From award-winning author Meg Gardiner, co-author of Michael Mann’s Heat 2 Forensic psychiatrist Jo Beckett is called to the scene of a plane inbound from London to San Francisco. A passenger is behaving erratically, offering Jo cryptic clues from a shattered past: something about a missing wife and son...a secret partnership gone horribly wrong...and, most alarming, a deadly biological agent that no one can stop. 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. Later, Seth remembered cold air and red light streaking the westernsky, music in his ears, and his own hard breathing. Later, heunderstood, and the understanding stuck in his memory like a thorn.He never heard them coming. The trail through Golden Gate Park was rutted and he was ridingwith his earphones in, tunes cranked high. His guitar was in abackpack case slung around his shoulders. Crimson sunset strobedbetween the eucalyptus trees. When he reached Kennedy Drive, hejumped the curb, crossed the road, and aimed his bike into the shortcutthrough the woods. He was a quarter mile from home. He was late. But if he rode hard he could still beat his mom backfrom work. His breath frosted the air. The music thrashed in his ears.He barely heard Whiskey bark. He glanced over his shoulder. The dog was at a standstill on thepath fifty yards behind him. Seth skidded to a stop. He pushed hisglasses up his nose, but the trail lay in shadow and he couldn’t seewhat Whiskey was barking at. He whistled and waved. “Hey, doofus.” Whiskey was a big dog, part Irish setter, part golden retriever. Partsofa cushion. And all heart, every dumb inch of him. His hackles wereup. If Whiskey ran off, chasing him down could take forever. Thenhe’d totally be late. But Seth was fifteen—in a month, anyhow—andWhiskey was his responsibility. He whistled again. Whiskey glanced at him. He could swear thedog looked worried. He pulled out his earbuds. “Whiskey, come.” The dog stayed, fur bristling. Seth heard traffic outside the parkon Fulton. He heard birds singing in the trees and a jet overhead. Heheard Whiskey growl. Seth rode toward him. It might be a raccoon, and even in San Franciscoraccoons could have rabies. He stopped beside the dog. “Hey, boy. Stay.” He heard a car door close, back on Kennedy. Boots crunched onleaves and pine needles. Whiskey’s ears went back. Seth grabbed hiscollar. Tension was vibrating from the dog. The birds weren’t singing anymore. “Come. Heel,” Seth said, and turned around. A man stood on the trail in the dusk, ten feet ahead. Surprise fizzedthrough Seth all the way to his hair. The man’s shaved head ran straight down to his shoulders withoutstopping for a neck. His arms hung by his sides. He looked like a ballparkfrank that had been boiled all day. He nodded at Whiskey. “He’s a handful. What’s his name?” The sun was almost down. Why was the guy wearing sunglasses? He snapped his fingers. “Here, dog.” Seth held Whiskey’s collar. The fizzing covered his skin, and he hada bright, thumping feeling behind his eyes. What was this guy after? The hot dog in shades tilted his head. “I said, what’s his name,Seth?” The brightness pounded behind Seth’s eyes. The man knew whohe was. Of course the man did. Seth was lanky and had coppery hair thatstuck up like straw and pale blue eyes that could shoot people thelook, the one his mom called the thousand-yard stare. Just my luck, she said sometimes. You look exactly like your father. Seth gripped Whiskey’s collar. Just his luck. His bad luck. His bad,bad, oh, shit —this had to do with his dad. What was this guy after? This guy was after him . He took off. He jumped on the pedals and bolted like a greyhound,ninety degrees away from Oscar Mayer Man, riding like a maniac intothe woods. “Whiskey, come ,” he yelled. There was no trail, just bumpy ground covered with brown grassand dead leaves. He gripped the handlebars and pedaled harder thanhe thought his legs could turn. His glasses bounced on his nose. Hisearphones swung down and bucked against the bike. Tunes dribbledout. Behind him, Whiskey barked. Seth felt too scared to look back.Oscar Mayer wasn’t the only one. Whiskey had been growling atsomething on Kennedy Drive, and Seth had heard a car door slamand footsteps on the trail. His throat felt like it had an apple jammeddown it. Two guys were here to get him. He had to warn his mom. His cell phone was in his jeans pocket, but riding like a psycho,he couldn’t reach it. A moan rose in his throat. He fought it down.He couldn’t cry. The trees had darkened from green to black. Ahead,a hundred yards away through the branches, he glimpsed headlightspassing on Fulton Street. He had to get home. His mom—God, what if these guys went afterher, too? Ni