he had to be struck dead in that moment, if it could somehow bring back his son.

He’d lived a good life. Long enough. He’d trade it in, trade everything in, to give John Junior a second chance.

A pair of hands ran over his shoulders, and he felt Susan kneeling behind him, wrapping her arms around his stomach. Her long blond hair tickled the back of his neck as she pressed herself against him.

“We need to go,” she said. “We shouldn’t be here.”

John sniffled and cleared his throat. “No.”

“Do you really think he’s coming back?”

“He has to come back eventually.”

“And what if he’s with someone?” Susan asked, her voice gentle. “You’re not thinking this through, John.”

“Damnit!” John slammed his fist on the lip of the tub. A jolt of pain shot through his arm and he cried out, cradling the fist in his stomach. The pain broke down the wall he’d been building, and he cried so hard he shook.

Susan hugged him tighter, but she also seemed to be pulling him up and away.

After a few moments, John was able to compose himself.

“It’s not right, Susan,” he said. “He was five. He had a whole life. And that monster gets to go on? I won’t let it.” He felt tears rising to his eyes again. “I can’t let that be, Susan. I can’t. I won’t live in a world where something like that can happen.”

“John—” Susan said, running her hand through his hair.

She placed her hands on his cheeks and turned him around so he was facing her. She pressed her face to his, and he felt tears on her face, mixing with his. They sat there like that, holding each other. John had no idea how long. After a little while she stood and pulled him up. He felt like a puppet. The tension gone from his limbs, his chest wooden and empty. It was dark outside now, and they moved toward the front of the apartment.

Maybe he would attend that Friends of Compassion meeting after all. It was probably better than what he planned to do now: Go home and drink whiskey until the bottle was empty or he passed out. The only way he was able to sleep through the night anymore.

When they were within ten feet of the door, the knob jiggled.

John and Susan stopped and watched the door crack. John set his feet and put his arm across Susan, herding her behind him.

“John, think about this,” Susan said.

“I have thought about it.”

His heart raced. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. This was his chance to bring some order back to the universe. It was the most excited and happy he had been in weeks.

The door swung open.

The figure in the doorway was backlit by the harsh lights in the hallway. But immediately John knew something was off. Scott was tall and lean, built for labor. This person was shorter and stockier. Older. Definitely not Scott.

“I thought I might find you here,” the figure said.

And then John recognized the voice, along with the gray curly hair and the thin mustache.

Detective Rex Hanlon.

The man whose idiotic mistake freed his son’s killer.

John found that the inferno of anger raging in his chest didn’t discriminate. A target was a target. He screamed and launched himself at Hanlon.

Chapter 4

Thomas Scott

THOMAS STOOD IN line behind a woman in impossibly tight jeans, chunky green heels, and a sheer white tank top. A leopard-print bra peeked out from underneath. With long fingernails, she peeled twenty-dollar bills off a thick roll, placing them, one at a time, in the slot at the bottom of the scratched glass partition that separated the clerk from the rest of the lobby.

Actually, “lobby” was too strong a word. It was a small room with two small chairs, a couple of cracked and faded magazines piled on a small coffee table.

The clerk, a scruffy man in his forties, wore an indifferent expression as he watched the small pile of money grow. Once the woman was done, he put a key hanging from a diamond-shaped piece of plastic into the slot.

The woman turned, her lips a deep brown, the corners of her eyes pointed into cat’s eyes with liner and mascara. She winked at Thomas and said, “Room 4 if you get bored later, tough guy.”

Thomas didn’t acknowledge her. Didn’t even look her way, lest it be mistaken for some level of interest. The thought that he could just go over like nothing and just pay for it? He had a hard enough time talking to women as it was. That was somehow much scarier.

He didn’t want to think about it. He had other things to worry about.

Like staying alive.

He couldn’t stop thinking about that cop who threatened him. And the look on the face of John Junior’s dad.

He thought about Amato’s parting words, too. What the young lawyer said when the car dropped him off at the Staten Island Express Suites, a run-down motel off the expressway, not too far south of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge.

“I’m sorry to do this,” Amato said. “At a bigger hotel, you’re going to get recognized. Place like this, nobody makes eye contact. That’s going to help right now, because you need to be anonymous. Do you understand?”

Thomas didn’t, not really. He had already planned his perfect night: ordering in Chinese food—sesame chicken and a wonton soup with extra wontons. He’d eat while marathon-watching the Toy Story movies. His favorite meal and his favorite movies, to erase the stress and horror of the last week.

But Amato seemed to know what he was doing—Thomas wasn’t in jail anymore, after all—so he figured it was best to listen. Given how many people knew his address, it probably wasn’t safe.

At least Amato was willing to pay. He handed Thomas a stack of bills and said, “Take a shower, get some rest. Watch some TV and order in. I’ll show up in two days with some fresh clothes and we’ll figure out the next steps, okay?”

“Why not tomorrow?” Thomas asked.

“There’s a lot of work still to be done. Just think of it like a little vacation. It’s rare that a man gets two days with nothing to worry about. Try to enjoy it.”

“Okay,” said Thomas, accepting the money, still feeling like he was being dumped on the side of the road. Which, essentially, he was.

There wasn’t much to enjoy about this.

As he approached the clerk, he thought about the pile of money in his pocket, and the cheapness of the rooms, and the fact that he was hungry. He didn’t want to go looking for an ATM, so he figured it would be better to just pay for the room on his credit card, hold onto the cash for now. He slid his card through the slot.

The clerk took it and stared at the name for a few seconds before he jabbed at his keyboard. If he recognized Thomas, he didn’t betray it. He behaved with the same level of indifference as he had toward the woman before Thomas.

“Can I get a room far away from the woman that came in before me?” Thomas asked.

The clerk, who was reaching for a key hung up on the pegs on the wall, shrugged and moved his arm, reaching for another one—room 12.

Thomas took the key, nodded to the clerk, and made his way outside and down the sidewalk, circling the parking lot. His room was the last one on the far end.

The room was dark and musty inside, with an ancient smell of cigarette smoke permeating the carpet and blinds. He turned on the light next to the door and did a quick inventory. There was a small dresser with a television on it. Not even a flat-screen, just a chunky old tube television.

There was one bed that sagged in the middle, with a floral spread that reminded him a little of his grandmother’s couch. The wallpaper, peeling in the corners, matched the bedspread. Inside the bathroom, there was a shower and a toilet and a window. The sink was outside the bathroom door, in the closet area.

It was not a nice room.

And it certainly wasn’t clean.

There were no visible bugs or vermin. That much he could count as a victory. The first thing he did was take a big wad of toilet paper, soak it, and wipe down the top of the dresser and the nightstand and the toilet. Then he took a dry wad and followed the same path.

It wasn’t much, but it would do.

Then he sat on the corner of the bed and tried not to think about the kinds of things these rooms were typically used for. He really hoped the sheets were laundered between guests.

The walls seemed to be closing in on him. Even though he was free to walk outside, even though he could stand up and spread his arms and not touch the walls, he suddenly felt like he was back in his cell on Rikers.

Trapped, alone, and everyone outside these four walls wanting to kill him.

What he needed was a drink. He didn’t usually drink, but isn’t that what people turned to, in situations like this? Hopefully it would dull him enough so he’d be able to get through the night without tossing and turning too much.

Without thinking about the children.

Their soft, sweet faces, and the life that had been drowned out of them. The way they looked after they were dead, placid and serene.…

When he closed his eyes, he saw their faces. Didn’t matter the time of day. Didn’t matter the circumstance. It’s what he saw. They haunted him, and sometimes he wondered if they would ever go away.

He wondered if there was a bar nearby. A liquor store. Something.

First things first: He needed a shower. A real shower, in private, not in a room full of other men.

He stripped his clothes off, hanging up the suit jacket Amato had gotten for him, balling up his socks and placing them into his dress shoes. The rest he neatly folded and placed on the edge of the bed. Then he stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the weak stream of water get as hot as possible.

And like he did every time, he held his breath, counted to five, and climbed in, careful to keep the spray out of his face, getting nervous even at the thought of feeling water enter his nose.

Chapter 5

Rex Hanlon

HANLON COULDN’T SIDESTEP; the hallway was too narrow. John Kennelly was a big man, which made him dangerous when he was in a good mood. And now he was furious.

The way Hanlon figured it, he probably deserved what happened next.

He braced for the impact when he felt something brush past him. Kat Taylor, swimming in her oversized white sweater, black hair pulled into a tight ponytail, stepped in front of him, blocking John’s path.

She was half the size of John, and yet stood between the two without fear. Probably because she knew what would happen next: John stopped, almost falling forward from his momentum, not wanting to hurt her.

That didn’t stop him from trying to get to Hanlon. He tried to step around her but she kept moving to block his path.

Hanlon was relieved that he’d brought Kat. After having her break into the apartment, he thought it might be best not to involve her with anything else. But she raised the issue. She said they needed to do something about Scott—and that she would do whatever she could to help.

Without her, this would have turned out very differently.

And probably much bloodier.

“Everyone, please, just stop,” Hanlon said, flicking on the wall switch. The blast of light made everyone squint, and his hand instinctively moved toward his belt, so he could jerk it up into his jacket and come out with his gun.

Not that he wanted to shoot John. But just in case. He’d seen people at their worst, at that point where unspeakable acts of violence became very speakable, and John was well past that point.

John finally gave up trying to get past Kat and stuck a finger toward Hanlon.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Let’s go in the living room, Mr. Kennelly,” he said.

“Don’t ‘Mr. Kennelly’ me. My son’s killer is free because of you.”

“And I’m here to make that right.”

That made John stop and listen. His eyes went wide, and he suddenly looked a lot less likely to tear out Hanlon’s throat with his bare hands. That was a good start.

John retreated toward the living room, backing up slowly, not taking his eyes off Hanlon. He sat back onto the couch, perched on the edge of it. Susan sat down beside him, while Kat stood off against the wall, her arms folded.

Kat already knew what was coming. They’d talked on the walk over from the shopping plaza a few blocks away where they parked. Now it was time to get the Kennellys on board. It would be a tough job, and an extra set of hands—strong hands especially—would make the whole thing easier.

Hanlon could feel retirement hiding right around the corner, waiting to pounce. He wasn’t a young man anymore. There was strength in numbers.

And this, to his mind, would help make things right. He knew how it felt, to see justice not get done. He knew the pain and the ache that lived in your soul because of it. And he didn’t want them to go through that. More than that, he wanted to close what he was pretty sure was going to be his final case.

He’d spent years watching an imperfect system let guilty men go.

And he was tired of it.

So he got ready to talk. The whole ride there, Hanlon had been rehearsing. Talking to the empty, rainy roadway. Trying to figure out the right combination of words. By the time he parked, he was feeling pretty good. He’d developed an apology that respected the parents and their loss, and put his own actions in the appropriate light, with a promise to fix it.

But standing in front of such blatant fury and sadness, John and Susan perched on the couch and shaking with anticipation, he forgot everything he came up with. So he decided to wing it.

“I can never apologize enough for what happened,” he said. Turning to Kat, he added, “I never should have put you in that position. Asking you to sneak in here—that was wrong. It was an act of desperation. But I knew—I know. Thomas Scott is the man who did this, and goddamn any system that would leave kids in danger.”

Hanlon turned to John and Susan.

“Before we move forward, I want you to know something.” He paused, looked at the floor. “I lost my son in a car accident years ago. He was eight. I don’t want you to think I know the exact kind of pain you’re feeling right now. I can’t. How you lost your kid and how I lost mine, they’re very different things. But I know that feeling of emptiness, of…”

He caught himself. The memory was choking him up already. The thought of Chris, and the way he laughed, and how he was showing an interest in music and talked about wanting to learn guitar—it suddenly became too much. He closed his eyes, focused on the task at hand.

“There’s a kind of hurt that only a parent who lost a child knows,” Hanlon said.

John seemed to soften. “What is this?” he asked.

“The system failed,” Hanlon said. “I failed. A killer is back on the street. I propose we take him off it.”

“You mean kill him,” John said, his face lighting up a little.

Hanlon nodded.

“How did you even know we would be here?” John asked.

“After that display at the courthouse today, I figured there was no stopping you,” Hanlon said. “Despite what you may think, I’m actually pretty good at my job.”

“This is a lot to take in,” Susan said, pressing a hand to her chest.

“It is,” Hanlon said. “And we don’t have to do it. We can end this conversation right here, right now, and all go our separate ways. But if we do follow through on this, we need to make a promise to each other. What’s discussed and decided stays in this room. Just between us. No one else.”

There was a sniffle behind them.

Hanlon froze.

Someone else was in the room.

His hand went to the inside of his jacket. His age was catching up with him. He should have been paying more attention. Listening more closely. He’d pushed the front door closed, but he should have locked it.

He turned to find Paul and Daisy Zhou, the parents of Mei, the second victim, standing in the hallway. The two of them so small in the hallway, standing apart from each other.

He didn’t need to ask how much they had heard.

Their wide-eyed expressions of shock made that pretty clear.

Chapter 6

Thomas Scott

THOMAS STOOD BEFORE the glittering rainbow of liquor bottles. He didn’t usually like liquor. Being in the cramped aisles of the store made him feel like a kid. Small. He kept his arms at his side, for fear of knocking something over and getting yelled at. He wished he could have stopped into a deli for some beer, but he had a beer every now and again, and he knew he needed something stronger.

He remembered when he was younger, doing a shot of tequila forced on him by some older kids at a party, and expelling the contents of his stomach across a table. Everyone laughed at him, and the girl who lived in the house forced him to clean it up in his stumbling, drunken state. Mopping up his vomit while a group of people stared and laughed—it was the only time in his life he wasn’t happy to be cleaning something.

No tequila.

He came across the rums, which seemed like a safe bet. Rum was made from sugar, so it would be a little sweet. He picked the cheapest bottle he could find off the shelf and hefted it, looked around to see if there was any soda, something to mix it with.

Finding nothing, he approached the counter and placed the bottle down next to the register. A young Korean woman with glasses and long black hair picked up the bottle and scanned it, said, “Nineteen ninety-five.”

Thomas pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet and placed it on the counter. The woman picked it up and furrowed an eyebrow at him. “You look really familiar, you know that?”

Thomas panicked, tried to say something, but found his mouth had gone dry, like he’d been sucking on a wad of cotton. He looked down and away, trying to hide his face. Wishing there was a hole in the floor he could crawl into.

“You’re the guy from the news,” she said. “You’re that guy who killed those kids!” She looked past Scott and yelled, “Hey, Reggie, get out here!”

“Ma’am, I just want to—”

“No, you get out of here, right now,” she said. “Reggie! Get this guy out of here.”

Thomas turned and saw that the other customers in the store were staring now, looking at him with a mix of fear and revulsion. Some of them pulled out smartphones and held them up in his direction, taking pictures or filming him.

Then he saw a big black guy, built like a refrigerator with muscles, cutting through the aisles and headed in his direction.

Thomas figured he wasn’t getting his change. He gripped the neck of the bottle and ran for the door, flinging it open into an older woman in a puffy black coat. The door hit her with a loud bang and the glass cracked. She cried out as she was thrown back onto the pavement. Thomas stooped to help her, trying to apologize. He felt terrible. He should have been paying attention.

“Get the hell off her!” someone yelled.

Thomas looked back and saw that Reggie was almost outside now. He didn’t look like he was in the mood for a polite conversation. The woman on the ground was screaming and scrambling to get away from him, more afraid than anything else.

So Thomas ran.

He tried to outrun the feeling, but couldn’t: he wasn’t safe anywhere.

Couldn’t even go out to the store without being recognized. And while that thought should have made him upset, that the place he’d called home his whole life would suddenly turn on him, it just made him angry.

He’d only ever been nice, tried to help, and this was his reward.

As he pumped his legs, throwing himself forward into the night, raindrops pelting his face, all he wanted to do was hurt someone. Channel that anger into something. The thought of that impulse filled him with shame, but he couldn’t help how he felt.

Some things, you just can’t help.

Chapter 7

Daisy Zhou

DAISY COULDN’T BELIEVE what she was hearing.

She could feel Paul’s apprehension, the way he reached over and gripped her hand. But she was glad they’d come here. Glad the door was ajar and they’d come in at this exact moment.

Making that bastard pay. The idea alone was exhilarating. Ever since Mei had died, Daisy had felt like she was treading water. Just struggling to stay afloat, and constantly exhausted. Sometimes she’d doze off at her desk, head jerking forward and bumping her computer monitor.

And as much as she hated to admit it, she felt herself drifting away from her husband. The death of their daughter cast their relationship in a new, unflattering light. She looked at a man like John Kennelly and saw someone who was broken, but at least trying to put the pieces back together.

Paul just sat on his chair in the den, staring off into space. Barely checking in at the Forest Avenue coffee shop they owned, never lifting a hand to help around the house. It was like he’d given up. They still had another child, and she was exhausting herself keeping the household together.

Thinking about Scott dead filled her with energy.

It was the best she had felt in months.

She imagined what it would be like. How they would do it. If she would get to contribute. Fire a bullet or plunge a knife. She was shocked at how little she cared about the consequences.

Because it would be for Mei, and that would make it worth it.

Paul sniffed, because he would never blow his nose when she asked. He didn’t like tissues. Just sucked it back up into his nose like a kid. That’s when everyone turned. Which was good, because at that point Daisy wasn’t sure how to broach the fact that they were standing there.

No one spoke. No one even moved, like it was a television show and someone had hit the Pause button. After a few moments John stood up.

“How much did you hear?” he asked.

“All of it,” Daisy said.

“Why are you here?” Hanlon asked, his face twisted in confusion.

Before Daisy could respond, Kat said, “I texted them. I told them to meet us.”

Hanlon turned to her, his mouth hanging open. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“Because they deserve to be a part of it,” Kat said.

Hanlon shook his head. “I should never have done this. I should have handled this myself. This is getting out of control.”

