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Tess knew it was never a good idea to jump to conclusions. But as she set the phone down, the voice in her mind said, There’s your killer .

GORDON WAS GETTING worried—still no word from Shaun, and she wasn’t answering her phone. What was she doing? Paradox wasn’t that far away—she should be pulling into the healing center any minute with Max in tow. But he had not heard word one from her.

Then he turned on the news, and that was when he realized she’d gone too far. Three people slaughtered in a bomb shelter in Paradox, Arizona. Of course there were no names. But already on CNN he could see the deputies traipsing around the sunbaked property. Saw a gurney with a body bag strapped to it being rolled out the door.

Could one of those bodies belong to Max? God, no.

His phone chirped—Jerry.

Gordon didn’t want to answer now.

This was one mother-loving mess, and if Max turned up a bloody pulp—and the paparazzi were able to get a photo—his legendary status would be a thing of the past.

In this day of instant gratification and overt bribery, Gordon had no doubt that if one of the corpses was Max, someone had already gotten a candid shot of him with a cell phone.

And that photo would quickly make its way to the Internet. No question about that.

In which case, Max’s value would plummet, and they’d be left holding a very unappetizing bag. And knowing Jerry, Gordon knew he’d hear about it for the rest of his life.

The desk phone rang. He didn’t bother to look at the readout. “All right, Jerry. What now?”

“No, sir, this is Drew,” Gordon’s assistant said. “There’s a call for you.”

“I don’t want to talk now.”

“You might want to talk to this one, sir. She’s with the Bajada County Sheriff’s Office. Detective Tess McCrae.”

JERRY LISTENED AS Gordon’s phone went to voice mail. He waited for the tone and yelled, “Gordon, will you tell me what the hell is going on? I’m going out there!” He slammed the phone on the granite kitchen island and a piece of plastic flew off, almost hitting him in the eye. This made him angrier, so he took the phone and beat it against the edge of the island until it disintegrated.

Talia stood in the doorway, her eyes wide. “What happened?”

“Turn on the TV and see for yourself!”

She grabbed the remote from the desk and turned on the television. Horny Housewives was on. Jerry grabbed the remote from her and muttered, “The news , dammit.”

Three men had been shot to death in a home outside Paradox, Arizona. Their names had not been released yet, pending notification to their families.

“So what now?” Talia asked, her voice calm. Too calm. Had she taken another Xanax?

“So what now?” he repeated, parroting her “poor little me” voice. “We have to find out if Max was one of them. It’s probably best not to panic yet .” He stared at his broken smartphone. “Maybe there’s a way out. If they didn’t destroy his face. But you know it will come out. All the details. There will be at least one blurry corpse picture.” He stared at his new wall of storyboard scenes. Not worth the cheap paper they were drawn on, now.

He needed to calm down. For all he knew, Max wasn’t involved in the killing at all.

But his gut told him there was no way he wasn’t.

Chapter Twenty-Six

WHEN JIMMY MET up with Shaun at the Subway, they had lunch. Jimmy had a spectacular appetite, and Shaun enjoyed watching her boy eat. Her heart filled with love as she watched him. He was always intent on his food, like a wolf or a mountain lion, and she liked that she could see the predator in him.

He looked up at her, his mouth ringed with grease from the sub. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, knowing she sounded like an overindulgent mother.

Jimmy said, “So what do we do now?”

“We keep looking for him.”

“Yeah, but where?” He stretched his arm out, as if to encompass the Subway and the whole northern part of the state.

“We’ll find him. I’ve never lost a patient yet,” she joked.

He stared at her skeptically. The lock of hair falling over one eye. He looked frail, small for his age, but he was strong. He was like a cable that would not bend. “He’s probably on a plane back to LA by now.”

“He’s around here,” Shaun said. “Somewhere. I can feel it.”

“You and your feelings again.”

“I’ve done this for a long time. I know what I’m talking about.”

“Bet you didn’t figure on him locking those idiots in the bomb shelter!”

She didn’t like his smirk. “Don’t talk to your mother like that,” she said.

“You’re not my mother.”

Shaun said, “What are you talking about? I’m your mother and you’re my son. I thought we already talked about this.”

He looked away and mumbled something.

“What?” She leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “What did you say?”

“You’re not my mother. I have a mother.”

“Then where is she? How come I found you living on the streets?”

He ducked his head and rubbed one eye. That lock of hair, falling over his face. “My mother’s dead.”

“No, she’s not. She’s right here, looking at you, young man.” A red mist lowered over her eyes. No—not a mist. A stain. She could see everything clearly, in better detail than normal—every grain on the Subway bun, every one of Jimmy’s fine eyelashes, the ring of dark around his accusing eyes.

“I am your mother.”

He stared at her through the red stain. Everything hyperdelineated and clear. Sound rushing in, magnified. She could hear the lowered voice of the other diners, hear the crackle of waxed paper as the kid at the counter wrapped a sub. Everything a deep, blood red.

The anger building, coming up through her throat like Mt. Vesuvius.

She repeated, “I am your mother!”

And realized she was shouting.

Everything stopped. The place went quiet.

People were looking at them.

She grabbed his hand. “We’ve got to go. Now.”

He pulled away. “I don’t want to go. You’re going to get us in trouble. We’re both going to end up in prison.”

“Keep your voice down.”

He stood up. “Screw you! You go do what you want, but I’m outta here.” And he dodged past her and trotted to the men’s room.

IN THE CULVERT, Max waited, then waited some more. It could still be a trap. The kid could be right outside, like a cat at a mouse hole. Waiting…

But the thunder was grumbling, and he could smell moisture in the air. If it rained, he’d be washed out like everything else in this culvert.

He’d been trained by cops. He knew how to at least act like one. He duckwalked over to the edge of the culvert. Got on his stomach. Looked left first—the kid might go for the element of surprise—then right. Sweeping his gun as he did so. Crawled out a little more. On his back, gun trained at the road above. Sweeping again. Then he jumped to his feet.

No one here. No sound of cars. No skinny little kid with the heart of a killer.

Relief rolled off him along with his sweat.

He’d wiped his nose on his sleeve. Realized he’d never smelled so rank.

Fear smelled rank. And the desire to kill, that smelled rank too.

He felt it. The strength flowing into him. He felt exalted. He wanted to crow to the skies. He wanted to hunt down that kid and hunt down that woman and see it in their eyes when he drew down on them. Wanted to smash, to kill.