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Anna knows this deep in her bones, just as she knows that Sal could be pointing the blame at Seamus to cast doubt away from herself. She could have killed Judd and Edith just as easily as Seamus. After all, she was one of three people to choose a martini before Judd, giving her an opportunity to slip poison into his glass unnoticed. And she had just as much access to Edith in the observation car as Seamus did.
What Sal didn’t have, though, was good reason to kill Judd or Edith.
Seamus did.
And now that a thin ribbon of doubt has curled into her thoughts, Anna can’t resist giving it a tug to test its strength. For instance, she knows Sal was right about Seamus not being fully searched. Only the coat of his uniform had been examined before the presence of the gun ended things. Maybe Seamus hadpoison waiting in a trouser pocket, still unknown to the rest of them.
As for Edith, it’s clear she was murdered immediately after Anna left the observation car. As she searched the train, looking for the man she saw roaming the corridors, Seamus had just enough time to smother Edith to death before returning to his room.
Anna knows she shouldn’t be thinking such things. She and Seamus are in this together. He’d never do something without first discussing it with her.
Would he?
She enters Car 13, finding it unnervingly quiet. Yes, the sound of the wheels rumbling over the tracks continues. It’s the noises on top of it that are missing. Signs of life that indicate others are onboard. Coughs and conversations and footfalls on hallways carpets. Without those, the car seems as quiet as a tomb.
Standing in that strange silence is Seamus, still posted outside Herb Pulaski’s room. He leans against the window across from the door, staring into the middle distance, stoic as always.
“Is Mr. Pulaski behaving himself?” Anna says.
“Haven’t heard a peep out of him for fifteen minutes. What have you been up to?”
“I had a chat with Sal that was a long time coming.”
“How’d that go?” Seamus says.
“It was enlightening.” Anna pauses. “She said she thinks you’re the killer.”
Seamus gives her a questioning look. “And what do you think?”
“Was it you?” Anna says, her voice barely a whisper, as if that will make it any less of a betrayal. “Did you do it, Seamus?”
He’s hurt by the question. Anna sees it in his big brown eyes, which reveal his every emotion. She’s long wondered if Seamus knows how expressive his eyes can be. How she can look into them and know exactly what he’s feeling.
“It’s okay if you did,” she says. “Well, it’s not. Clearly. But I’d understand. You, of all people, have a right to vengeance.”
“Where’s this coming from?” Seamus asks. “It’s got to be more than just something Sally Lawrence said.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I didn’t kill Judd Dodge or Edith Gerhardt,” Seamus says, clearly annoyed that it needs to be said. “I wanted to. I’ll admit that. I want to kill the whole lot of them with my bare hands. But I haven’t—and I won’t. Because I know that isn’t what you want.”
Anna searches for the faintest hint that he’s lying, but all she sees is the same grief-stricken expression that greets her every time she looks in a mirror.
“You believe me, right?” Seamus says.
“Yes,” Anna says, because she does believe him. More than that, she trusts him. She has no choice. They’re on an empty train with the same sworn enemies, one of whom is a killer. Seamus is the only person she can trust.
“Who doyouthink is the killer?” she says.
“My money’s still on Dante Wentworth.”
“I already told you, it’s not him.”
“You have something to back that up? Or are you just saying that because you’re in love with him?”
“Was,” Anna says. “Iwasin love with him.”
Seamus swats away her comment with a skeptical “Whatever you say.”