Daisy stepped forward. “Wait.”

She let go of Paul’s hand, looked back at him, and nodded. Then she turned to the rest of the group. “We want in.”

“Now hold on…” Paul said, putting his hand on Daisy’s shoulder.

“He took our daughter,” Daisy whispered. “Our little girl, Paul.”

“This isn’t the way,” Paul said, shaking his head. “This isn’t right.”

“And what is right?” asked John, his voice thick with emotion. “That he got off on a technicality? What about when the next kid dies? Will it be right then? Because I think the next kid who dies is on us. Getting caught is just going to make him more careful.”

“John’s right,” said Susan, looking down at her hands, wringing them together.

Hanlon exhaled. Daisy held her breath. The detective was weary, regretful. Worst of all, he looked to be reconsidering. But finally he shook his head.

“If we’re going to do this, we need each other’s backs,” Hanlon said. “We need to be in agreement. So if anyone is having second thoughts, please say something now.”

“I’m not so sure about this,” Paul said, raising his hand.

Daisy cringed, and pushed her body against his, trying to get him to shut up. Once upon a time, she had appreciated that he was so thoughtful. That he was a man of high moral fiber who thought things through carefully and deliberately.

This wasn’t the time for him to be such a damn bleeding heart.

There was only one heart she wanted to bleed.

Kat said, “We should tell him.”

“Tell us what?” Paul asked, hesitant.

“He didn’t just have pictures of the three of them,” said Kat. “There was a fourth picture.”

Hanlon put his hands on his hips, looked at the floor, and sighed. “We thought it might be his next victim.”

Daisy knew it was coming before Hanlon said it. The way Paul gripped her hand, squeezing it so hard it hurt, he seemed to get it, too.

“He had a picture of your son, Jian,” Hanlon said. “Mei’s twin brother.”

Daisy felt the breath leave her body. Her head spun. She turned to her husband. Paul’s mouth parted and twisted, like something terrible was about to escape. Then he clamped his lips together and nodded his head, his eyes suddenly cold.

“We’re in,” he said, before grabbing Daisy’s hand and yanking her out of the room.

Chapter 8

Paul Zhou

PAUL TOOK THE turn at high speed, nearly sending their beige minivan skidding off the slick roadway. His stomach rocked but he didn’t care. He had to get home. It was like the fog in his head had lifted and suddenly everything in front of him was clear.

He had to make sure Jian was safe.

“Let’s try to get there in one piece,” Daisy said from the passenger seat.

“I thought you were a thrill seeker all of a sudden,” Paul said. “Plotting to kill a man and all that.”

“You mean to tell me you haven’t thought about killing him?”

Paul drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for a light to turn green. Of course he had. How could he not? But every time he approached the idea, it made him ill. It wasn’t their job to take the law into their own hands. This wasn’t the old West. There was a system in place for a reason.

Even if the system didn’t always get it right…

He didn’t blame Daisy for the way she felt, he would give her that. But he was worried. She’d been the rock of this relationship. He’d never felt closer to her, admiring the way she kept things together. With the house, with Jian, with him. He wanted to support her. But this felt like too much.

The light turned green and Paul pressed down on the gas. He didn’t answer his wife. He didn’t know what to say. He just wanted to get home.

“Just call Pammy again, okay?” he asked.

Daisy pecked at the screen of her phone and held it up to her ear. It’s not even like they were far, less than three minutes now, probably.

That’s why it happened. Scott must have been watching their house. Waiting until Paul was in the basement doing laundry, and Daisy was making breakfast, and the twins were playing. Finding a perfect instant when Jian wasn’t paying attention, and he lured Mei out of the house. That’s how he must have done it.

He thought about Mei. How she was the one with boundless energy, while Jian was quiet, more reserved. He and Daisy had wanted to pay respect to their heritage, so they gave their children traditional Chinese names. Jian meant “strong,” and Mei meant “beautiful.” They were an inseparable unit, the two of them.

And now, a broken one.

Paul turned onto his block and gunned the engine. A car swerved out of the way, and the driver leaned on the horn as the call connected and Daisy said, “Pammy? Are you there? Is Jian okay?” Her voice was shaking.

Paul pulled the car up to the front of the house, not even bothering to turn it off, and bounded into the house. The front door wasn’t locked. That alone made him furious. Pammy was supposed to lock the door behind them. He should have done it himself.

He rushed inside and saw Pammy sitting on the couch with her phone held up to her head, a confused expression on her face, a horror movie playing on the television. He’d deal with her later.

He took the stairs two at a time and threw open the door of the twins’ room, and saw just a rumple of blankets on Jian’s bed.

He pulled them away, throwing them over his shoulder, and saw the boy curled up around his sister’s favorite toy, a stuffed octopus she called Charlie.

Paul fell to his knees and put his hands on Jian, relief flooding him.

The boy woke up, confused, and Paul crawled onto the bed and pulled him close. Across the room, in the dim green glow of the nightlight, he could make out Mei’s empty bed, still unmade, her polka-dot footie pajamas bunched up by the pillow.

He and Daisy didn’t yet have the strength to move them.

Daisy appeared in the doorway. She sat on the edge of the bed and patted Jian, who had already fallen asleep again, oblivious to Paul’s panic.

“Pammy is okay staying the night,” she said. “I told her we’re staying with friends and needed a night away. I thought I would need a better excuse, but she’s okay with it.”

“You need to tell her to lock the door,” Paul said, brushing away a tear. “She has to lock all the doors and set the alarm. You need to tell her. I don’t think I can do it without losing it.”

“I’ll tell her,” Daisy said, and she climbed into bed behind Paul, put her arm around him and Jian. “I’ll do it in a minute.”

Paul couldn’t help but glance up at the window. They were on the second floor, but he felt like he would see Scott standing there, staring in at them, waiting for his opportunity to strike.

He didn’t see anything, of course, just the tree in the front yard, but that didn’t make him feel any safer.

“You know we need to do this, right?” Daisy asked. “It’s not even about revenge anymore. It’s about protecting our son.”

Paul nodded.

“I know,” he said.

And he did. He didn’t care about the legality, or the philosophical implications. None of that mattered. He would do whatever it took to keep Jian safe.

Chapter 9

Staten Island Register
Breaking news update
Playground Killer suspect spotted at Rosebank liquor store

Thomas Scott, the suspected Playground Killer who was released from custody earlier today, was spotted around 6:30 p.m. at Staten Island’s Best Wine & Liquor in Rosebank.

Witnesses say he was buying a bottle of alcohol and menacing the clerk, and may have assaulted a woman on his way out of the store. The police have yet to respond to a request for comment from the Register. A phone call made to the store wasn’t answered.

A judge ruled earlier today that the evidence being used against Scott in the murder of three Staten Island children was inadmissible, because it was collected by someone in an illegal search, at the direction of a police officer.

Law enforcement sources say they still consider Scott to be a suspect. The 37-year-old janitor appeared to be smiling as his lawyer led him from the courthouse to a waiting car this afternoon.

Keep an eye on the Register website for up-to-the-minute updates.

Chapter 10

John Kennelly

JOHN SAT SHOTGUN as Detective Hanlon drove them south on the West Shore Expressway. Through the darkness, John could make out two tanks of liquefied natural gas looming on the horizon.

Hanlon said, “Here we go.”

John looked at the tanks—rusted behemoths that had been decommissioned decades ago. They were nothing but an eyesore, and for years politicians had promised to tear them down and replace them with a shopping plaza and housing, but plans never came to fruition.

The tanks just sat there, getting rustier, like sentries on the side of the highway, guarding Rossville, which was mostly auto shops, industrial sites, and the recently closed Arthur Kill Correctional Facility.

Hanlon pulled off the expressway, and after a couple of turns, maneuvered the car down the dirt pathway. The sun was dipping below the horizon, the sky cast purple. They were surrounded by high weeds on either side, and before long John couldn’t even see the road behind them.

If this was the location Hanlon had in mind, it couldn’t be more perfect.

Paul and Daisy had rushed out so quickly—and given the information about the new photo, he didn’t blame them. The others wiped down the apartment, and Hanlon told John he had something to show him. So Kat and Susan took off for home, while Hanlon and John climbed into Hanlon’s aging Buick. They hadn’t spoken in the twenty minutes since they got in the car.

The whole way, John had to fight the urge to lash out, to call him an idiot, to chastise him and lecture him, even hit him. He knew it wasn’t smart to hit a cop, but he didn’t care. He was still angry. He couldn’t not be. This man had made such a stupid mistake that had cost them justice for their children.

But he needed him to complete the plan and get his revenge. That meant he would tolerate him.

Hanlon stopped the car in front of a large warehouse sitting on the water, the building a ruin of its former self. There was a gaping hole in one wall, up near the roof, and the windows were smashed and broken. The dock sticking off the back was collapsed into the inky bay.

They climbed out, and the LNG tanks practically loomed over them.

“This is it?” John asked.

“Used to be they had security guards,” Hanlon said. “But after two years, the guards hadn’t seen a single person on site, so they got let go. Most folks in the neighborhood don’t even know it’s here, and kids can’t cross the expressway to get to it.”

Hanlon led him toward the front of the building. They found a gunmetal gray door with a small window crisscrossed by security wire. It was sitting ajar from the frame, the knob broken off, a rusty padlock holding it closed. John looked around and found a cinder block half buried in the dirt. He pulled it out, brought it to the door, lifted it over his head, and brought it down hard. The lock snapped and fell to the ground, the door yawning open, everything beyond that pitch black.

The two of them stepped inside. It looked like the set of a horror movie. Dim light trickled in from the windows set high in the cavernous room, which was mostly stripped bare. The floor was scuffed and the guts of old machinery were pushed up into the corners. It smelled like motor oil and mildew.

Hanlon pulled a Maglite out of his overcoat and shined it around.

“What was this place, exactly?” John asked.

“Distribution, shipping, mechanical repair,” Hanlon said. “It was a multi-use facility. Too expensive to remediate, and the land is zoned industrial, so it’d be a pain in the ass to rezone it for homes. Nobody wants it.”

“Okay, so we have a space,” John said. “That’s a good start. But how are we going to do it? Shoot him?”

“Ballistics can be a tricky bitch,” said Hanlon. “I’d prefer not to. Knives are an option, but that’s a little personal.”

“I’d be happy to use my hands,” John said.

“You say that now.”

“I mean it.”

“Well, before we decide anything, let’s get the full lay of the land first,” Hanlon said.

So they cut wide circles around the space, looking behind gutted machines and old piles of wood. Hanlon even shined his flashlight up into the wooden rafters. Looking for squatters or inspiration, John couldn’t tell. But Hanlon was right. It was good to have a sense of the layout.

They reached a doorway leading to more rooms. John said, “I didn’t know you lost your son.”

“T-boned by a drunk driver,” Hanlon said. “On the passenger side. My wife and son were killed on impact. I made it out with a titanium hip that aches when it rains.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“What happened to the drunk?” John asked.

Hanlon turned and looked at him, unblinking, his face flat.

John was about to ask for clarification when he saw the answer.

Hanlon knew what it meant to take revenge outside the bounds of the law. He was the perfect man for this job, then. It almost made John respect Hanlon a little more, in the sense that they were kindred spirits. But he pushed the feeling aside. Anger, the dominant emotion of his life, took the wheel. John wondered it if would ever go away.

If killing Scott would help.

They passed into the new set of rooms, opening doors, checking in corners, scaring off rats. John wondered about the best way to do the deed.

The important thing was, he wanted Scott to suffer.

Drowning is supposed to be an incredibly painful way to die. In the days after John Junior was found, when John had stopped crying long enough to maintain his composure, he would sit in the basement with the lights off, and he would hold his breath, counting off the seconds until his lungs screamed for oxygen. His muscles tensed and body shaking.

He would breathe in, let the oxygen rush in, think about that incredible feeling of relief.

He would think about that relief never coming.

Of the pain getting worse.

And then he would cry some more, thinking about what it must have been like.

In the next room, the last one on the row, close to the bay now, both men stopped. Hanlon trained his flashlight around the room, revealing the details.

Along the far wall was exactly what they were looking for.

Perfect place. Perfect man. Perfect method.

John balled up his fists and smiled.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked.

“That works,” Hanlon said, nodding slowly.

Hanlon’s jacket vibrated. He reached into his coat and came out with his phone, pecked at the face of it. “Scott was spotted at a liquor store in Rosebank,” he said.

“How do you know that?” John asked.

“I have a Google alert set up for his name,” Hanlon said, placing the phone back in his pocket. He stood for a minute, looking up and away, and then raised his hand and snapped his fingers. “Staten Island Express Suites. That must be it. It’s right near there.”

“You think that’s where he is?”

“If I was a lawyer who wanted to hide the most hated man on Staten Island, it’s where I would put him. That’s not the kind of place where people worry about each other’s business.”

“Well then,” John said. “I guess that’s where we’re headed. I’ll start texting the rest of the group.”

Chapter 11

Thomas Scott

THOMAS SAT ON the bed, numbly watching a rerun of Friends, still wishing the television picked up the Cartoon Network. This show was funny enough, but the colors were dull, lifeless. He liked colors. He liked the cleanliness of animation. Cartoons never looked dirty.

He picked up the container of sesame chicken next to him, used the plastic fork to skewer a gooey piece of meat. It tasted like cotton. Which wasn’t an indictment of the place he’d ordered it from. It was a little different from his regular place, but not bad different. He just couldn’t concentrate on things like flavor. There was too much to think about.

He got up, pulled aside the heavy blackout curtain and peeked into the parking lot. It looked the same as it had twenty minutes ago. And still, every time he pushed it aside, he expected to see a group of cops, dressed in armor and carrying guns, ready to cuff him and drag him away like last time.

At least this time he would know why. The first time, he had no idea what was happening. They were just there, and his instinct was to figure out what was happening, and because he kept trying to pull away to talk, one of the cops jammed a nightstick in his stomach. He doubled over in pain and didn’t put up a fight after that.

Or maybe he’d look out the window and see John Junior’s dad, waiting to tear him apart. He wished he could talk to him. Explain what happened. He was sure that if he got a couple of minutes, he could make him understand.

He sat on the bed again, took a long pull from a plastic bottle of water. When it was empty, he placed it carefully in the trash can, then picked up the bottle of rum, ripped off the plastic around the cap, unscrewed it, and took a sip. It stung the back of his throat, and he winced and coughed. It splashed around his throat and burned. After a few minutes he took a longer sip.

Thomas surveyed the room again. It was familiar now, but not comfortable. The smell of smoke wasn’t going away. It was cramped, and occasionally he would see something flit in the corner of his vision, something he feared was a roach or a mouse. And even though he didn’t have any bites or welts, he still assumed it was only a matter of time before the bedbugs found him.

The whole place seemed to be a magnet for filth.

He thought about his apartment. Neat and tidy and clean and bug-free.

His life, nearly gone from him now.

He’d have to move. There was no way he could stay on Staten Island. And truthfully, it’s not like there was a whole lot that was compelling him to stay. But he’d miss it. Staten Island was a nice little place. You got a slice of city life, and it was still quiet at night. And the rents were affordable. Not like across the bridge, where you paid several thousand dollars for the privilege of living in a shoebox. With the kind of money he made, this area was the best he could afford.

He didn’t have any family. No real friends, outside some people he saw around at the local shops and at work. He’d heard nice things about Portland. The Oregon Portland. Quiet, lots of nice places to eat. And plenty far away from here.

Far was good. He needed to be someplace where he could start again. The idea terrified and excited him in equal measure. It’s not like he had anything here holding him back. But he’d miss the familiarity.

He took a little sip of rum, getting used to the sharp, stinging bite of it, and put the bottle on the nightstand. He picked up his phone and opened his email. He tapped out a message:

To: Mark Amato

From: Thomas Scott

Subject line: Time?

I need to get out of here. I’m ready to leave town. Maybe you can arrange some kind of ride over to my apartment so I can get my stuff. I’d really like to figure out what’s next. I can’t live like this and I can’t live here anymore.

Thank you. I might go for a walk in the morning but otherwise will be at the hotel all day.

Talk soon,

TS

Thomas put the phone aside and put his head in his hands. Sighed.

Through it all, the thing that hurt most was, he missed the kids. Their sweet smiles. Their laughs. Parents were rude, inattentive, unkind. Thomas wasn’t a nice-looking man, and sometimes he got nervous talking to people, and he scrubbed toilets, and that made him unworthy of respect and attention. To most people, he was like those characters in the background of a cartoon that no one interacts with. Just there to fill the space.

The kids, though, they had yet to be jaded to the world. They were nice.

He got up again. Checked out the curtain. A beige minivan pulled into the lot and traveled around the building. Probably someone looking to park for the night. Or else they were looking for a little privacy and were too cheap to pay for a room.

Thomas hated this part of town.

He got himself ready for bed. Stripped down to his boxers, putting his clothes in a neat pile, so he could hop in and out of the shower quickly. He hated showering, and hated that the filthy room made him feel compelled to take another one.

It was a necessity, yes, but it was a frustrating act. He thought back to when he was a child, and he and his friend were horsing around in the backyard, and he fell into the in-ground pool. His dad, long since dead now, had already laid down a blue tarp to keep the fall leaves out.

He hit the water and the tarp wrapped around him like a giant hand, pulling him down into the water, choking him. He couldn’t remember much of what happened. Just blacking out, and suddenly he was on the concrete next to the pool, sputtering and coughing, his mother hovering over him, pressing her hands into his chest.

That blue tarp had nearly killed him.

It was incredible, how something can instill a fear so deeply, that a person carries it for so long. A little water in his face, up his nose, and he flashed right back to that terrible moment.

He assembled all of his belongings on the dresser top. Belt and phone and wallet and bottle of rum. He wanted everything neat and close so that in the morning, he’d be ready to leave. Mark would have gotten back to him by then. He was sure of it. He’d go someplace where he’d be able to go to the store and not worry about being attacked by strangers.

