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Thirty-Four

Judd Dodge sits in darkness, relieved to no longer be playing dead. He’d spent almost six hours doing exactly that. First for an interminable length of time in the lounge, during which he was certain he’d be found out, then for hours in the last room of the train’s second-to-last car.

Other than a few brief trips elsewhere, he remained exactly where he’d been placed on the bed in Room C.

His fear was that if he moved too far, for too long, someone would notice.

So he stayed completely still beneath the sheet while his brain churned at full speed.

What if someone did look in on him and notice his chest rising and falling?

What if they did check his pulse? Correctly this time, and not like Seamus, who unwittingly—and, for Judd, luckily—missed the mark by an inch or two.

He eventually got tired of such restrictions, becoming so antsy that the urge to move was uncontrollable. It got even worse once he heard the racket two rooms away. Pretending to be dead was one thing when he was mostly alone in the car. Doing it with everyone nearby was a different story.

So he fled, even though it wasn’t part of the plan. Judd doesn’t care about that. For him, the biggest question running through his thoughts is this: What if the rest of the plan fails?

There’s no reason to suggest it will, especially after he played his part so perfectly. All it took was a little unplanned distraction in the form of Jack Lapsford’s temporary heart trouble and some old-fashioned sleight of hand.

Once he realized the train had left the station empty, Judd suspected Art Matheson’s daughter was behind the journey—and that she had revenge on her mind. His hunch was confirmed when he saw who else had been invited. By then, a plan had already been formed.

And Judd was prepared.

While everyone was arguing in the lounge, he remained focused on the small amount of white powder hidden inside his pocket watch. Rat poison. Found beneath the sink as he passed through the galley after learning the rest of the train was empty.

When he opened his watch to check the time, Judd poured the powder into his martini glass, letting most—but not all—melt into the cocktail. After all, the others needed some way to know he’d been “poisoned.”

To sell the illusion, he made sure that red-flecked foam also appeared on his lips.

An impromptu bit of trickery that makes him exceedingly proud.

It might well be the greatest trick Judd ever pulled off, for it made everyone think for a time that he was dead.

Now he’s certain they know he’s not. Just as they now know what he’s done.

Judd looks down at his hands, grateful for how the darkness hides them from view, keeping him from dwelling on the death they’ve brought.

Until twelve years ago, he never thought he’d be a killer.

Even after he could be labeled as one, Judd still felt slightly removed from the act.

Something he designed did the killing. Not him.

Not directly. At least that’s what he told himself during those long, sleepless nights in which guilt was his only emotion.

Now he can no longer lie to himself.

He is a murderer.

And he’ll do it again if he has to.

If that’s what it takes to escape his fate, he’ll kill every single person on this train.