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A single word in particular stands out from the rest.
One.
Anna slams the doors shut and collapses to the floor beside them. Pain tears through her now-silent throat, raw and throbbing. She gulps, winces, weeps, all the while trying to untangle her thoughts.
Of all the murders on this train, Seamus only admitted to one of them.
Anna gasps, the sudden intake of air making her wince a second time. Seamus never admitted to killing any of the others. Only Judd. And she can think of just one reason why he didn’t confess to the other murders.
They were committed by someone else.
Forty-Six
Those remaining alivein Car 12 of the Philadelphia Phoenix hear Anna’s screams all the way in the rear third of the train. More mournful than pained, as soon as the sound reaches their ears, they know something bad has happened.
Not to Anna, but to Seamus.
The sound makes each respond in different ways.
In Room C, Dante Wentworth strains at the ties that bind his arms to the chair. He’s been at it ever since Anna and Seamus left him here, and now that he suspects Seamus is gone, he pushes against them even harder. Body tensed and muscles straining, he grits his teeth and makes one final attempt, not easing until he feels one of the restraints give by a millimeter.
It does the trick, creating just enough space for Dante’s left hand to slither loose of the tie. He uses it to quickly free his right hand, tugging at the knot in the fabric until it falls away.
A sense of triumph sings through his body. Despite their best efforts, he’s managed to escape.
Next door, in Room B, Jack Lapsford’s heart pounds out a staccato beat as he paces the room. It still hasn’t settled down since he was ambushed by Seamus Callahan. He can’t stop thinking abouthow big Seamus looked towering over the bed, gripping that pillow.
If Anna hadn’t interrupted when she did, Lapsford might now be dead. A fact that causes his heartbeat to increase another notch. It now reverberates in his rib cage. Like an echo in a cave.
He hopes he’s not having a heart attack. That would be rich, coming after he faked two of them in the span of twelve hours. Unlike his first failed attempt, the second had been an overwhelming success.
Physical exertion.
That was the key.
To get his heart pumping and his face flushed, Lapsford endured a series of calisthenics he hadn’t attempted since boot camp. By the end, even he thought he was about to die.
But it worked. Seamus was certain he was having a heart attack.
Now left to his own devices, he lumbers from door to bed and back again. He does his best thinking like this. And right now he needs to come up with another way to get off this train.
In Room A, the body of Sally Lawrence remains exactly how Anna had left it—in the chair by the window, covered with a sheet.
The only change that’s occurred in the hour or so since it was discovered is with the sheet itself, which has been jostled by the wind pouring through the open window. It’s been happening for as long as Dante Wentworth struggled against his binds two rooms away. A constant motion that moves the covering millimeter by millimeter until, after one last nudge, it drops away.
When it does, another change occurs.
Sally opens her eyes.
Forty-Seven
The killer waitsuntil almost sevena.m.to make their move, gliding through Car 12, trying not to make a sound. While silence probably isn’t necessary anymore, it strikes them as being the smartest move. Having the people they intend to kill know they’re about to do it makes things…difficult.
Especially the next victim, who will likely put up a fight. And this kill needs to be quick and quiet. A secret. Because the moment Anna finds out about it, she’ll go into battle mode.
In the middle of the car, the killer pauses, listening. There’s nothing to indicate anyone is nearby. Hopefully it remains that way. Not willing to risk it, they approach the door of the next person to die.
Jack Lapsford.