As he crossed the room to the bathroom, there was a knock at the door.

Chapter 12

Rex Hanlon

THEY ASSEMBLED IN a parking lot, in the shadow cast by a supermarket that had closed two hours ago.

Hanlon knew this would be a good spot. There were no cameras, and the supermarket had no late-night workers. It was the kind of flaw you only learn about when you’re a cop. The corner was often littered with dime bags and used condoms in the morning, but while the owner was happy to complain to police, he was too cheap to install a surveillance system.

They were blocked from view by the Zhous’ minivan. The seats had been taken out, and it was sporting a set of plates they’d pulled off a car that had been sitting on the side of the road down in Port Richmond for a couple of weeks now. Probably abandoned, and the NYPD hadn’t gotten around to towing it.

The real plates were in the spare tire well, ready to go back on after the job was done. It wasn’t an elegant plan, but it was easier than trying to procure some other kind of transport.

Hanlon looked at the assembled group, everyone now in dark clothing. Susan and John were eager and ready. He was a little worried about John still. The man, now wearing a Yankees hat that seemed a little too small for him, was clearly seething, holding back throughout the entire trip to the warehouse and back. He was a little surprised that John hadn’t hit him yet.

Kat stood off to the side, her eyes vacant as she stared into the distance. She was strong, stronger than she looked, and he hoped she was up to the task.

It was Daisy and Paul who worried him. He hadn’t wanted to get them involved. First, it meant there were more conspirators. Second, the two of them didn’t seem particularly useful, aside from their van. Both were diminutive and reserved, not exactly the best types in a tough spot.

Meek. That’s the word he would use to describe them.

Still, though, Daisy was enthusiastic, hopping on the balls of her feet. Paul still seemed hesitant. He kept looking around, nervous, like he was expecting someone to sneak up on them. That, or he was looking for an escape route.

Hanlon closed his eyes and said a quick prayer to himself. He was afraid. There were a lot of people involved now. As the saying went, too many cooks can ruin a stew. One stupid move and the plan would fall apart.

At least they seemed to have eased off him a bit. It still hurt, standing there in front of them. Bearing the scar of his failure. Knowing that he’d let them all down. Because the precinct captain was getting pressure from the mayor and the media to close the case. His need to please—and more than that, his need to stop a scumbag killer—made him too ready to bend the rules.

“So, we’re going to go over it one more time,” Hanlon said. “Everyone ready?”

The parents nodded in turn. Hanlon took a knee on the ground, wincing as he went down. There were three sticks laid out to look like a C—a rough approximation of the shape of the motel.

If Scott was there, he was in the room farthest from the lobby. He and John had done a quick recon on the way over, and it seemed only two rooms were occupied, based on the lights. At one room, a strange man came out, and after a few minutes, another went in. Hanlon was pretty sure Scott wouldn’t be having visitors, so that narrowed it down.

He also confirmed the lot behind the hotel was empty.

There were only two other cars in the inner courtyard. Neither of them were owned by the NYPD. He knew all the undercover cars the local precinct used. Hell, he’d sat in more than half of them. And neither of the cars were nice enough that they could have belonged to the lawyer. So unless a convention suddenly came into town and the place got a rush, they had plenty of space and privacy to get in and grab Scott.

Hanlon pointed to one end of the C.

“Lobby,” he said.

He pointed to the other.

“Scott,” he said.

He picked up a rock and put it behind the spot where Scott was staying.

“Van goes here,” he said. “You stay close to the hotel, in the shadows, where no one can see you. Stay quiet. Don’t turn the headlights on, and don’t draw attention.”

He stood back up, feeling a twinge in his lower back. It was simplistic, maybe a little ridiculous, but he always figured people retained information better when there were visuals. And there wasn’t any room for error.

“I’m going in the front,” said Hanlon. “First, to see if it’s him. If it is, I’ll get him to open the door and get into the room. Then I load him out the back window to you, and you all put him in the van. Susan will drive, Daisy sits shotgun, Paul is in the back. Kat and John will come with me. We’ll follow behind.”

John threw up his hands. “Wait, wait, wait. That’s not going to happen.”

“Yes, it is,” Hanlon said. “You all follow the rules I set out. I’m doing this for a reason.”

“Why?” John asked, challenging him.

What he didn’t want to say was that he couldn’t trust John to not pull the van to the side of the road and kill Scott there. Call Hanlon old-fashioned, but he wanted another man in the car, hence Paul. Despite Paul’s hesitancy, Hanlon figured out the fight-or-flight response would kick in and Paul would be able to keep Scott subdued in the back.

He also didn’t want Paul and Daisy alone in there, because there was too much emotional baggage. If Paul got really nervous, he might try talking Daisy out of it. Susan, at least, was unfamiliar, and would probably respond less to Paul.

And Susan didn’t seem to be having second thoughts, so he trusted she would keep Paul on track.

It was too much to get into.

“Because I told you, this is how it’s getting done,” Hanlon said. “And that’s that.”

He stared John down, waiting for the bigger man to protest, but John accepted it. Seemed he wanted to move along with the plan and saw no sense in stalling. That was good.

“Going through the window feels a touch complicated,” Paul said.

“It’s too risky to bring him out through the front,” Hanlon said. “If he yells, if he puts up a struggle, if someone comes out of their room, we’re going to have an issue. Has to be like this. I slip in, we get him out. Once you’ve got him safely in the van, I’m going to strip the room down, leave a little tip and a note on the counter, so when the maid comes through in the morning, it looks like he checked out in a rush. John and Kat, you go back to my car and wait for me. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“And this is going to work?” Paul asked. Clearly not believing it was going to work.

Daisy pushed her body into him a little, an annoyed look on her face. John looked ready to say something, but Hanlon spoke first.

“This is the best plan we’ve got,” said Hanlon. “Now, everyone take one of these and put your phone in.”

He handed out small felt pouches that were rigid on the inside, and closed with a small flap and button. Susan took the stack and passed them out.

“What are these?” Daisy asked.

“It’ll block the signal on your phones. This way if any kind of suspicion falls on any of you, nobody can go back and track your movements.”

“Why not get burners?” Paul asked. “Like in the movies.”

“One, because we don’t have time,” Hanlon said. “Two, because burners come with their own risks.” He opened the passenger door of the van and pulled out a black messenger bag. “Now, all of them, in here.”

The parents slowly followed the order, softly placing their phones in the bag. When it was Paul’s turn, he paused, seeming to think too long and too hard about it. Hanlon was about to say something when John got in front of him. For a second Hanlon thought John was going to hit Paul, but he just put his hands on Paul’s shoulders and looked him in the eye.

“We need you on this,” he said, his voice earnest. Almost desperate. “Okay Paul? Can you do this? Please?”

Paul nodded. Dropped his phone in the bag.

They were ready to go. Hanlon climbed into the passenger seat as John got behind the wheel, doors slamming and the engine turning over.

It was time.

Chapter 13

Susan Kennelly

JOHN REACHED INTO the open driver-side window and took Susan’s hand.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too,” she said, offering a soft smile in return.

“For John Junior,” he said, squeezing her hand. He leaned in and kissed her. His stubble raked her face like sandpaper and it hurt, but when he pulled away, she kept on smiling.

She knew better than to disagree with John.

She knew better than to make him angry.

As John walked around the front of the car, Susan exhaled.

She hated this. The very idea of killing someone made her physically sick. She’d thrown up twice already, when no one was looking. But the idea of saying no to John was a nonstarter. With the state he was in, thirsty for blood, she didn’t trust what he would do. So she’d be the good wife, follow along. Because it was easier.

John took his spot by the window next to Kat, peering inside, but the curtain was closed. Paul was in the back, sitting on the floor of the van, his head in his hands, holding a bundle of zip ties. John had a handful of them, too.

“Are you ready for this?” Daisy asked from the passenger seat.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Susan said, fake-smiling.

“We have to do it,” Daisy said. “Knowing he had Jian’s picture, I won’t sleep. I’ll never sleep another night that he’s alive.”

Susan wondered what it was like, having another child. The pain of losing one while still having to comfort and console the other. She wondered if it hurt more or less. She’d never know. John Junior was their first, and it was a difficult pregnancy. The doctor had told her having another child would be too risky, so they decided that their family was complete with the three of them.

And now it wasn’t.

With John Junior in the house, John had mellowed. Not that he’d been a violent man before—he’d never raised his hands against her—but sometimes Susan thought it was only a matter of time. Sometimes he would get so angry, his voice growing so loud, Susan was amazed no one ever called the police. She imagined the neighbors turning up the volume on the television, closing the windows, figuring it would be best just to ignore it.

And it was over such little things, too. The dishes would sit in the sink for a little while, because she had errands to run or laundry to do, and suddenly John would erupt.

Things weren’t perfect, but with John Junior they’d gotten notably better. Especially as John Junior got older, more engaged, understood more about what was happening around him. The boy had made her husband into a kinder, gentler man.

And now the loss of her son would make John into a murderer.

She closed her eyes, breathed in through her mouth, out through her nose, like she learned in yoga class, but it didn’t help. She didn’t feel any calmer. Watched as Daisy flipped down the visor and pressed her fingers to a picture held there by a rubber band. The twins, no doubt.

Susan checked the clock on the dash. Nearly midnight.

There was a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye.

The curtain pushed aside and the window opened.

John and Kat took a few steps back. Susan twisted around in her seat and saw Scott climb out the window. His hair was wild, his t-shirt put on inside out. His pants were unbuttoned, showing off plaid boxers. That sick pervert.

Just seeing him made her grip the wheel so tight her knuckles went white.

Scott fell to the ground in a heap and quickly got up.

Hanlon wasn’t behind him, though.

And then Susan saw that Scott was holding something in his hand. She squinted.

A gun.

He pointed it at John’s chest.

Chapter 14

Thomas Scott

WHEN THOMAS SAW Hanlon, he knew he was in trouble.

After the knock, Thomas peeked out the window, and he saw the detective, hands behind his back, glancing around the parking lot.

In that moment he knew there was no way he was making it out of the room alive.

Not after the threat from the cops. Not after the way Hanlon had treated him in the interrogation room. Screaming at him, telling him it was only a matter of time before he cracked, pushing the pictures of those poor, dead children into Thomas’s face. All Thomas had wanted to do was not look at them. But Hanlon made him look anyway, and the images haunted him.

Hanlon banged his fist against the door.

“Police, open up,” he said.

Thomas didn’t often get angry. But this made him angry. And it was just enough to kick his survival instinct into gear.

After the way he’d been treated, he wasn’t going to roll over and play dead.

So Thomas came up with a plan.

It wasn’t a great one, but it was a plan.

He just had to get the timing right.

Thomas picked up his belt from the dresser, opened the door a crack, just enough so Hanlon would think he was being welcomed inside.

The detective pushed his way in, looking around. He seemed confused to be facing an empty room. Thomas had backed out of his line of sight, into the jumble of curtains, his heart beating furiously in his chest.

As soon as the door closed, Thomas whipped his belt around the detective and shoved him into the wall, pressing his body hard against him.

Hanlon struggled, sputtering and yelling, but Thomas was stronger. He grabbed the two ends of the belt and cinched them together, so Hanlon’s arms would be pressed to his side.

“Get the hell off me, you sick bastard,” Hanlon yelled, throwing his body back, trying to gain the upper hand.

Thomas used his foot to close the door and shoved the detective down onto the floor, so that he would be wedged between the bed and the wall. Then he grabbed one of his socks, and he felt a little bad because the sock was a day old now, but he had to work with what was on hand.

“You have no idea what you’re…” Hanlon started.

The rest of what Hanlon had to say was cut off as Thomas crammed the sock into his mouth. He took off Hanlon’s belt—the detective’s eyes went wide and he bucked harder, like some terrible sexual violation was about to happen, which made Thomas sick to his stomach—and he wrapped up Hanlon’s legs.

Then he sat on the bed.

Hanlon kicked and squirmed like a fish on the deck of a boat. Trying to free himself, screaming in the back of his throat. The sound wasn’t loud enough to penetrate the walls.

Thomas’s mind went blank.

Then he got up. Paced the room.

Okay. He had a cop tied up in his motel room. A cop who was probably here to do very bad things to him. That had to be the case. Otherwise he would have shown up with more cops, right? For a second Thomas thought maybe he was here to apologize, but given how angry Hanlon looked, that he’d called Thomas a “sick bastard” right off the bat, that probably wasn’t the case.

He checked the window again. There was no police car in the lot.

A thought seized him: What if he had backup?

What if he had someone to check in with?

Thomas knelt down and went through Hanlon’s pockets while the detective screamed into the sock. Hanlon had nothing in his coat or pants, but Thomas found a small ankle holster holding a compact, silver six-shooter.

Thomas pulled it out and lifted it up to the light. He’d never held a gun before.

It was heavier than he thought it would be.

And much, much scarier.

He didn’t want to take it, but didn’t want to risk Hanlon getting free and shooting him as he climbed out the window. So, resolving to toss the gun as soon as he got outside, he pulled on his suit and shoes, minus one sock, as he crossed to the bathroom, not wanting to wait any longer.

He pulled up the window and swung a leg out, the frame cutting into his stomach, then squirmed through and fell to the ground.

When he got up, he saw John Junior’s father.

And he looked ready for round two.

Thomas was suddenly relieved to have the gun.

Chapter 15

John Kennelly

IT WAS ALL John could do to keep himself from diving at Scott.

Intellectually, he knew the man had a gun. And he knew the gun was pointed at his chest. But a big part of him simply did not care. His son’s killer was standing there—right there, in front of him, no more than a few yards away. Without even thinking about it, he tensed his calves and rolled his weight onto his toes, ready to propel forward.

Luckily, sense prevailed.

He took a deep breath. Tried to calm the adrenaline raging through his body like a river.

“How about you put away the gun?” John asked through gritted teeth. “You owe me for what you did to my son. So let’s make this a fair fight. More fair than the chance you gave him.”

Scott was panicked. Sweating, breathing fast, eyes darting between the parents assembled in the dark parking lot. He seemed unsure of what to do. John was a little surprised, and thankful, that Scott hadn’t pulled the trigger yet.

And he knew he shouldn’t goad him, but he couldn’t help it.

“Listen, just listen…” Scott said, his voice shaking. He sounded so much like a child, his voice contrasting starkly with his heavy brow and his rough appearance.

Screw it. Scott didn’t seem all together anyway. The guy was definitely a few cards short of a full deck. Maybe he was too afraid to fire. John took a step forward, the asphalt crunching under his foot.

Scott whipped the gun up and leaned forward, pointing the gun square between John’s eyes. John put his hands up and took a step back, hoping it would calm the man, but it didn’t seem to help. He glanced back to make sure no one else was in the line of fire. Susan and Daisy were still in the van with Paul, and Kat had moved a little behind the van, out of view.

“I did not kill your children,” Scott said.

That was enough to brush away the fear and bring the anger back to the forefront.

“What?” John asked, a little surprised by the boldness of the claim.

“I did not kill your children,” Scott said. He sounded so much surer of himself the second time.

“You’re going to lie to my face?” John asked. “To all of us? The cops had you dead to rights.”

“I did not kill them,” Scott said, a tinge of sadness in his voice. “I would never kill them. They were nice, and sweet. They were kind, and, and beautiful—”

“Listen to yourself,” John said, his voice booming. He didn’t care who heard him. “Grown men don’t talk like that! You know who talks like that? Freaks.”

“I am not a freak,” Scott said, stabbing the gun forward in the air to punctuate each word. John’s heart skipped a few beats.

This was getting out of hand. He needed to de-escalate. He looked around, and the rest of the parents were frozen. Paul hadn’t even left the van. He seemed to be watching through the window. The coward. Leaving him alone to deal with this madman.

Stall. That’s what he would do. He would stall. He would talk as long as he could, keep Scott placated and confused, until he found his opening.

And then he’d exploit it, in the bloodiest way possible.

He’d do it right here. Forget the warehouse. He would gladly pay whatever the price was. If that meant spending the rest of his life in jail, so be it. He had no more children. There was only Susan, and she’d survive without him.

Maybe she’d even be better off.

It would be worth it, to see this man extinguished from the earth.

“Where’s Hanlon?” John asked. “Is he hurt? Does he need help?”

“He’s not hurt,” Scott said, glancing back to the window. “He’s just tied up. I don’t hurt people. I wouldn’t hurt him.”

John believed Hanlon was probably okay. He hadn’t heard any gunshots. And if he wasn’t okay, then it wasn’t some great loss to the world. He was a mediocre cop who screwed up and put them all into this mess. They didn’t need him to finish it.

“Okay, it’s good that he’s not hurt,” John said. “Listen, we can solve this. I’m willing to hear you out. But first, you have to put down the gun.”

“As soon as I put down the gun, you’re going to come after me,” Scott said.

“That’s not true.” John tried to sound convincing.

“Yes, it is,” John said. “I see it. You’re lying. You’re just telling me what I want to hear.”

Okay, so maybe this guy wasn’t a complete idiot.

John wasn’t sure what to do. But Scott didn’t seem to know what to do, either.

One thing was for sure: John didn’t know how much longer they could stand here like this, out in the open. Surely, someone would be by soon and stumble across this scene, a wild-looking man holding a gun on a bunch of people standing around a minivan.

John tried to think of another way to stall, another question to ask, when Scott waved the gun like he was trying to bat away a fly. “Get away from the van.”

“I can’t do that,” John said.

Scott took a step forward, held the gun up. “Yes, you can. Get away from the van. All of you. Leave the keys.”

John shook his head. “Now wait—”

“Now!” Scott yelled, his voice again taking on the shrill tone of a child.

John didn’t want to get shot today. Then he’d lose his chance for revenge.

Lose the battle. Win the war.

