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That was always Anna’s intention. But even she’s surprised by her appearance. She looks resplendent. One of her mother’s favorite words, probably because it described her perfectly. Margaret Matheson had possessed an elegant grace most women only dream about, Anna included. Her mother had that magical ability to make everything—from the most expensive of gowns to jeans and a flannel work shirt—look like it was fresh off the Paris runway, designed specifically for her.
Her parents’ courtship had been brief but intense, with a mere two weeks between first meeting and being wed by a justice of the peace. The speed in which it happened prompted rumors of a shotgun marriage. Tommy’s birth eight months later did nothing to quell them. The reason it didn’t become a society scandal was twofold. Most of Main Line Philadelphia didn’t openly engage in such gossip, and the few who did could see how besotted Arthur Matheson was with his new bride.
Oh, how Anna’s father had gazed at her mother. Everyone did, of course. They couldn’t help it. Anna, in particular, found herself frequently awestruck by her mother’s sheer loveliness. But no one looked at his wife quite like Arthur Matheson. Every time he saw her, his face would go slack for a moment before lighting up with joy. And her mother would beam right back.
For a few months when she was very young, Anna had becomeconvinced her mother was a movie star, for only people in the movies glowed that same way. Her friends’ mothers certainly didn’t. More often than not, they just looked dour and sad. But her mother? She positively shimmered. Which is why every time Anna went to the movies, she expected to see her mother’s face flickering across that silver screen.
Even when that childish notion left her, Anna still believed her mother could have been a star, had she chosen to pursue it. Tommy, too, who had inherited her good looks and dazzling smile. He carried himself with the ease of a matinee idol.
It never bothered Anna that she took after her father, a man of unremarkable appearance. She grew up pretty but plain, displaying none of the sparkle her mother and brother possessed. To Anna, it didn’t matter. She knew her family shared a charmed life.
For a little bit anyway.
Soon it was all gone. Tommy first. Then her father. Then her mother, whose light at that point had long been extinguished.
Anna forces herself not to think about all of that. She knew the journey would dredge up all those awful memories. She just didn’t think it would happen this quickly. There’ll be plenty of time to dwell on the past later. For now, she has to finish getting ready for her grand entrance, an act she anticipates and dreads in equal measure. In the mirror, she flicks her gaze to the reflection of the open bathroom door behind her and the room beyond it. A chair sits by the night-shrouded window, designed to swivel so the passenger sitting in it can properly take in the passing scenery. Right now, though, the chair is turned to the bathroom, holding not a passenger but a black leather briefcase.
Inside it is Anna’s past.
And, she hopes, her future.
Turning back to her own reflection, Anna quickly applies a second coat of lipstick. As her lips gleam crimson, she mouths thepart of her speech that had been cut off by the train’s sudden lurch into motion.
“The reason for this journey is simple,” she says, staring into the mirror but picturing the men and women she has lured onto the train. “I’m here to get justice. Because I have irrefutable proof that the six of you are responsible for destroying my family.”
Two
Including the locomotive,the Philadelphia Phoenix consists of fourteen cars. Judd Dodge counted them as he paced the platform, debating if he should board. It’s the same number of cars the Phoenix had during its heyday, when folks clamored to ride the most luxurious train this side of the 20th Century Limited. Thirteen cars of unlimited comfort, all pulled by an engine that could handle twice that many.
Judd knows because he designed it that way.
That was his job, once upon a time. Building engines for the Union Atlantic Railroad, which was peanuts compared to some of the other train lines in the nation. Its reach was small, limited to places in close proximity to Philadelphia. One line to New York City, another to Washington, D.C., a third shuttling riders to Atlantic City. The Philadelphia Phoenix was built with expansion in mind. A gleaming streamliner that traveled nonstop to Chicago.
Judd had beamed with pride the first time he saw the Phoenix gliding down the tracks. Sleek as a silver bullet, it moved fast, appearing speedier thanks to a flame-orange racing stripe that ran the length of the train on both sides. Not being a parent himself, Judd imagined it was the same feeling as watching your child taketheir very first steps. Something stationary had been put into motion, and he’d made it happen.
While every car on a train is valuable in its own way, with each one serving a distinct purpose, Judd knows that none are more important than the locomotive. Without one, the rest of those cars would remain useless atop a set of rails, on their way to nowhere. A train can only fulfill its destiny with a sturdy engine at the helm.
Judd made sure that his engines were sturdy.
Until the one time he was told to do the opposite.
After that, he no longer had the stomach for the job, so he quit and became a professor. He certainly looks the part, with his tall, rigid posture and wire-rimmed eyeglasses. Those glasses now slip down Judd’s nose as he leaves his assigned room.
Because of the spaciousness of the first-class rooms, the corridor that leads to them is especially narrow. Standing in that cramped strip of hallway, Judd finds himself face-to-face with a wall sconce that has a loose bulb. It buzzes like a housefly while casting an unnerving flicker over that end of the corridor.
The cramped hall, the strobing bulb, even the car he’s been placed in—unlucky number 13—makes Judd reconsider the wisdom of boarding. Fifty-three years old, he’d always been considered intelligent. A genius, some said, especially with machines. Yet he didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to know this wasn’t going to be a leisurely journey. The handwritten note scrawled on the back of the invitation said as much.
I know what you did.
If you don’t come, others will know, too.
That message, alarming enough to get him to the station, also kept Judd from immediately boarding the Phoenix. While the note was clearly a threat, he remained uncertain about its seriousness. Itcould be nothing but a cruel trick by someone who thinks they know what happened. Or it could be a reminder to keep quiet from someone who does know the truth. Either way, Judd understood that he couldn’t simply ignore it, which is why he eventually hopped onto the train at the last minute. He preferred to face the threat amid the hustle and bustle of the Phoenix. After all, no harm could come to him when there were others around.
“Ticket?” a gray-haired conductor asked as Judd moved deeper into the first of the train’s two coach cars.
“I-I don’t have one.” Judd showed the invitation, making sure the conductor could only see the front of it. “Just this.”
The conductor nodded. “Of course. But you’re all the way on the other end of the train. In first class.”