From award-winning author Meg Gardiner, co-author of Michael Mann’s Heat 2-- A string of high-profile murder-suicides has San Francisco more rattled than the string of recent earthquakes. Hired by the SFPD to shed light on the victims' lives, forensic psychiatrist Jo Beckett makes a shocking discovery: all the suicides belonged to a group of A-listers with lots of money and plenty to hide. And soon Jo finds herself trapped in a nightmare from her past when she gets invited to join the club... "The next suspense superstar." -Stephen King "A harrowing thriller." -Jeffery Deaver Meg Gardiner previously practiced law and taught at the University of California, Santa Barbara. Originally from Southern California, she now lives with her family in London. The Dirty Secrets Club is her first novel published in the U.S. She will be promoting The Dirty Secrets Club on a national tour this summer. Chapter 1 Fire alarms sang through the skyscraper, piercing and relentless. Under the din people poured across the marble lobby toward the doors, dodging fallen ceiling plaster and broken glass. Outside, Montgomery Street crackled with the lights of emergency vehicles. A police officer fought upstream to get inside. The blonde was ten feet behind, struggling through the crowd. The man in the corner paced, head down, needing her to hurry. People rushed by him, jumpy. "Everything crashed off the bookshelves. I thought for sure it was the Big One." The man turned, shoulders shifting. The Big One? Hardly. This earthquake had just been San Francisco's regular kick in the butt. But it was bad enough. On the street, steam geysered from manholes. And he could smell gas. Pipes had ruptured under the building. The quake was Hell saying, Don't forget I'm down here—you fall, I'm waiting for you. He checked his watch. Come on, girl, faster. They had ten minutes before this building shut down. A fire captain glanced at him. He was tall and young and moved like the athlete he was, but nothing clicked in the fire captain's eyes, no suspicion, no Is that who I think it is ? Out of uniform he looked ordinary, a plain vanilla all-American. The blonde neared the doors. She stood out from the crowd: platinum-sleek hair cinched into a tight French twist, body cinched into a tighter black suit. A cop stuck out an arm like he was going to clothesline her. She flashed an ID and slid around him. He smiled. Right under their noses. She pushed through the doors and walked up, giving him a hard blue stare. "Here? Now?" "It's the ultimate test. Secrets are hardest to keep in broad daylight." "I smell gas, and that steam pipe sounds like a volcano erupting. If a valve blows and causes a spark—" "You dared me. Do it in public, and get proof." He wiped his palms on his jeans. "This is as public as it gets. You'll supply my proof." Her hands clenched, but her eyes shone. "Where?" His heart beat faster. "Top floor. My lawyer's office." Upstairs, they strode out of the express elevator to find the law firm abandoned. The fire alarm was shrieking. At the receptionist's desk, a computer was streaming a television news feed. "—minor damage, but we're getting reports of a ruptured gas line in the Financial District…;" The blonde looked around. "Security cameras?" "Only in the stairwells. It's bad business for a law firm to videotape its clients." She nodded at a wall of windows. The October sunset was fading to dusk, downtown ablaze with light. "You plan to do this stunt against the glass?" He crossed the lobby. "This way. The building's going to shut down in"—he looked at a red digital clock on the wall—"six minutes." "What?" "Emergency procedure. If there's a gas leak the building evacuates, they shut down the elevators and seal the fire doors. We have to be out by then." "You're joking." The wall clock counted down to 5:59. He started a timer on his watch. "Yeah. I was meeting with my lawyers when the quake hit. It limits damage from any gas explosion." He pulled her toward a hallway. "I can't believe you're scared of getting caught with me. Not Hardgirl." "What part of secret do you not you understand?" "If we're caught, they'll ask what we're doing here, not what we're hiding in our pasts." "Fair point." She hurried alongside him, eyes bright. "Were you waiting for an earthquake before you did this?" Good guess—this was the third minor quake in the past month. "I got lucky. I've been looking for the perfect opportunity for weeks. Chaos, downtown—it was karma. I figured seize the day." He rounded a corner. A glass-fronted display case along the wall had cracked, spilling sports memorabilia on the floor. She rushed past. "Is that a Joe Montana jersey?" His stopwatch beeped. "Five minutes." He opened a mahogany door. Across a conference room the red embers of sunset caught them in the eyes. The hills of San Francisco rose in front of him, electric with light and packed to the rafters, like a stadium. He shrugged off his coat, took a camera from t