John put his hand up and waved at Kat to move away from her place behind the van. He turned to Susan and Daisy, and found them frozen in fright.

And he got an idea.

“Susan, Daisy, the two of you, get out of the car now,” he said, purposely leaving out Paul.

He hoped Paul would be smart enough to get the message, and stay hidden in the back. He hoped Susan and Daisy were smart enough to get out of the car without saying anything, without alerting or pointing out Paul. It was their one last chance to maintain the upper hand.

And it worked.

Because when Susan and Daisy opened the doors, the interior lights popping on, Paul’s face had disappeared from the window. There wasn’t much space to hide in the back, with the seats taken out, but maybe there had been something he could throw over himself.

Or maybe Scott was in too much of a panic to notice.

Or maybe Scott would turn and shoot Paul, and that would give John the opening he needed.

Any of those options worked. He honestly did not care. Whatever path put his hands around the throat of his son’s killer was an acceptable one.

The women got behind John, and he put his arms up, like he could block Scott from getting to them. The group cut a wide circle around him, away from the van and toward the back wall of the motel. Still no movement from the van.

Scott’s eyes seemed to soften now that things were going his way. He stepped toward the van and closed the sliding door, then walked around to the driver’s side, never taking his eyes off them for too long, never bringing the gun down.

He stopped as he reached the door and looked at the assembly of parents.

“I did not do it,” he said. “I did not kill them. I couldn’t have killed them. I would never—I would never—do something like that. I hope you find out who did. I’m sorry. But I’m leaving. I can’t be here anymore.”

Scott climbed into the car. John considered rushing it, but saw that Scott didn’t take his hand off the gun. He just moved it to his left hand and placed it on the steering wheel as he turned the key in the ignition with his right hand.

Then he backed the van toward the parking lot, whipped it around, and drove off, tires squealing and throwing up bits of loose asphalt. They watched in silence as it turned the corner and disappeared.

John cursed silently to himself and adjusted his son’s Yankees hat.

It was up to Paul now.

The one person in this group John had the least faith in.

Chapter 16

Paul Zhou

PAUL PEEKED OUT from under the blanket and watched as Scott started the van and pulled out of the lot.

Scott had glanced back, barely, but didn’t seem to notice the rumpled blanket, which Paul had managed to get over himself after John made it clear he should stay in the back. Not that he had any idea why this was a good plan. The truth was, he was too scared to try and get out.

Paul’s heart beat in his chest with the speed of a hummingbird’s wings. He wasn’t sure what to do. He couldn’t just rush him. The man had a gun, and Paul didn’t have a death wish.

So he watched. After a couple of turns, Scott placed the gun on the passenger seat. Okay, that was a start. If he was fast, maybe he could get to Scott before Scott could get to the gun.

But did he want to?

He’d heard the man say he didn’t kill their children.

What if that was true?

Maybe Scott was innocent of all this. If so, this entire plan was a terrible mistake. Cops got things wrong sometimes. There had just been a whole series on Netflix about police officers screwing some guy who was falsely arrested for a crime, from years before, that he didn’t commit. Paul hadn’t watched it yet, but everyone was talking about it. Maybe Hanlon was off about the whole thing.

Though that didn’t explain the pictures Scott had in his apartment.

He could be lying. What did Paul know of killers? Psychopaths are supposed to do things without any sort of feeling for consequences, without understanding of human emotion. If he’d really killed their children, then lying about it would be a lot easier than the act of taking a life.

This wasn’t some late-night movie. It was real life, where things weren’t laid out so clearly. Where bad guys didn’t give eloquent soliloquies about their crimes.

Paul wished it were a late-night movie. That he was an action hero, with the strength and courage to subdue the man. But he couldn’t get himself to move out from under the blanket. Maybe he could get to Scott in time. But even if Scott wasn’t able to get the gun, he could still crash the car. Scott was buckled in. Paul wasn’t. He’d go flying through the windshield and would end up a smear on the pavement.

No, right now he had to focus on staying alive. Hope that Daisy and the others were following closely behind, formulating some kind of plan.

So he waited, keeping the blanket just high enough that he could keep an eye on Scott. Waiting for something to happen.

Scott drove, and stopped, and drove and stopped again, muttering to himself. Paul listened hard but couldn’t make out what he was saying over the sound of the engine and the tires on the road.

What if they weren’t following? What if he was all alone? That meant sooner or later, he’d have to act. He just had to wait for the perfect moment.

And with the car moving, that probably wouldn’t happen anytime soon.

Paul focused on staying as still as possible and slowed his breathing. The rough carpet on the floor of the van scratched his cheek. He prayed that Scott wouldn’t glance in the rear-view mirror and get curious about the blanket.

Chapter 17

Daisy Zhou

DAISY RAN PAST the others, watching the van as it cut around the corner and disappeared from view.

She turned to John, Susan, and Kat, the three of them dumbfounded. She couldn’t believe that they were standing there like that. It had been scary enough when Scott was holding a gun on them. It made her blood run cold and her body seize up, to see that monster wielding the power of life and death over them.

But now he was gone. And Paul was with him.

For as much as she wanted to put faith in her husband, she found that faith flagging. Paul wasn’t a man of action. He was a man of thoughtfulness. And thoughtfulness didn’t mean much against a loaded weapon, or a man desperate enough to use it.

She hated thinking that. She hated doubting her husband. But she couldn’t help herself. Every second the van got further away, it made her feel more and more like she might not see him again. At least, not alive.

Daisy put her hands up in the air, trying to snap the other parents out of their stupor. “We have to do something!”

“Okay, okay, let’s check on Hanlon first,” John said. “I’ll do it. The rest of you stay here.”

John ran around the side of the building as Daisy stood there, bouncing on the toes of her feet. She didn’t know what to do. Her van was gone. Her husband was gone. She felt empty.

All that doubt and uncertainty about her marriage were suddenly erased. She couldn’t lose Paul, too. She wouldn’t know what to do. She couldn’t bear the prospect of raising Jian by herself.

She went over to the other women. Kat was shaking her head, clearly frustrated, while Susan had wrapped her arms around herself, sobbing silently. It seemed like the gravity of the situation was pulling them apart.

Maybe Paul was right. Maybe this wasn’t the right thing to do.

Kat put her hand on Daisy’s arm. “It’s going to be okay,” she said.

“How do you know that?” Daisy asked. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Because Paul is a smart man. He’s a cautious man. He won’t do anything that’s going to get himself killed.”

Daisy nodded. Kat was right. Maybe the thoughtfulness would save him.

Then she got an idea. She reached around to her back pocket, thinking maybe she would text Paul, try to communicate with him some way, find out where the van was.

But the phone was in the bag, with all the rest.

The bag was in the van.

So Scott had the van, her husband, and all their cell phones.

She wanted to scream.

John and Hanlon reappeared, jogging around the side of the building. Hanlon was huffing, his hair unkempt, his clothes ruffled. And more than that, he looked pissed. John was running him through what happened, about Scott taking off.

As soon as they got close, Daisy dove forward and slapped Hanlon hard across the face. Her hand stung from the impact. The blow seemed to stun him. He staggered back and hit the wall, putting one hand to his cheek, eyes wide.

“What the hell happened in there?” Daisy asked. “Can’t you do anything right?”

“Now hold on,” Hanlon said, rubbing his face.

“No, no holding on,” Daisy said. “We have to go after them right now. You have to call the police. Let them know.”

“That’s not going to happen,” John said.

Hanlon nodded. “Do you know what kind of hell we’d be in?”

“My husband is in the van,” Daisy said. “I don’t know how to make it clearer.”

“And I can’t make this any more clear,” John said, talking slowly, like she was a child. “Now shut up and let’s go get into Hanlon’s car. We’ll go after them and we’ll fix this.”

“But—” Daisy said.

John drew himself up so that he seemed a few inches taller. He stepped toward Daisy, his face suddenly set in stone. The words that came out of him bubbled from someplace deep and scary.

“No more buts,” he said. “Get moving.”

Daisy tried to hold his gaze, but his eyes were like chips of granite. John was an angry man, and the way he directed his anger at her shook her to her core. She looked over to Susan, thinking his wife would support him, but she was looking down at the pavement.

Their relationship seemed suddenly cast in a new, disturbing light.

Daisy couldn’t believe it. She wanted to reach up and slap John, too, but in that terrible moment, she got the feeling like he might hit her back.

“Okay, fine, let’s go to the car,” she said, not wanting to waste any more time.

They ran for the parking lot, making their way to Hanlon’s car. The wide bench seats gave them enough room—Hanlon driving, John up front, and the women in the back. Kat in the center, with Susan on one side and Daisy on the other. They barely had the doors closed before Hanlon started the engine and whipped it out of the parking lot.

He seemed to be driving with a purpose, and before Daisy could ask where he was going, John did it for her. “What’s the plan?”

“He said he was leaving, right?” Hanlon asked. “He said that?”

“Yes.”

“He’s panicking,” Hanlon said. “He knows he’s not safe here. I bet he’s aiming for the expressway. There’s a ramp not too far from here. It’ll be the first thing he comes across, and it’s going to look awful inviting.”

“And what do we do when we catch up to him?” Susan asked.

“We’re playing this one by ear,” Hanlon said.

Daisy tried to formulate a plan on her own, the whole time staring at the back of John’s head. What kind of man was this? And what path had he put them on?

Chapter 18

Thomas Scott

THOMAS TURNED THE car onto the entrance ramp of the Staten Island Expressway and merged into traffic. It was light, though it was after midnight, and more people were out than he would have expected.

Exhaustion suddenly overwhelmed him. He was tired. So tired.

And he didn’t have any idea what he was doing.

He was in a stolen van with a gun. A van that was no doubt getting reported to the police right now, and a gun that would land him in jail for a very long time. He’d assaulted a cop and stolen the gun from him.

That was serious. Super serious.

His first experience with the justice system had not been a good one. He had a feeling that no matter how much he explained the circumstances of what happened, no one was going to believe him. It would be his word against theirs, and right now, his word didn’t seem to be worth anything.

Seeing all the parents together like that just about killed him. The pain and the suffering they were going through. He almost didn’t blame them for coming after him like that. He couldn’t imagine what loss like that must do.

He just wished their anger wasn’t directed at him.

He thought he could reason with them, but clearly he couldn’t, so it was best to get out of there. He figured he could drive a little while until he got an idea.

He had no friends. No one in his life who cared about him or knew where he was. He couldn’t go to his apartment. There wasn’t anyone he knew who could bail him out of this. All he could do was keep driving—until when? The expressway would eventually split off. And both directions led to New Jersey.

That seemed like a good enough idea. If he was over state lines, didn’t it mean that the cops couldn’t come after him or something? They’d have the get the police in New Jersey involved, and that would waste even more time.

Okay then. He could drive to Jersey. Ditch the car and the gun as soon as he could. Maybe he could find a train or a bus and just go south. Forget Portland—getting all the way across the country suddenly seemed like too much. But in Jersey he could get a train. He’d taken it before, down to Florida once, to visit a cousin.

The visit hadn’t gone so well, but Florida was okay. He didn’t mind the heat, and he’d always wanted to visit Disney World. Not that he had any idea what to do down there, other than that. The cousin had passed, years ago. Thomas didn’t know anyone else. He wouldn’t even have a place to stay. All he had was the clothes on his back, the small amount of cash Amato had given him, and the modest savings in his bank account.

But no matter where you went in the world, people needed things cleaned. It would be easy enough to find a job, and maybe a small apartment. It didn’t seem so impossible, and it felt more possible with every inch of roadway he put underneath the tires of the van.

It suddenly felt like this terrible episode of his life was slipping away. Like maybe he’d have a chance to start new. He looked around at the outlines of the trees against the night sky, at the lights of the businesses that flashed by. He’d miss this place. Deep down, he really, truly loved it. It was his home.

But there wasn’t anything he was leaving behind.

He could make this work.

But as Thomas drove, something struck him as not right. There was something off that he couldn’t quite place his finger on. He became so panicked that it was hard to focus. But after a few moments, he realized what it was: traffic seemed to be slowing down.

He had been intent on keeping the car under the speed limit, turning on his blinker, and carefully changing lanes. He didn’t want to draw any undue attention. But there were suddenly more brake lights up ahead. The outlines of the trees and the lights of the businesses weren’t whipping by as fast.

His newfound sense of relief slowly slipped away as he realized there were flashing lights up ahead.

An accident. He could make out the police car and the ambulance and the tow truck, sitting there in the middle of the road.

He was stuck in the left lane as traffic came to a dead stop.

Chapter 19

Paul Zhou

WITH THE WAY the van was moving, Paul was sure they were on the expressway. Scott had been driving fast for a long time, and Paul could hear the sound of cars whipping past them.

This wasn’t great. He had no idea which way Scott was headed—to Brooklyn or to New Jersey—but figured that either way, this wasn’t going to end well. He might be fleeing the island, and Paul was stuck.

Worse than that, Scott would be very unhappy to find he had a guest along for the ride.

Paul tried to come up with a plan. Scott didn’t look back, not in any of the time Paul was looking, so it seemed Scott had pretty much completely written off the back. There was some space to cover between the two of them, but with the gun possibly out of Scott’s reach, that put Paul at an advantage.

He could dive forward, grab the gun, and stay on the floor. Point the gun up at Scott. Even if the car came to a short stop, he could wedge himself behind the passenger seat so he wouldn’t be thrown through the windshield.

The prospect of grabbing the gun scared Paul. He’d never held one. Never even seen one in real life, outside the occasional gun holstered at the side of a policeman. What if the safety was on? Scott was a killer—he’d know whether he’d left the safety on. He’d know in an instant that Paul had no clue what he was doing.

Or maybe not. Maybe he really wasn’t that smart, which is what everyone had been saying. Maybe Paul just needed the gun in his hand and that would end it.

He breathed deep, in the process inhaling the warm, musty scent of the blanket, which made him think of his son and daughter. This was the blanket they kept in the back of the car for impromptu picnics. Driving past Clove Lakes Park or Silver Lake Park, they would pull it out and sit on the grass with the kids. Sometimes with snacks, sometimes reading books, and sometimes they’d sit there just to sit.

What if Scott was going to their house?

If he was on the expressway, then all he had to do was take it to the Arden Avenue exit, and it wouldn’t be long until they were in his neighborhood. What if Scott was planning to drive up to their door and finish what he had started? After all, he’d had that picture of Jian in his apartment. Why?

He wanted to climb up to his knees and peek out the window, see if he could figure out where they were. What direction they were headed in. And he knew that if Scott went anywhere near the Arden Avenue exit, Paul would get that gun and fire it without a second thought.

He would cross that line if it meant protecting his son.

He was just about to push himself up, try and catch a glimpse of the surroundings, when the car was filled with swinging red lights. It wasn’t accompanied by sirens, so it couldn’t be that they were getting pulled over. The cops would have put their sirens on.

And then Paul realized that it must be a car accident. Something jamming up the expressway. Even in the middle of the night, it was so easy to shut this entire thing down.

The car came to a stop, and Scott slammed his fist on the steering wheel.

This was Paul’s chance.

Chapter 20

Daisy Zhou

DAISY TAPPED HER foot as Hanlon guided the car down the expressway. She couldn’t know if they were going the right way, but something down in her gut told her they were. That Paul was just up ahead.

The problem was that traffic seemed to be slowing down. It was late now, so there shouldn’t be this much traffic on the expressway. Maybe there was an accident ahead. She wanted to ask Hanlon if he had a radio he could check, but found herself unable to form the words.

She was still so angry at him.

And at John now, for trying to impose his will on them. She felt the need for revenge. To make Scott pay for what he did. But that need didn’t outweigh the life of her husband. She didn’t need to ask John how he felt—clearly he didn’t care. The only thing that mattered to him was ending Scott.

This whole thing was coming apart at the seams. She’d gone along with it because she felt this burning anger in her stomach, like a flame she thought she could snuff out if Scott were dead. But she was starting to understand how Paul felt. Why he was so unsure about this whole thing.

Who were they to be judge, jury, and executioner?

The plan didn’t matter to her anymore. All she wanted to do was find her husband.

But with the way the cars were slowing down now and boxing them in, it was seeming a lot less likely to happen anytime soon.

Hanlon reached down toward the radio and flicked a switch. A waterfall of static filled the inside of the car, and then a male voice broke though.

“Central, we’ve got a 10-53 between Slosson and Bradley. Victim likely, bus dispatched and arrived on scene. Send AIS. Repeat, send AIS.”

“What’s all that supposed to mean?” John asked.

“Car accident up ahead,” Hanlon said, pointing forward with his chin as the car came to a stop, stuck behind a sea of red brake lights. “‘Bus’ is an ambulance. ‘Likely’ means the victim is likely to die. They want the Accident Investigation Squad to come out.”

“What if it was them?” Daisy asked, her blood running cold.

“They’d be asking for a hell of a lot more than AIS,” Hanlon said. “Remember, Scott has a gun.”

“Yeah, your gun,” Daisy said, hoping the words would sting.

Given the look Hanlon shot her in the rear view, it seemed like she’d accomplished that mission.

“So, can’t you just radio in ahead?” Daisy asked. “They might be stuck in the same thing. The cops might have him boxed in. They could get him.”

“No way,” John said. “We do that, we have to call the whole thing off. We’ll never explain it away.”

“He’s right,” Hanlon said. “Better to wait. Scott may not be the smartest guy I’ve ever tangled with, but he has to know he can only get himself in more trouble. I’m sure this will open up in a minute.”

Daisy scoffed. She couldn’t believe they’d gamble with the life of her husband. She looked at Susan, who was staring vacantly out the window. She looked like a mouse, so timid and afraid. It made her angry. So she turned to Kat.

“I can’t leave him out there like that,” Daisy said.

“Better to just listen to what they said,” Kat responded.

“Forget this,” Daisy said. She opened the door and jumped out. She was running as soon as her feet hit the pavement, cutting a path down the shoulder of the expressway. Cars whipped past on the other side of the concrete divider. Hanlon and John were calling for her, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying, and she didn’t really give a damn.

She ran as fast as she could in the direction of the accident.

And, hopefully, her husband.

Chapter 21

Thomas Scott

THOMAS LOOKED AT the line of brake lights in front of him. The way was completely blocked. In the distance, it looked like there were police officers trying to clear room so traffic could start moving through a free lane.

Thomas’s heart was slamming against the inside of his rib cage.

He, the most wanted man on Staten Island, was in a stolen car, and suddenly he was a sitting duck. He looked at the cars around him. Already, people were shuffling, craning their necks, a few leaning on their horns.

No one was looking into the van.

But it was only a matter of time.

What if someone recognized him? Would a mob of people drag him from the car and beat him to death? Would they bring him over to the cops, who would find the stolen car and the gun and the cop tied up in the motel room, and then toss him right back in jail? He kept thinking back to the liquor store. The way people looked at him with disgust, like he had come there on purpose to hurt someone.

He considered hopping onto the shoulder, but there was construction, so it was closed. He couldn’t back the car up—there were too many cars behind him now, and anyway, the nearest exit was too far away.

He fantasized about driving one of those monster trucks that could jump up and roll over an entire line of cars. How easy it would be then, just to ride across this mess and speed away. But that wasn’t real. He was in a minivan, and although it had some nice features—GPS and satellite radio and heated seats—it wasn’t exactly built for what he had in mind.

“Damnit damnit damnit,” Thomas said, looking around, trying to decide the best course of action.

He looked to his right. On the other side of the three lanes of traffic, there was a grass-covered embankment. It wasn’t too steep and looked easy enough to climb. With traffic at a dead standstill, it would be easy enough to make his way across.

No, the real problem was that big stone wall at the top of the embankment.

Thomas knew that on the other side there was a line of quiet homes, and the wall was to drown out the never-ending hum of the highway. He looked to the left, across the opposite three lanes of traffic, up the other embankment, and there was no wall. The problem was, the cars on that side were whipping by at top speed.

Traffic was slow up in the distance, rubberneckers slowing down to look, but as soon as drivers passed the wreck, they pressed down hard on their gas pedals, racing each other to make up for the time they’d lost. There were enough cars moving just fast enough that Thomas knew his chances of getting all the way across without getting smashed to bits were low.

He looked at the wall to his right, wondered if it was low enough that he could climb over it, or if he could backtrack to the last exit.

And then he saw it.

About a hundred yards ahead, there was a gap. He could just make out a little bit of light streaming from the other side. If he could make it there, he could probably squeeze through.

He had no idea what he’d do when he made it there, but it was better than sitting here. Better than driving past some cops who might recognize him, or might get curious and run his plate, and then he’d be in the same position as before.

He thought back to his filthy cell at Rikers. All the people lined up outside it who wanted to do him harm. He didn’t want to go back.

He was preparing to exit the car when he glimpsed movement in the rear-view mirror. He turned to check what it was, and suddenly something slipped over his head, cinched around his throat, and pulled him back into the seat. The flow of oxygen to his lungs was immediately cut off.

Chapter 22

Paul Zhou

SCOTT WAS MUTTERING curses under his breath. Paul knew that if he was going to do something, this was his chance.

But he remained frozen under the blanket. He wasn’t a killer. He wasn’t even a fighter. He’d never been in a fight in his life.

He wondered if he could signal to someone outside the car, but wasn’t sure how to do that without attracting Scott’s attention. He thought about opening the back door of the van. He could just reach the handle. But he wasn’t sure if it was locked. The doors usually locked after the car was started. If he made too much noise trying to open it, Scott could turn around and make short work of him with the gun.

He paused, breathed in the smell of the blanket.

They’d spent so many beautiful afternoons sitting on it. He ran through them in his head, highlights of Mei’s short life. He focused in on one of the earlier memories. She took her first steps off this blanket, into the freshly-mowed grass of Silver Lake Park.

He would carry the memory of that day with him for the rest of his life. The way she tentatively propped herself up, standing and laughing and swaying with a newfound sense of power. She did that occasionally, but couldn’t seem to muster the courage to take a step, and would inevitably plop down on her butt.

But this time, she smiled like she’d been let in on a secret, and she stumbled forward. It was only three or four steps before she went down, and Paul scooped her up and rocked her in his arms, brushing her black hair out of her face as she cried little crocodile tears, less hurt and more looking for Father’s attention.

Paul saw a grass stain up on the edge of the blanket and had to fight back his own tears.

The memory of his daughter and what he lost filled him with rage. The thought of that most perfect piece of him, which he’d created, gone before she had a chance to fall in love or join a team or stay up late or any of the other things kids are supposed to do—it was too much.

Paul may not have been a man of action, but the adrenaline was pumping. The anger was giving him strength. It was pushing him to remember that this was the man who had killed his daughter.

Scott was a big man. Paul wasn’t as strong as Scott, but he was smart. He reached his hand around, as slowly as possible so as not to disturb the blanket, and came across Mei’s sparkly purple jump rope, wedged into the corner. Something he had forgotten to clear out of the car the last time he cleaned.

Any other time he would have been annoyed at the oversight.

Right now it was perfect. Fitting that this was the way Scott would die.

Because even though Scott was a big man, as long as Paul had a little leverage, things could be made a little more even.

What would it take? Three minutes? Four?

Suddenly he understood what was driving John so hard. What made Daisy light up so much. For as detestable as this whole thing was, it was something. And doing something made him feel so much less helpless. Like he wasn’t just tumbling through a void.

He threw the blanket aside, charged forward, threw the jump rope over Scott’s head, making sure to loop it around his neck, and leaned back with all his weight. Scott thrashed and drew both hands to his throat, desperately trying to free himself.

Paul looked up, saw Scott’s frightened eyes in the rear-view mirror, and locked on to them. He wanted to see the life leave them.

He wasn’t afraid anymore.

Chapter 23

Thomas Scott

DARKNESS DANCED AROUND the edges of Thomas’s vision. Something hard and tight was cutting into his throat. He scratched at it, but couldn’t get a finger underneath it. He flailed his arms, desperately trying to reach for something, but there was nothing close. The gun might as well have been a million miles away, out of his reach on the passenger seat.

Someone must have been in the car with him. When Thomas had gotten in, he hadn’t seen anything but a dirty old blanket. But he was sure no one had come in since. The doors hadn’t opened, the lights hadn’t gone on. Someone had been waiting.

All he could see in the rear-view mirror was a pair of furious eyes.

He tried to cough, to choke, to call out for help, but all he could do was feel his lungs screaming for air, and the thing cutting into his throat, crushing his trachea.

Then he realized his foot was still pressed firmly on the brake pedal.

He picked it up and pushed it down hard on the gas.

The van leapt forward and collided with the car in front of it. It wasn’t much of an impact, but it was enough that whoever was behind him seemed to falter. The thing around his neck loosened just enough that he could slip a hand under, creating some relief for his throat. Thomas took a greedy gasp of air, savoring the feeling of his lungs filling back up, nearly crying from relief.

He turned and saw someone moving, pushing toward the front seat.

Going for the gun.

Thomas threw his elbow back and it smacked off something hard. The person yelped in pain and fell back as a bolt shot up Thomas’s arm. He slammed the car into Park and reached for the gun, but only succeeded in knocking it away. It fell somewhere between the passenger door and the seat, out of reach.

He was about to climb over when he noticed the driver of the car in front of him stalking toward the van. He was a big man, better than six feet tall and wide across the shoulders. He had big glasses and a bushy mustache and his face was twisted in anger. He was yelling something, and even with the window closed Thomas could tell it wasn’t going to be good.

So Thomas threw himself into the back, figuring he’d push past the person in the back and escape through the rear of the van, which would be clear now that they’d moved forward.

But as he scrambled around the seat and onto the floor, someone jumped onto his back and wrapped an arm around his throat, screaming into his ear, “You killed my daughter!”

Once again, he couldn’t breathe.

Chapter 24

Paul Zhou

PAUL THREW HIMSELF on top of Scott. Driving the car forward might have been enough for Scott to distract him, but it would also piss off the other drivers and alert the police.

All he had to do was hold him.

But the man was strong. He was bucking and fighting, trying to get away, moving toward the back of the car. And meanwhile, someone was smacking the car window, trying see what was going on. Probably the person in front of them who they’d hit.

“Someone help!” Paul yelled out, gripping the man tighter, wrapping one arm around Scott’s neck, and the other around his own wrist, trying to keep ahold of Scott.

The front driver-side door opened, the interior flooding with yellow light, and a male voice asked, “What the hell is going on in there?”

Paul was about to answer when he felt the body under him shift. Scott was getting his feet underneath him, and Paul couldn’t do much more than go along for the ride, as the bigger man threw him back into the wall of the van. Paul’s head smacked on the glass, and he saw stars, loosening his grip enough that Scott was able to move toward the back.

He fiddled with the door and found the button. The door slowly rose and Paul got a good look at Scott’s face. He looked so much more sinister in the harsh interior light.

Scott stepped one foot out of the van, looked back, and paused.

“You’re Mei’s father,” Scott said.

Paul felt a white-hot explosion spark in the center of him. “Don’t you dare say her name,” he said, choking back tears. He scrambled to get out of the van as Scott backed up and put his hand in the air.

“I did not kill your daughter,” he said.

And then he ran off.

Paul tried to follow and stumbled out of the back. Just as he was about to turn and see if anyone could help him find the direction Scott ran, someone pushed him back against the hood of an idling car.

He turned and found a huge man with glasses and a mustache, his face red. “What the hell is wrong with you, you idiot?” he asked. “You smashed into me. I guess it’s true that Asians can’t drive.”

Paul was about to say something when Daisy appeared. She shouted “Hey,” threw her hand out, and struck the man across the face.

“That’s racist,” she said. “My husband is an excellent driver.”

It took a second for Paul to process the sight of his petite wife appearing out of nowhere like that. He didn’t know what to do, and watched as the man stumbled for a moment then reached back his hand to smack Daisy.

That white-hot point of rage in Paul’s stomach grew bigger. He stepped forward and threw out his fist, jabbing the man’s nose. It opened like a faucet, spouting blood. The man staggered back, holding his face.

The quickness and brutality of it shocked Paul. But his wife was in danger. One member of his family was dead. He wouldn’t allow another to be hurt.

It didn’t take long for the big man to regain his composure. He balled his fists and set himself, preparing to launch forward. Paul knew this was not a fight he was going to win, but he had to do everything he could to protect his wife.

He braced himself.

Chapter 25

Rex Hanlon

HANLON CUT THROUGH the cars on foot just as traffic was starting to pick up. He had no idea what was happening up ahead, but knew there was a very real chance things had just gone south.

He hated leaving his own car, but if there were cops, he might be able to handle it. If those cops saw Scott, then the game would be up. There’d be no explaining that. He might even be in a lot of trouble. Scott could tell them everything that happened at the motel, and the pieces would fall into place fairly quick.

It’d be his word against a kid killer, sure. But there were enough parties in play now that there was no outcome that didn’t end with him losing his career, his pension—probably his freedom.

He ducked to the side and jogged on the shoulder, drivers honking their horns at him. He held his badge up over his shoulder, hoping it would catch the light and shut them up.

He wondered if John would think to put the car on the shoulder and wait. Hanlon should have told him to do that. John had insisted on coming, of course, but Hanlon thought it was better to leave him with Susan and Kat.

He was getting tired of this. Part of him just wanted to put a bullet in Scott’s skull. Let those parents rest, knowing the man was dead. His career was over anyway. May as well end it with a bang.

Up in the distance, Hanlon saw another car pulled off to the side of the road. The shoulder was blocked because of construction, so it was cutting off a full lane, but cars were able to stream around it.

As he got closer, he recognized the van.

He broke into a run, his knee and hip immediately screaming in protest. Damnit, his age was catching up with him, and he hated it. Hated how he used to be able to run like this and barely break a sweat. Now he would feel some serious pain in the morning. Probably the next day, too.

As he approached the van, it took him a second to figure out what was going on. Daisy was behind Paul, the two of them standing in front of a bigger man with his fists clenched and blood on his face. Hanlon threw himself between them, and held up his badge.

“NYPD,” Hanlon said, sucking in air, trying to catch his breath. “What the hell is going on here?”

The man put his hand up, pointing past Hanlon. “This idiot drove his car into mine. Then this bitch slapped me in the face, and he punched me. I want you to arrest them right now.”

Paul and Daisy started to protest, but Hanlon gently pushed the man farther away from the two of them. Right off the bat he could see the man’s eyes were a little glassy, and upon stepping closer could smell the thick scent of beer on him.

“Sir, have you been drinking tonight?” Hanlon asked.

The man went white. “Uh…”

“Come with me,” Hanlon said.

He walked toward where the van and the car were pressed up against each other. The man was docile now, his face drenched in fear. Hanlon took a look at the bumpers of the two vehicles and found the car’s was a little loose and some of the paint had been sheared off, but otherwise, it didn’t look too bad.

“That’s a pretty easy repair,” Hanlon said, standing up and looking the man dead in the eye. “Few hundred bucks, I figure. If I told you that you could go home and handle it yourself, would that be preferable to a DUI?”

The man seemed to think about it.

The plan to capture and kill Thomas Scott now rested on this guy’s shoulders—and he didn’t even know it. Hanlon looked around him, down the expressway, at the cop car that was still lingering. Any moment they could notice what was going on here and come down to investigate.

Hanlon held his breath.

The man’s shoulders slumped, and Hanlon exhaled. Defeated, the guy stalked off, got back in the car, and slowly pulled into traffic. Hanlon smiled and turned to the Zhous. The two of them were too far away to have heard the exchange, so they were both incredibly confused.

“Lucky for us, he had a couple of drinks tonight,” Hanlon said. “Now, what the hell happened?”

As cars picked up speed, the occasional driver leaning on the horn, Paul ran him through the events in the minivan, stumbling over his words: staying hidden, attacking Scott when the car stopped, Scott’s escape, and the altercation with the other driver.

Good on Paul, Hanlon thought. Here he’d thought the man was a sissy. At least he’d stepped up to defend his wife. He couldn’t help but notice that Daisy was throwing the stray grin at him as he told the story.

“So,” Hanlon said. “Bad news, Scott got away. Good news, the other officers didn’t see you or him, so this is still in play.”

“He says he didn’t kill our children,” Paul said.

“He’s lying.”

“I know.”

Hanlon was shocked. Paul had been the weakest link in the chain, and was suddenly resolute. He wondered what had changed, but then realized it didn’t matter.

“So, what’s next?” Daisy asked. “How do we find him?”

Hanlon stared off, watching the cars speeding past them. At the big, open expanse of night sky.

Scott was on foot. He was afraid and alone and not all that clever. But Staten Island was more than a hundred square miles, home to a half a million people. A mix of homes and apartments and parks and businesses. And unlike the rest of New York City, this was the borough that gladly went to bed early. If Scott wanted to stay hidden, this place was just dense and quiet enough that it wouldn’t be hard at all.

The trick was figuring out where he would go next.

Chapter 26

Thomas Scott

THOMAS GLANCED BEHIND him and saw a car approaching. He was pretty sure he wasn’t visible, with the way the tree over his head was blocking the streetlight, creating a deep pool of black. But he ran up a driveway between two darkened homes, just to be safe.

He peeked around the corner from his spot of safety and saw it was a police cruiser, driving slowly down the street, the officers craning their necks.

He waited until the car made it to the corner and turned before he headed back down to the sidewalk. His mind raced. He had no idea where to go next. But he knew the hotel wasn’t safe.

He sighed and looked around at the quiet residential block. A long row of houses on one side, the noise-dampening wall on the other.

He felt trapped between the two.

For one brief moment, Thomas thought of walking over to the expressway overpass, climbing up the guardrail, and jumping into traffic. The fall might not be enough to end things, but the speeding cars would handle the rest.

The pit in his stomach was so dark and so deep he didn’t think he’d ever be able to climb out. What did he have to live for? He was one man against the world, and it didn’t seem like anything would convince these people he’d had nothing to do with the death of their children.

No. He didn’t do anything wrong.

He wouldn’t surrender to that feeling.

But he couldn’t stay, either.

He walked to the corner to get his bearings and then realized where he was: a couple of blocks from the nursing home where he’d done some part-time work a few years back. He headed down the block, sticking to the shadows, watching every car that passed him to make sure that it wasn’t a cop or one of the parents.

Now that he was on foot and felt relatively safe, it finally hit him. The utter disbelief that Hanlon had talked the parents into coming after him. They were all in on it—Mei’s dad and mom, Billy’s mom, John Junior’s parents. He didn’t know them by their names, just the names of their children.

For a second he thought about calling the cops. Hanlon was clearly taking the law into his own hands. But then he realized: The cops still thought he was guilty. Why would they believe him over one of their own?

The brown brick of the nursing home rose in the distance.

He knew there was a nurse at a desk out front, and there’d be a guard doing rounds of the property after midnight, so he cut through the driveway, doing his best to stay out of sight, toward the back door that was sometimes kept propped open with a cinder block, so staff could sneak outside for cigarettes without getting locked out.

He just had to hope the cinder block system was still in place.

As he approached, it looked like the door was closed, but upon closer inspection he realized there was a small piece of wood holding it. He eased the door open and peered into the darkened hallway. There was no movement on either end. He waited a moment and ducked in, cutting across the squeaky floor to the storage closet.

As he reached for the handle, a yellow beam of light flitted across the darkness. He listened, and heard footfalls coming down the hallway. Must be the security guard. He reached forward and grasped the knob.

Finally, something went his way.

The door wasn’t locked.

He ducked in and closed the door as quietly as he could, leaned against the door and listened to the footsteps get louder, then softer, and finally disappear.

He flicked on the light, squinting in the harsh white glow, to take stock of his surroundings. This was an overflow room for extra supplies, and it was barely used, because there was another storage closet closer to the nurses’ station and therefore more convenient. He just hoped that was still the case and no one wandered down here for anything.

He was so desperate for sleep his eyes hurt. His arm ached from where he slammed it into Mei’s father’s head. All he wanted to do was lie down. The idea of being in this place made him sick, hiding like this. But he had no other options.

In the morning, he would see Amato. And this would all be over.

He pulled some towels and blankets off a rack and arranged them on the floor, turned off the light, felt his way to the makeshift bed, and curled up.

The floor was hard and smelled antiseptic. After Rikers and then the hotel, this just felt like another place he was trapped, with no safe route of escape. Within moments he was softly weeping.

Chapter 27

Staten Island Register
Breaking news update
Suspected Playground Killer breaks into Willowbrook nursing home

Thomas Scott, the man suspected to be the Playground Killer and released from custody by police yesterday, was found early this morning sleeping in Sweet Acres Nursing Home in Willowbrook.

According to an employee who wished to remain anonymous, Scott was discovered by a nurse sleeping in a storage room. He reportedly threw her into a wall before fleeing the scene.

A judge ruled that the evidence being used against Scott in the murder of three Staten Island children was inadmissible, because it was collected by someone in an illegal search, at the direction of a police officer.

Scott was also involved in an altercation at a Rosebank liquor store last night, where he reportedly threw another woman to the ground.

Law enforcement sources say they still consider Scott to be a suspect and are currently searching for him in Willowbrook.

Keep an eye on the Register website for up-to-the-minute updates.

Chapter 28

Thomas Scott

THOMAS STOOD AT the far end of the strip mall, his cell phone pressed to his ear. The phone kept ringing. Maybe Amato wasn’t in yet. He considered going to the Dunkin’ Donuts across the street. The pink and orange colors were electric and inviting against the overcast sky.

He’d slept poorly on the floor of the storage room, maybe a few hours at most. It didn’t help that he woke up to the sound of someone screaming.

The nurse, a young black woman with a shaved head, was holding a roll of toilet paper and shrieking. He immediately jumped to his feet and tried to get past her, but in his sleepy-headed haste, he bumped her shoulder and she fell to the ground. He paused for a moment to make sure she was okay.

As soon as she got a good look at his face, she pushed away, screaming harder, her sneakers squeaking on the floor.

So Thomas ran.

The bus he caught was empty, and the driver barely glanced in his direction as he slid his MetroCard into the slot. The whole ride he stayed in the back, his head down, glad that it was still before rush hour.

And here he was. Outside Amato’s office. Waiting for his lawyer to show up so he could settle things up and get the hell out of Dodge.

His brain felt thick and muddy. A cup of coffee would set him right. But he knew that if he went inside the Dunkin’ Donuts, he ran the risk of another situation like at the liquor store. He could see through the big plate-glass windows that the place was crowded. All it would take was for someone to recognize him. A lot of those people probably had newspapers with his face on them.

Thomas had passed a bodega on the walk over from the bus. As Amato had predicted, all the front pages featured pictures of him outside the courthouse.

And the headlines turned his stomach.

‘PLAYGROUND KILLER’ SUSPECT BACK ON THE STREET

RUMBLE AT THE COURTHOUSE AS SUSPECTED KILLER WALKS

The worst one was:

KIDDIE KILLER SUSPECT GOES SCOT-FREE

Thomas thought you were supposed to be innocent until proven guilty. But it seems the newspapers were already convinced of his guilt.

All it would take was for one person to look up from their paper, and Thomas wouldn’t leave that Dunkin’ Donuts alive.

So he crossed the parking lot to Amato’s storefront. Thomas peered through the window. Inside there was a room with an empty desk for Amato’s secretary and a door leading to Amato’s office, which seemed to be ajar. Thomas entered.

Amato was probably in the bathroom or something. That’s why he didn’t answer the phone. Thomas was flooded with relief to be here, on the verge of escape. Finally, he could settle up and get the hell off Staten Island.

Thomas crossed the silent office and pushed the door open.

But instead of Amato, he saw Hanlon.

The cop was standing next to Amato’s desk, holding the gun from last night at his side. He lifted it up and pointed it at Thomas.

“Shut the door,” Hanlon said.

Chapter 29

Paul Zhou

PAUL KICKED A small gray rock. It skipped across a patch of drying mud outside the warehouse. He looked up and watched as the sun peeked through the clouds. He was so full of nervous energy and anticipation he felt like he was floating above the ground.

John, Susan, and Kat were inside. Daisy was with Hanlon. It was an arrangement Paul wasn’t thrilled about—he’d rather have gone himself—but Hanlon was pretty adamant, and anyway, Daisy would only be driving. Hanlon insisted that, this time, he wouldn’t let Scott get away.

Hanlon’s thinking, at least, was sound. Scott had to know he couldn’t go home. He would feel cornered. He didn’t have any family and didn’t seem to have any friends. It made sense he would go to the lawyer’s office, looking for a way out.

They’d get the drop on him, get him in the van, and come here.

And this nightmare would be over.

Paul walked across the front of the warehouse, running his hand along the crumbling façade. There were no sounds but the rustling of the high grass and the lapping of the waves in the Arthur Kill, the narrow body of water separating Staten Island from New Jersey.

Across the water was a collection of refineries. Hanlon had picked a great spot. This didn’t feel anything like the most populous city in America. It felt like the middle of nowhere. The kind of place you could scream your head off and no one would come along to help you.

He sighed. Closed his eyes. One moment he was sure they were doing the right thing. After being stuck in the car with Scott, being so close to him, he felt it down to his DNA. This man needed to pay. But in the harsh light of day, free from the adrenaline, his brain fuzzy from lack of sleep, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

There was only one thing he was sure about: Something terrible was about to happen, and it would happen whether he wanted it to or not. So maybe best to just go along with it. The only thing that mattered was getting home to Jian. Pammy had reluctantly agreed to stay through the day, but by dinnertime, she needed to leave for her study group.

He wondered what Jian was doing. Reading, hopefully. He preferred Pammy read to his son rather than watch television, though he was sure she sneaked in some cartoons here and there. It made him ashamed, thinking about his son while he stood in a field preparing to kill someone. He’d tried to be a good father.

Did this make him a bad one?

Paul didn’t have time to dwell on that, because he heard a crunching sound in the distance, and then the whir of an engine. The van appeared from the high grass bordering the muddy roadway. Daisy was driving and Hanlon was sitting shotgun.

Immediately Paul knew something was wrong. Even this far away, even with the sunlight glinting off the glass, there was something about the expression on her face. It was the same look of concern she got when one of the kids talked back or there was something around the house that Paul had forgotten to fix.

The van pulled in next to Hanlon’s car and the pair got out. Daisy moved quickly toward Paul, clearly wanting to tell him something. They were about a hundred feet apart and she waved at him to come closer as Hanlon walked around to the side and opened the sliding door. Paul jogged to meet her.

“Paul—” Daisy said.

There was a banging sound behind them. John came out of the warehouse, swinging the door a little too hard against the brick wall. His sleeves were rolled halfway up his thick arms and he was wiping the sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief.

And he was smiling.

The smile of a man without a care in the world.

Paul turned back to Daisy. Hanlon had already pulled out Scott. The man was kneeling in the mud, his hands bound behind his back with white plastic zip ties. Strips of white cloth were tied around his head, constricting his mouth.

“I didn’t think he was going to do it,” said Daisy.

“Do what?” Paul asked.

Hanlon pulled another body out of the car, dragging him down into the mud. It was Amato, in a pink dress shirt, navy pants, and expensive brown shoes. He was trussed up the same as Scott. Hands behind back, gag in mouth, his perfect hair askew.

“He said we had to take the lawyer, too,” Daisy said, her voice heavy with concern.

Paul stepped around her, putting his hand on her shoulder as he passed, and approached Hanlon. “What the hell are you doing? This isn’t what we agreed on.”

“Shut up,” Hanlon said, his voice calm as he held his revolver in his right hand. Not pointing it, not even lifting it, but clearly meant to keep Scott and Amato docile. Scott was shaking and Amato’s eyes were rimmed in red, like he’d been crying.

Paul got the sense that maybe the gun was meant to keep him docile, too.

Amato looked up at Paul and tried to speak through the cloth binding his mouth, but before Paul could make anything out, Hanlon yelled, “Hey!” The lawyer immediately fell quiet. Hanlon looked past Paul to John. “Help me with them?”

“No, first we have to talk about this,” Paul said.

“Nothing to discuss,” John said, gripping Amato under the arm and pulling him to his feet. “This man was going to enrich himself personally and professionally by helping a child-killer get out of jail. To my mind, that makes him just as bad.”

Paul didn’t know what to say. He stood between everyone, shocked at what he was seeing. That Hanlon and John were so callously preparing to kill a man who’d done a bad thing, but not a thing in the same league as what Scott did.

“We need to talk about this,” Paul said.

“It’s too late,” John said, shaking his head, speaking to Paul like he was a child. “He’s a witness now. What are we going to do, leave him here and hope he doesn’t tell anyone? He’ll go straight to the cops and we’ll all go to jail. Try being a father to your kid behind bars.”

Hanlon nodded and tightened his grip on the gun. It made a little clicking noise, metal on metal. Whatever the sound was, it made the point.

So it’s like that, Paul thought.

All that doubt and fear that Paul had felt at the beginning, inside Scott’s apartment, came rushing back. It was like someone had turned on a light switch and he could finally see the entirety of what they were doing.

This was wrong.

Hanlon and John led the two bound men toward the warehouse. Paul put his hand on Daisy’s arm and pulled her away. He lowered his voice. “We can’t do this.”

She nodded, her eyes vacant. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I know what we can do,” Paul said. “We go in and try to talk some sense into everyone. And if things go south, you run. Get in the car and drive away. You will not look back. I will take the fall for this and I will swear you had nothing to do with it. If anyone names you, we’ll both say I forced you into it.”

“Paul…”

“No. Jian lost his sister. He is not losing both of us, too.” Paul felt a lump in his throat. “We’re too far into this now. I will do whatever it takes to protect this family. To protect you.”

Daisy looked at him and smiled. Tears cut down her cheeks. She lifted her chin up. She was six inches shorter than him, and this had always been her sign that she wanted a kiss. Paul obliged, lowering his head down and pressing his lips on hers. He savored it, afraid that it might be the last time he’d have the opportunity.

“I love you, Paul,” she said.

“I love you, too, Daisy,” he replied. “Now let’s get in there and fix this.”

Chapter 30

Thomas Scott

IT WAS SO bright outside and so dark inside that, as soon as Thomas crossed the threshold into the warehouse, it was like he’d gone blind. He blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light that was spilling in narrow beams through dirty windows near the ceiling.

As his vision grew sharper, he realized just how filthy the inside of the warehouse was. It made his shoulders tense. Dirt and dust and oil and mildew, everywhere. Probably other, worse things. Excrement. Dead animals.

He imagined what it would take to get this place clean: Weeks of labor, truckloads of supplies. He would start with the walls. A good brushing and a scrubbing, to get all the grit and gunk off. Doing the walls first meant not having to do the floors twice.

It was a ridiculous thing to think about, but it was distracting him from the current situation.

Hanlon was holding his arm tight, marching him right behind Amato and John Junior’s dad. Their feet scraped in the dirt on the concrete floor.

At the end of this walk he was going to die.

And he was a little surprised—a thing like that ought to upset him. Scare him more than anything had ever scared him before. Yet this entire ordeal had been so terrible, he was ready for it to end. If anything, he was annoyed at himself. He should have been smarter than to go to Amato’s office. Of course that’s where they would look for him, because of course it was the most sensible place for him to go.

Maybe he deserved this.

He felt bad about getting Amato involved. He hoped, at least, they would let him speak long enough he could convince them to let Amato go. Maybe Amato would be smart enough to swear to not go to the police. Thomas would gladly allow him that—tell Amato he didn’t want revenge, he didn’t want anyone else to suffer. He wanted to go to his death knowing he hadn’t inadvertently condemned someone else.

But he felt like it wasn’t going to work out that way.

They approached a door and Thomas felt dread bubbling in his stomach, hot and thick. That terrible feeling of anticipation over what was next. Were they going to shoot him? Stab him?

Would it hurt?

He hoped it wouldn’t hurt too much. He hoped it would be quick.

John Junior’s dad pushed the door open and led them through.

The first thing Thomas noticed was the two women standing off to the side—Billy’s and John Junior’s moms. It was a big room, with a staircase and a platform and what looked like a big pane of glass. There was something strange about the glass. Some kind of visual distortion. A stray sunbeam hit it and seemed to break apart and scatter across the room. It took a second for Thomas to figure out what he was looking at.

When the realization hit, he screamed hard into the gag.

It was a tank full of water.

And he knew what form of death they had chosen for him.

He threw himself backward, trying with every ounce of strength to get away. This only caused Hanlon to push him into John Junior’s dad, who grabbed him by both arms and nearly lifted him off his feet before slamming him into the ground.

John Junior’s dad climbed on top of him and drove the flat of his fist into Thomas’s nose. Thomas felt something shift in his face. His head shot back and cracked against the concrete. Once, twice, three times, until the pain was so great it overwhelmed every other sense and his body gave up, falling flat against the floor. He tasted copper in his mouth.

“That’s right,” said John Junior’s dad. “You’re going to suffer like my son suffered.”

Chapter 31

Daisy Zhou

DAISY PUSHED THROUGH the door to find John straddling Scott, pounding his fists into the man’s face, then leaning down and whispering something into the bloody mess that remained.

There was a wild energy in the room, like at any moment someone might scream, but everyone was holding back. Susan was off to the side, her eyes darting around, her hand at her mouth. Amato was on his knees with Hanlon standing behind him, clutching his gun in his hand.

Daisy felt Paul come up alongside her. She was struck by how comforted she felt by his presence, and that made her angry—but only at herself, for doubting him and their relationship. Paul was a good man, and he had been right from the beginning.

“Wait,” she said.

Everyone paused and looked up at her.

“We need…we just…” she said, struggling to find the right words.

“With all due respect, shut up,” Hanlon said. “Right now, we’re going to finish this. You all signed on. You all knew you were going to get your hands dirty. So let’s get it over with.”

As Hanlon spoke, John climbed off Scott, crossed the room, and picked up a cinder block and a length of chain. Scott scrambled away, his sobs filling the room and stabbing at Daisy. It was the sobbing of a child, and her maternal instinct made her want to cradle him and comfort him, no matter how much it made her sick to think that.

She couldn’t help it. There was something so pathetic about him.

About all of this.

“Hanlon, we did not agree to kill an innocent person,” Paul said, raising his voice. “But I forced Daisy to be here, so the first thing we should do is let her leave.”

Hanlon made a confused face, but realization slowly dawned on him. “Oh, I get it. Working your defense. Nobody is leaving right now, so just be quiet and let us work.”

John had looped the chain around the cinder block and started on Scott’s legs. The man was still struggling, but had backed up into the brick wall. With his hands bound and no place to go, he tried twisting away, but didn’t have any leverage.

Daisy’s mouth was dry. Paul was already crossing the room to Hanlon, like he wanted to get in between the cop and the lawyer.

“I can’t let you do this,” Paul said.

Hanlon raised the gun and aimed it at Paul’s chest.

Daisy’s heart skipped a beat.

“You’re not ‘letting’ me do anything,” Hanlon said.

Paul slowly raised his hands until they were up by his shoulders. Amato yelled into the gag.

“You can’t be serious,” Paul said.

“I am very serious,” Hanlon said. “Do you know how many lawyers I have watched get guilty men back onto the street? And how many of those guilty men who have gone on to rape and kill again? And for what? The assholes play the system. It’s all loopholes and technicalities, even when the evidence is screaming in your face.”

Amato was still yelling, trying to say something.

“That doesn’t give you the right…” Paul said.

“Don’t you tell me about rights,” Hanlon said, his voice taking on a sharp, dangerous edge. “Do you know what it was like, watching a jury acquit the man who killed my wife and son? He blew so high on the breathalyzer he should have been dead. He should have spent the rest of his life in jail. But he had money. And his high-priced lawyer managed to convince a jury that the breathalyzer was faulty. The man who killed my family walked, because of men like him.”

To punctuate the point, Hanlon put his foot on Amato’s back and kicked him over. The lawyer’s face smacked against the floor. He rolled over and groaned.

“My family had rights, until a drunk driver and a lawyer told me they didn’t,” Hanlon said. “Now stand over in the corner with your wife. This will all be over soon.”

Paul stepped back slowly.

Daisy considered reaching out to him, but the tension in the room was so heavy, she was afraid any sudden movement might cause Hanlon to panic and fire. She finally recognized him for what he was: twisted and deranged by the tragedy of his past.

John, meanwhile, was holding Thomas under the armpits, dragging him toward the tank.

Chapter 32

John Kennelly

SCOTT WAS HEAVY, and it would be a tough job getting him up the metal staircase, and onto the platform at the lip of the tank. John couldn’t ask Paul or Daisy for help. Hanlon was busy keeping things under control. Susan and Kat were too slight for this kind of work.

It was up to John.

Ultimately, it would be worth the effort.

Every waking moment since John Junior died had been consumed by an emotion too simple to peg as “anger.” It was a blackness that opened up in the center of him, a vacuum that consumed and destroyed everything, until there was only empty space left behind.

And now, nearly at the end of this, a calm washed over him.

The tank couldn’t have been more perfect. He wondered, vaguely, what it was for, but decided he didn’t care. All that mattered is that it would serve the purpose he wanted it to. They’d gotten lucky—and not for the first time. As soon as he saw it, he knew that’s how he wanted Scott to die. As chance would have it, there was a working firehose nearby, wrapped up behind glass near the tank, which made short work of filling it.

John pegged the water level at about eight feet. The cinder block and chain would keep Thomas below the surface. And since it was constructed mostly of glass, they’d have a clear view of him as he struggled and died.

John would be able to stand there and press his face against the glass and stare Scott in the eyes the entire time. He felt good. He wanted to cry. It wasn’t sad or happy crying. Just all the emotion that had built up, ready to spill out. He looked down at this mess of a man, struggling but unable to get away. Soon he would be gone. It wouldn’t bring back John Junior, but it would sure as hell make John feel a lot better.

He was so at peace that, as he reached the steps and dragged Scott up the stairs, one by one, he was only vaguely aware of the voices in the room, still arguing. The Zhous, unable to accept reality, those cowards.

But as he reached the platform, as Scott renewed his struggle and John kicked him in the head to calm him down, he heard another voice cut through the din.

“John!” Susan called.

He turned to find his wife diving past Hanlon, pulling the gag out of Amato’s mouth. The lawyer coughed as John dropped Scott and yelled, “What the hell are you doing?”

Chapter 33

Susan Kennelly

SUSAN KNEW JOHN was in pain, and she knew he needed this, and she told herself she could live with what they planned to do to Scott. She wasn’t happy about it, but she’d find a way.

Still, despite all of Hanlon’s bluster, she didn’t believe Amato should die.

And the lawyer was so desperately trying to say something. She couldn’t help herself. She yelled for her husband to stop and ran to Amato, hoping Hanlon wouldn’t fire the gun, and yanked the gag away. He coughed hard, like he was trying to clear a heavy cold from his lungs.

John was yelling at her but she wasn’t listening. She knew there’d be consequences and she didn’t care. She was done standing by and letting things happen.

“You’re making a mistake,” Amato said, the words coming out heavy and scattered.

“Shut up,” Hanlon said, whipping the gun against the side of Amato’s head with a sharp crack. The lawyer went down hard. Susan yelped and jumped back. She looked up at her husband, whose face had gone beet red. Scott was cowering at his feet.

“Susan, I want you to listen to me…” John started.

“No,” Susan said, a little shocked at the force of the word and the volume of her voice. “You listen to me. I have been afraid of you for a very long time but I will not let that overshadow the fact that we’re about to kill an innocent person.”

John’s face fell. The anger replaced by sadness. It wasn’t her defiance that hurt him. She could see the thing that cut him deepest was the admission that she was afraid of him. And the worst part was, he seemed to understand what she meant almost instantly.

“Two innocent men,” Amato said from the floor, a smear of blood across his cheek.

“What?” Susan asked.

“We’re both innocent,” Amato said. “Has no one noticed the way he’s freaking out? The way he’s shaking? Scott has a major phobia of water. The guy has a hard time taking a shower. You think he drowned those kids?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Hanlon asked.

“I’m saying that the evidence was planted,” Amato said. He smiled, showing off pearly white teeth now stained with blood. “Who knows? Maybe by you, Detective Hanlon.”

Chapter 34

Rex Hanlon

HANLON FELT HIS skin burning as every eye in the room settled on him.

That bastard lawyer and his silver tongue. Hanlon had known the gag would be necessary. He was afraid that given the freedom to speak, Amato would try to turn them on each other. And now it was happening.

The gun was heavy in his hand. He hadn’t fired it in ten years. A liquor store robbery. He wasn’t even on duty. The revolver was his backup piece. He was picking up something to chase the nightmares away, that recurring dream of his family’s car, the metal twisted and coming apart like tissue paper. As Hanlon approached the counter, a man took out a gun and tried to hold the place up. Hanlon shot him. He never gave it a second thought.

Amato was doing something bad, too. Protecting a guilty man. Playing head games with them. He should shoot him. Not give it a second thought. All it would take would be to lift his arm and squeeze the trigger. Barely more effort than it would take to brush his teeth in the morning.

And yet, something was wrong. Something in the cop part of his brain, waving a hand at him, trying to get his attention.

Did Scott have a fear of water? He seemed to remember the lawyer mentioning something about it, but Hanlon had brushed it off as a Hail Mary attempt. Watching Scott cower like a frightened child put it in a new context.

And if it were true, why would he use water—drowning—as the murder weapon? There was something about it that didn’t track. Unless it was the perfect murder weapon, given how much he feared it…

He suddenly felt torn in two directions.

Barely more effort than it would take to brush his teeth.

The gun was heavy in his hand.

Amato perked up again.

“Or, you know, a guy whose own wife is afraid of him, I would wonder what he was capable of,” he said.

The gazes turned away from Hanlon and swung up to the platform, where John’s mouth was hanging open.

“How dare you.…” he said.

“I’m just saying what everyone is thinking,” Amato said.

“Forget this,” John said. “He’s first. Then you. I’ll do it myself.”

Hanlon watched as John put his foot on Scott’s back and shoved, sending the man tumbling into the water with a loud splash.

Chapter 35

Thomas Scott

AS SOON AS Thomas hit the cold water, he was right back in that pool. The one that had almost killed him as a child.

Instead of the dark, dirty ceiling of the warehouse, he saw the sunlight slicing through the canopy. Felt the blue tarp reaching up and wrapping around him, dragging him under.

His muscles tensed so tightly he was afraid they would tear. His sinus cavity burned as it filled with water. He tried to fight, kick his feet, move his arms, but with everything bound, all he could do was sway back and forth as he looked up at the surface of the water, only a foot or two above him.

He screamed, but the only thing that escaped was a stream of bubbles, and then water filled his mouth, choking him.

Chapter 36

Paul Zhou

WATER SLOSHED OVER the lip of the tank and spilled onto the floor. Amato struggled to get to his feet, a difficult task considering his arms were still behind his back. Paul rushed to him and pulled him up.

Hanlon asked, “What the hell are you doing?”

“You’re not going to shoot me,” Paul said, hoping his gamble would pay off, that Hanlon’s hesitation before meant he was having second thoughts.

The detective didn’t say anything back, just shook his head in confusion.

Paul rushed for the staircase but felt the floor disappear out from underneath him as John slammed him into the wall. The air was forced from his lungs as the bigger man pressed him up against the brick, the rough surface pressing against his face.

“Don’t you dare interfere with this,” John said. Paul felt flecks of spit slapping the side of his face. “You will not take this from me.”

Paul struggled but John was nearly twice his size. He tried to twist, away or down, but couldn’t. He worked his legs up, trying to get some leverage on the wall, when he felt John back off a little.

He turned to see Susan hitting her husband’s back, drawing his attention away. John turned and she smacked him across the face, hard. Paul took his opening and bound up the stairs. There was a scuffle behind him but he didn’t turn back to look, just got onto the platform and threw himself into the water.

It was so cold he tensed up immediately. He kicked down hard, trying to get to the bottom, to the cinder block, so he could lift it out of the water, enough that Scott would be able to get his head above the surface.

He could barely see, the way the water was stinging his eyes, but managed to grip it with both hands and swam up, into Scott, pushing him up, too, trying to get them toward the side of the tank.

Paul couldn’t lift the cinder block and get Thomas out of the tank at the same time, so when he broke the surface he was relieved to see Daisy on her knees, reaching down into the water. She grabbed Scott’s shirt and held him in place, the man sputtering and coughing and crying, as Paul heaved the cinder block onto the platform.

He crawled out of the water and onto the cold platform, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling, listening to Scott weep as he tried to pull himself up with Daisy’s help, when there was a deafening crashing sound from somewhere in the warehouse.

Paul climbed to his feet and looked around the room.

“What the hell was that?” he asked.

But John was already crossing to the door where they had entered the room. He tried to open it, but the door wouldn’t budge. He pressed his face to the small square window.

“Something fell in front of the door,” he said. “It’s blocked.”

“Does anyone smell smoke?” Susan asked.

It took a second, but Paul noticed it, too. The acrid stench sneaking into the air.

“Where the hell is Kat?” Hanlon asked.

Chapter 37

Kat Taylor

KAT OPENED HER purse and removed the slim leather wallet. She undid the button holding it closed, revealing the picture of her son, Billy. His black hair perfectly combed, eating an ice pop, so his mouth and lips were rimmed in cherry red. It was from the annual block party. A candid shot taken by her neighbor, slipped into the mailbox a few days after the event.

Looking at it now, though, she couldn’t remember the picnic. Only that terrible morning when she thought Billy was watching television while she made breakfast, but instead had decided he wanted to go for a swim in the pool. Even though he wasn’t allowed to go in by himself.

He slipped out and closed the door behind him, so she never heard him calling for help, thrashing to keep himself above water. Instead she found him floating face down, and his lips were already blue by the time she pulled him out.

Her vision grew blurry with tears and she shivered, running her finger down the picture.

“I’m so sorry, Billy,” she said, her voice shaking. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t paying attention.”

She knew she should call the police, but what then? They’d take Billy to a lab and poke and prod him and put him in the deep, dark ground. And Billy was so afraid of the dark. That wasn’t where he was supposed to be. So she dressed him and brought him to his favorite playground.

It hurt like hell to leave him there, and she hoped that’s where his soul would stay. The police would show up eventually, yes, but maybe he’d be tethered to that playground.

It was a comforting thought.

But it wasn’t long before she realized her son would be alone. It would be a very long time before all his friends caught up with him in heaven.

And Billy’s father had gone in the opposite direction. Kat was sure of that.

The thought ate at her. Billy on a swing by himself, with no one to push. Climbing up the slide and coming down with no one to cheer him on. She thought of killing herself so she could join him, but realized that first he would need some friends his own age.

Jian, Mei, and John Junior had been good friends of Billy in day care. And Kat could see their families were falling apart. Susan was terrified of John. Daisy was drifting away from Paul. The four of them such a mess, and wouldn’t their children’s lives be so much better on an eternal playground, free from worry and pain?

It wasn’t easy, holding Mei and John Junior under the water in her tub. And dragging them to different playgrounds—Kat knew going to the same one would be a sure way of getting caught. She was sure they’d find each other. Staten Island was an island, after all.

She was preparing to send Jian to them when Hanlon came sniffing around.

Kat was indifferent about spending the rest of her life in jail—she was going to kill herself at the first opportunity anyway—but she didn’t want to leave the job undone. Mei, surely, would want her brother to join them.

So she went with Hanlon to Scott’s apartment, and she planted—then “found”—the pictures there. They’d been easy enough to get. It took less than a half-hour of clicking around on Facebook, where private grief was now a matter of public record. She needed more time, and she knew Scott would be the perfect suspect. He had no friends or family, he looked a little creepy, and he had odd fascinations with children and cartoons.

It was easy enough, making Hanlon think it was his idea for her to break into Scott’s apartment. She didn’t anticipate they’d be caught, so when John attacked Scott outside court, she knew the best thing to do next was to turn their anger onto Scott.

Everyone was in such desperate need for an outlet, it blinded them and kept them from thinking critically. Paul was a problem, but even he fell in line. Honestly, with so many moving parts, she was a little surprised that it worked.

Until it didn’t.

So while they argued with each other, she sneaked out, toppled some industrial shelving in front of the door to block their exit, and lit a fire. It wasn’t elegant, but it would give her enough time to finish with Jian. She would follow right after him.

She turned the key in the ignition, and the Zhous’ van roared to life. She yanked the car into drive and maneuvered it away from the warehouse and toward the road.

“All your friends will be with you soon, Billy,” Kat said, hoping her son could hear her.

Chapter 38

Thomas Scott

THOMAS HUFFED, TRYING to get the water out of his nose. He could smell the smoke, too, growing thicker as the seconds passed. He looked around the room from his vantage point, on the platform over the tank.

John Junior’s dad was throwing his shoulder into the door. Hanlon ran to help him. Mei’s mom was checking on Mei’s dad, who was sitting on the staircase, while John Junior’s mom was helping Amato up, getting him free from the zip ties.

Everyone was talking at once, words stumbling over each other, but Thomas could make out one phrase from Hanlon, as he and John Junior’s dad took turns throwing themselves into the door.

“It was her,” he said.

The “her” was Billy’s mom. She’d disappeared, and someone had set them up to die. He had no idea why, and he didn’t even care. He was just glad to be out of the water.

“Will someone just call the police or the fire department?” John Junior’s mom yelled.

“We can’t do that,” Mei’s mom yelled back. “All the cell phones are in the car. Another brilliant idea from Hanlon.”

“Hey, I had no idea something like this was going to happen,” Hanlon said.

“Well, maybe you should have been paying more attention,” John Junior’s dad said, before throwing himself into the door again, wincing as it barely budged.

Thomas reached for his phone, before realizing it was gone; Hanlon had taken it from him back at Amato’s office, wiped it down, and tossed it in the dumpster.

The smoke was getting thicker. Thomas could feel it in his lungs now. He coughed once, twice. Looked around. No one was paying attention to him anymore.

He rolled onto his side, and then his stomach, to push himself up, see if he could help with the door, when he noticed something built into the wall under the platform. He crawled to the edge and peeked over and saw an old vent. It looked just about person-sized, and where it led had to be better than here.

His body ached, but he managed to roll onto the floor and duck-walk under the platform to the vent. It didn’t take too much effort to wrench free. After he did, he was glad his pants were wet, so he was able to wipe away the black streaks of dirt the vent left behind on his palms.

He stepped out from under the staircase, the room now hazy. Amato and John Junior’s mom were coughing hard. John Junior’s dad was on his knees, panting. Hanlon was trying to get him back up. Mei’s dad, meanwhile, was screaming “Jian!” and kicking the door.

Thomas coughed, said, “Hey.”

Paul kept kicking, kept screaming.

“Hey!” Thomas yelled.

Everyone turned and looked at him, like they’d forgotten he was there.

“I found a way out,” he said.

He ducked under the staircase and got to the mouth of the vent. It was black beyond the opening, with nothing to light the way. No telling what kind of terrible things were in there. Living things. Dead things. Filthy things. And with his clothes wet like this he’d be like a mop, picking everything up along the way.

He shuddered, took a deep breath, and started crawling.

Luckily, the trip didn’t last long, and as he moved toward a square of gray light, the smoke seemed to lessen. He came up on another vent. He put his shoulder into it and it collapsed forward, rattling to the floor.

Thomas climbed into the main room of the warehouse, near where they had come in. Flames were licking up the walls, up into the wooden rafters. His chest and knees were nearly black. He wiped his hands off the best he could and tried not to think about it as he felt something pushing him.

Thomas moved forward, and John Junior’s mom was behind him, climbing out of the vent.

She stood up, stared at him for a moment, and said, “We were wrong.”

Thomas looked down and saw that Daisy was next, with someone behind her.

“I just…” Susan said.

Thomas smiled. Tried to make it seem nice, even though he didn’t have a very nice smile. “Let’s get out of here first.”

They ran through the door, the others behind them. The sky was draped in a heavy blanket of dark clouds, but the air was clean. Thomas took deep, greedy breaths of oxygen. He fell to his hands and knees, happy to be alive. He leaned back and felt raindrops smacking his face.

Mei’s dad dashed past him, to Hanlon’s car, and screamed out, kicking the tire, pounding his fist on the hood. Thomas crawled a few feet forward to get a better look, to see what the problem was.

The tire was flat, and there was a screwdriver sticking out of the side.

Chapter 39

Daisy Zhou

KAT, OF ALL people! Daisy’s stomach twisted into a knot. She had told Kat so many intimate things. Living without her daughter while still caring for her son. The way she felt about her husband. That one night she spent too long looking at bottles of vodka and sleeping pills, sitting next to each other on the counter.

She had trusted Kat.

And the entire time, Kat had been the one who’d killed her daughter.

It made her dizzy to think about it, so she pushed the thought away and focused on the task at hand. Everyone had made it out and was standing around the car. The warehouse was spitting black smoke from the windows, though how long it would take to attract the attention of the FDNY, she had no idea. This far back, it might be mistaken for something coming off a refinery in New Jersey.

Paul had climbed into the car, opening and throwing things into the back seat.

“There has to be a radio, something,” he said. “She might be going after my son.”

“There’s not, just the scanner,” Hanlon said. “It doesn’t do outgoing.”

Daisy pointed to Hanlon. “Tire, now.”

He nodded and ran to the back, throwing open the trunk. John and Scott rushed over to help. The two of them reached the trunk at the same time, and for a moment, paused, staring at each other.

Scott reached into the trunk and came out with the tire iron gripped in his meaty hand. Daisy thought he might swing it at John, who seemed to think the same thing, and took a few steps back.

“Get the jack,” Scott said, turning to the flat tire and getting to work, loosening the nuts.

The tire was changed with the speed of a NASCAR pit crew. John pumping the jack, Scott working the tire iron, Hanlon swapping the bad tire for the donut. Still, it felt like a million years. Daisy knew every second that passed was a second Kat got closer to her son.

The job done, everyone threw their tools to the ground and piled into the car. Hanlon and Paul in the front, John and Susan and Daisy in the back. Amato and Scott climbed into the open trunk to hitch a ride, and the car began maneuvering the bumpy, uneven road.

They neared Arthur Kill Road and the car slowed. Amato and Scott jumped off. John and Susan climbed out, too.

“We’ll find a phone or flag down a car and call the police,” John said, leading Susan away, toward a cluster of buildings farther down the road.

Daisy rolled down the window and looked at Amato and Scott. The two of them stood there, still bloodied, sticking out like sore thumbs.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

It made her feel stupid saying it. That such a common, five-letter word could possibly undo everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours. But with her son’s life hanging in the balance, it would have to do.

Hanlon slammed his foot on the gas, and the car leapt onto the road.

As they made their way to the overpass that would lead over the expressway, Daisy said, “Maybe we should stop and try to call someone, too.”

“We need to trust that John and Susan will find a phone,” Paul said.

“And what about Thomas and the lawyer?”

She was met with silence from the front. Just the sound of the tires on the road and the rain, growing in intensity, smacking on the windshield.

They’d been discovered. They’d plotted to kill both men. Nearly accomplished it, in the case of Scott. And while Paul had saved him, that would only go so far. She couldn’t help but think of her husband’s proposal: That he would take the fall, try to make it so she would stay out of prison.

She didn’t want to leave him, but she couldn’t leave Jian, either. They didn’t have any other family. There was no one to take him.

He’d be alone. She couldn’t think of anything in this world worse than a child left alone.

Hanlon whipped the car around, leaning on the horn, running red lights. The roadway was getting slick and there were moments where it almost felt like the tires were coming off the surface.

They weren’t even that far from the house. Another couple of minutes, tops. Less, with the way Hanlon was driving. For once, the usually brutal Staten Island traffic wasn’t too bad.

Daisy pressed her hands over her chest, closed her eyes, breathed in deep, tried to calm herself.

And that’s when she was thrown against the side of the car.

There was an explosion of glass and metal. Something cut her scalp, pain screaming through her skull. She opened her eyes, only for them to fill with blood as they spun in a circle and the car twisted around her.

Chapter 40

Staten Island Register Twitter account

-BREAKING TRAFFIC ALERT, Eltingville: Accident w/multiple injuries, caused by car speeding @ Katan & Wainwright. Advise detour via Richmond.

Chapter 41

Kat Taylor

KAT CROSSED THE porch and knocked on the door. There was no sound from inside. She checked behind her and found the street to be quiet. It was just before 5 p.m., so a lot of people weren’t home from work yet, and anyone home would have been sent inside by the rain.

She knocked again and rang the doorbell.

There was a sound of a lock unclasping, and the door, chained to the jamb, opened a few inches. She couldn’t really make out who was behind it—just a brush of blond hair and a big blue eye with thick eyelashes. It was a young woman’s voice that asked, “Yes?”

“Hi, I’m a friend of Daisy and Paul,” she said. “They asked me to come over and relieve you. They got held up.”

The blue eye stared at her for a couple of seconds, not moving, not blinking, and Kat wondered if maybe she had said the wrong thing, or if the girl was too suspicious to let her in.

The door closed, there was a sound of metal sliding on metal, and the door swung open. Kat was faced with a petite, perky blond girl with curly hair. “Hi, I recognize you. Why don’t you come in?”

Kat smiled, happy she didn’t have to work any harder to get inside. The others had taken so much planning, luring the kids away, convincing them that she was allowed to give them a bath.

The girl would be a problem, but one she could solve for good when she was finished with Jian. Right now she just needed to buy a little time.

The whole thing was a little more slapdash than she would like, but at least there was a playground just down the street.

She stepped over the threshold, closed the door behind her, and kicked off her muddy shoes, not wanting to dirty the house. She asked, “Where’s Jian?”

“He’s upstairs napping,” the girl said. “Actually, this would be a good time to see if he’s awake. Want to come up with me?”

“That’d be great,” Kat said. “You lead the way.”

The girl turned. Just inside the entry to the house was a table holding a glass vase full of flowers. Kat picked it up and swung it at the girl’s head as hard as she could.

Chapter 42

John Kennelly

JOHN HATED RUNNING. Ever since John Junior died, he’d been eating more, drinking more, packing on extra pounds. Suddenly he was cutting a new notch at the very end of his belt and finding some of his dress shirts didn’t exactly fit anymore. Susan had been gently goading him into getting back to the gym, or at least thinking more about what he ate.

And he had ignored her.

Now he wished he hadn’t. His chest was constricted and he was already sweating, despite the cool rain that was now coming down harder. He glanced back and saw that Susan was keeping up as they reached the end of the road, a big gray building looming on the other side.

It looked abandoned, but as they turned the corner they found an open garage door and a red sports car inside. A young skinny guy in coveralls, listening to a large pair of headphones, was doing something to the engine with a wrench. John called out, “Hey, you, hey!”

The man didn’t even look over. The music must be too loud. John swore and ran harder, pumping his legs, muscles burning. The man finally noticed him and pulled off his headphones. John reached him and spoke between gasps. “I need…to use…your phone.”

“Whoa, what’s going on?” the man said.

“If I don’t use your phone right now, someone is going to die.”

The man’s eyes went wide and he pointed to the wall, to an ancient plastic phone with a curly cord that probably had started out white and had turned yellow with age. “Okay okay, right there. No long distance.”

John called 911 and as soon as the operator picked up, he gave her the Zhous’ address. “Do you have that?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, I do,” said the woman on the other end, taking on an annoyed tone. “But what exactly is the nature of your emergency?”

“Just send someone there right now,” he said. “Right now. Someone’s life is in danger.”

“Sir, can you tell me your—”

John hung up the phone and turned to find Susan staring at him.

Her hair plastered to her face. Her clothes soaked. Just as beautiful as the day he met her. More so, probably.

He remembered that first time, at the St. Patrick’s Day parade on Forest Avenue. She was the friend of a friend, and luminous. Sparkling as much as the shamrock sticker on her cheek. The second he saw her, all he wanted was to know everything about her.

She was a slight woman, and yet in that moment, it felt like she was so much taller than him. All that anger he’d felt turned inward, and it felt like the ground dropped out from under him. He couldn’t believe how selfish and blind he’d been. Susan deserved so much better than this.

So much better than him.

He crossed to her and took her hands and said, “I don’t know what to say right now. I just…I am so sorry. For everything.”

“We have some things we need to work on,” she said.

“We do. And I want to work on them. I promise.”

“Okay.”

She was looking at him with a mix of emotion—concern, disappointment. She let him hold her hands, but didn’t seem to want to get any closer. He dipped his head down and pecked her forehead. For a second it seemed like she was going to move away, but then she let him do it.

“C’mon, let’s go,” he said.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“We have to see this through.”

Chapter 43

Paul Zhou

PAUL THREW HIS shoulder into the door three times before it finally gave way. The momentum sent him tumbling onto the asphalt.

They were in the middle of the intersection, cars stopped all around them. The front end of Hanlon’s car was smashed, and steam was rising from the hood. The side was collapsed against a telephone pole, which was now pushed to an odd angle. The side of the silver Prius they hit had crumpled, but the driver was pulling himself out of the mangled wreck, and seemed more angry than hurt.

Paul stood and felt dizzy. He grabbed the door for support and looked into the back seat and saw Daisy was moving. There was a heavy gash across her head, bleeding freely.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes, yes…”

Paul looked across to the front. Hanlon’s head was thrown back. It looked like he was napping. Daisy reached over and pressed her fingers to his exposed neck.

“He has a pulse,” she said. “Go.”

Paul turned and ran. His shoes, still soaked through from his dive into the tank, were heavy. It was only a few blocks and he cleared it quickly, dodging the tangle of cars that had built up around the accident, throwing himself forward and trying not to slip on the slick surfaces.

He had never run so fast in his life.

He could hear sirens in the distance. Hopefully headed his way. When he reached the house he ran up the porch and grabbed the doorknob, throwing it open and nearly stumbling into the foyer.

Pammy was sprawled on the stairs, flowers and water and shattered glass scattered on the floor around her. Her hands were zip-tied behind her back. He knelt down and saw she was wincing and groaning.

It made him feel terrible to do it, but he vaulted over her and ran up the stairs toward the bathroom. The door was closed and locked. He kicked at the doorknob till the flimsy plywood gave way, and found Kat on her knees, the faucet running, the tub full of water. She was holding something below the surface.

Something that was thrashing and fighting back.

He grabbed her and pulled her away. She screamed and fought, but Paul lifted her clean off her feet and threw her into the wall, bringing down shelving that sent towels and knickknacks scattering across the floor. Kat left a dent in the sheetrock and hit the ground with a thud.

Paul fell to his knees and reached in, pulling out Jian. The boy was dressed in his navy dinosaur pajamas, sobbing and choking on water, his hair flat and plastered to his forehead.

When he saw Jian was breathing, Paul held the boy to his chest.

“It’s okay, Jian,” he said. “I’m right here.”

Paul looked over his shoulder and realized Kat was gone.

Chapter 44

Daisy Zhou

DAISY WAS PRETTY sure her wrist was broken.

It felt like it was on fire, and when she wiggled her fingers, the pain only got worse. She was still bleeding from the wound on her head, but she didn’t care. Hanlon was alive and she saw an ambulance fighting its way through the crowd, and that was enough for her.

Some people tried to stop her from leaving—yes, she was bleeding, and yes, she was leaving the scene of an accident—but she didn’t care about that, either.

She made her way for the house, hoping Paul had been fast enough.

Hoping she hadn’t just lost her second child.

As she turned the corner of her block, she nearly ran into someone. She stumbled and stepped back, instinct kicking in, telling her to say she was sorry.

That is, until she realized it was Kat.

The woman was drenched, and her eyes were wide and wild. She was breathing heavily. This calm, kind woman now looked completely the part of the deranged killer that she had been hiding from them for so long.

The two women stared at each other for a few moments, nothing but silence and a massive amount of hatred between them.

“You’re a mother,” Kat said. “You have to understand. I just couldn’t leave him all alone like that. I just wanted his friends to be with him.”

Daisy inhaled hard and held her breath.

So that was it. The reason this woman had killed Daisy’s daughter.

So her son wouldn’t be lonely.

For a second, Daisy felt pity for this woman. That the loss of her son had twisted her so badly she was broken in two, her psyche shattered until the most terrible thought possible would seem like a logical choice.

Then, making sure to use the wrist that wasn’t broken, she made a tight fist, reared back, and punched Kat as hard as she could.

Chapter 45

John Kennelly

THEY HAD BEEN lucky. A cab passed by, headed back to a nearby dispatch garage, and John flagged it down. Even though cabs weren’t supposed to pick up street hails, the guy’s eyes lit up when John whipped out a thick stack of 20s and waved it at him.

The rest of the ride, he didn’t feel so lucky. The space between him and his wife seemed huge. He put his hand in the empty seat between them, hoping she would take it.

After a few miles, she did.

That gave him some hope.

This was his road to Damascus. The scales had fallen from his eyes, and suddenly the world looked entirely different. He saw what his anger had twisted him into. And not just the anger after John Junior’s death. The anger that had always been a part of him, that he had chosen to bury.

He had no idea what would come next, but he made himself a promise: He would be a better husband. He wouldn’t follow in the footsteps of Hanlon, who had let his grief twist him so sharply that he would actually put his life and career at risk.

And for what?

It wouldn’t have changed anything. Killing Scott—or in this case now, Kat—wouldn’t bring back John Junior.

Blood didn’t wash out blood.

The cab turned the corner on the Zhous’ block, and they were met by a cavalcade of police cars and ambulances. A fire truck was pulling up from the other direction.

“Right here is good,” John said.

They got out of the car, the rain tapering off, and crossed through the maze of vehicles, making it to the house just in time to see a police car pulling away with Kat looking out the rear window, her left eye bruised and nearly swollen shut.

John caught her good eye for a moment and felt that surge of hatred come back, hard and fast, but he took a deep breath and let it dissipate.

Kat going to jail would be justice. Maybe not the exact kind of justice he wanted, but at least it would be the right kind of justice.

Daisy was sitting on the back of an ambulance, Jian next to her, a paramedic looking them over. Paul hovered nearby and turned to face John and Susan as they approached. He smiled and nodded, assuring them that everything was okay.

John looked around. “Hanlon?”

“We got in a car accident,” Paul said. “Banged up pretty bad, but they’re taking him to University Hospital now. Should be okay.”

Then Paul stepped forward and embraced John.

John was a little taken aback, but he hugged back. He felt terrible for the way he’d treated Paul. After all, Paul had been right all along.

“I should have listened,” John said.

“Let’s not worry about that right now,” Paul said. “We’ve got some other problems to address.”

John looked up and saw a familiar pair of figures across the street.

“Yes, we do,” John said.

Amato and Scott were standing together on the sidewalk, watching them, their faces flat and unreadable. After a few moments Scott exchanged some heated words with Amato and then walked toward them.

This was it.

John looked around at the police officers milling about. Even if he tried to run, there was no place to go. He wondered if there was any way to keep Susan out of it, to make sure he got the blame for their part in it.

He deserved the blame. He had to save her. She deserved that.

More than that, actually. She deserved the world and everything else he had promised her on the day they got married. But right now, he figured he could manage at least this.

John turned and looked at Paul, who wore a look of concerned panic John figured was pretty similar to his own. They nodded to each other, understanding that there was only one thing left to do: protect the shattered remains of their families.

Chapter 46

Thomas Scott

IT WAS A little incredible, how persuasive Amato could be. He employed his way with words to convince an older gentleman heading to the grocery store to give them a lift in the direction of the Zhous.

Before getting in the car, Amato turned to Thomas and said, “Keep quiet.”

Thomas nodded and followed the order as Amato spun a tale about how they were driving and the car broke down and thank you so much for picking them up and they just had to get home because their mother was sick and they called a cab and it never showed up…

Thomas just looked out the window and stared at the island flashing by.

It didn’t seem like such a scary place anymore.

A lot of people like to knock Staten Island. But for Thomas, it was perfect: Not too busy, not too quiet. Just right.

And even when he was a stranger, he felt like he belonged. He hated the thought of losing that, of his life changing so drastically that it would suddenly become unrecognizable. Now he was innocent. For sure innocent.

He could stay, and without a cloud of suspicion hanging over his head. He could go into stores without being treated like scum.

The relief he felt at that—he didn’t even know how to describe it. It was the best thing he’d ever felt.

As they got close to the Zhous’ house, the car moved slower and slower. After two blocks they saw flashing lights and emergency vehicles. A police car drove past them, and Thomas thought he saw Billy’s mom’s face flash in the window before the car turned the corner. Amato had the driver duck down a side street to avoid the mess.

The rain tapered off and Thomas smiled. The air had never tasted so sweet.

“So, I guess we’ll just talk to the cops who are already there,” Amato said. “I don’t even know where to start with all of this.”

Thomas didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say. He knew he should be angry. Those people had tried to kill him. All he ever tried to do was be nice to those children, to give them a nice and clean place to play. And his reward was being hunted like an animal, nearly driven from the place he’d called home his entire life.

And yet, he was so happy to be alive, so happy this was over, he couldn’t be upset.

Instead he thought about what that must be like—to lose a child. Thomas didn’t have children, but he saw the bond that existed between parents and children. The way a mother’s face would brighten when she picked up her baby from day care. The pride a father would take in learning his son had stood up or taken a step.

It’s a hurt he would never know, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized it was probably worse than whatever he’d been through.

It made him think about his own parents, and how much he missed them after they were gone. The hole it had left in the center of him, but even then, it fit within a natural order to things.

People died every day. Parents and loved ones and friends and strangers.

But parents shouldn’t have to bury their children.

They reached the Zhous’ house and saw the parents assembled around an ambulance.

“Time to get started,” Amato said. “I’m going to look for the officer in charge. Do you need me to get you a paramedic?”

“No cops,” Thomas said.

Amato put his hand on his shoulder and arched his eyebrow. “What? They tried to kill you. They tried to kill me.”

“Can you blame them?”

Amato’s eyes went wide. “Yes, I can blame them!”

“I’m not splitting up a family,” he said. “I don’t want to press charges.”

“Now wait a minute—”

“And you shouldn’t, either. We can live with this. Look at what they have to live with.”

Thomas held up his hand, gesturing across the street, at John Junior’s mom and dad. At Mei’s mom and dad. Jian was there now, holding tight to his mother, hiding his face, sobbing.

Thomas watched as John Junior’s dad and Mei’s dad hugged. Two men who could barely stand each other a short while ago, come together now.

And yet, despite the resolution they had reached, they all still looked so sad.

Everything that had happened here—it seemed to make them realize some things they needed to realize. And that was a good thing. But it would never take away the hurt and emptiness.

Amato shook his head and started to say something, but John Junior’s dad had noticed them. Thomas didn’t wait to hear what Amato had to say. He crossed the street, cutting between police officers and neighbors, until he reached the parents.

They looked up at him, their eyes filled with terror and regret.

John and Paul stopped a few feet away from Thomas.

“I know what we did was wrong,” John Junior’s dad said, putting his hands up. “I can never…I just…I don’t know what to say. But please, our wives—”

“Please say it was just us,” Mei’s dad said. “I’m begging you. We’re begging you. It has to be us.”

“We should pay the price,” John Junior’s dad said, tears forming in his eyes and rolling down his face. “They shouldn’t. We don’t deserve your mercy. We really don’t. But we have to ask for it.”

Thomas’s throat grew thick, his breath catching in his chest.

He looked at the two desperate men, and past them, at their wives, their faces drenched in terror. Realizing that this was the moment when everything would change.

These men were so broken, he wasn’t even afraid of them anymore.

Thomas raised his hand and John Junior’s dad winced, but Thomas just held his hand out, palm and fingers straight. After a moment John Junior’s dad reached out and took his hand, shaking it cautiously, completely unsure of what was happening.

“I am so sorry about what happened to your children,” Thomas said. “I can’t imagine what that must be like.”

John Junior’s dad’s face spread into a wide smile and he fell into Thomas, wrapping his arms around him, pulling him close. The man was shaking, and Thomas couldn’t tell if he was laughing or crying, but he held tight, and then Mei’s dad joined them, throwing his arms around them and saying “Thank you, thank you,” over and over.

The three of them stood there, in the middle of the street, their fractured existence slowly knitting back together, destined to remain heavily scarred but at least with the possibility of healing on the horizon.

And as they stood there, his face buried in John Junior’s dad’s shoulder, Thomas could feel the warmth of the sun on his back.

About the Authors

James Patterson has written more bestsellers and created more enduring fictional characters than any other novelist writing today. He lives in Florida with his family.

Rob Hart is the author of The New Yorker, nominated for an Anthony Award for Best First Novel, among others. He is the publisher at MysteriousPress.com and class director at LitReactor.

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