The second pulse-pounding thriller in Meg Gardiner's Jo Beckett series, whose "thrilling,"1 "crackerjack,"2 "adrenaline-filled"3 debut was an Independent Mystery Booksellers Association bestseller. Forensic psychiatrist Jo Beckett's specialty is the psychological autopsy- an investigation into a person's life to determine whether a death was natural, accidental, suicide, or homicide. She calls herself a deadshrinker instead of a head-shrinker: The silence of her "patients" is a key part of the job's attraction. When Jo is asked to do a psychological autopsy on a living person-one with a suspect memory who can't be trusted to participate in his own medical care-she knows all her skills will be put to the test. Jo is called to the scene of an aircraft inbound from London to help deal with a passenger who is behaving erratically. She figures out that he's got anterograde amnesia, and can't form new memories. Jo finds herself racing to save a patient who can walk and talk and yet can't help Jo figure out just what happened to him. For every cryptic clue he is able to drag up from his memory, Jo has to sift through a dozen nonsensical statements. Suddenly a string of clues arises, something to do with a superdeadly biological agent code-named "Slick," a missing wife and son, and a secret partnership gone horribly wrong. Jo realizes her patient's addled mind may hold the key to preventing something terrible from happening in her beloved San Francisco. In order to prevent it, she will have to get deeper into the life of a patient than she ever has before, hoping the truth emerges from the fog of his mind in time to save her city-and herself. *Starred Review* Pursuit of a sinister drug that short-circuits short-term memory drives Gardiner’s second taut thriller starring San Francisco forensic psychiatrist Jo Beckett (after The Dirty Secrets Club, in 2008). The doctor, who is accustomed to conducting investigations on the dead, has a live one this time: an airline passenger named Ian Kanan who became unhinged during a seemingly routine landing at San Francisco Airport. (He thrust open the emergency doors in a panic before two fellow passengers wrestled him away.) Turns out Kanan, an ex–Special Forces agent now working as a consultant, was sent to South Africa to intercept a rogue employee bent on stealing a cutting-edge drug called Slick. Designed as a “bomb-killer,” Slick’s untamed technology does more damage than good, prompting further explosions and rewiring the brains of those who come in contact with it. At some point, Kanan’s brain became infected; it now resets every five minutes, leaving him incapable of forming new memories. It’s up to Dr. Beckett to piece together Kanan’s past before Slick slithers its way into her beloved city. Bad guys, betrayal, and a beastly technology propel Edgar finalist Gardiner’s heart-stopping plot. Mystery fans are sure to embrace this whip-smart novelist, who gets better with every book. --Allison Block MEG GARDINER ���is the author of eleven critically acclaimed no Later, Seth remembered cold air and red light streaking the western sky, music in his ears, and his own hard breathing. Later, he understood, 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 riding with his earphones in, tunes cranked high. His guitar was in a backpack case slung around his shoulders. Crimson sunset strobed between the eucalyptus trees. When he reached Kennedy Drive, he jumped the curb, crossed the road, and aimed his bike into the shortcut through the woods. He was a quarter mile from home. He was late. But if he rode hard he could still beat his mom back from 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 the path fifty yards behind him. Seth skidded to a stop. He pushed his glasses up his nose, but the trail lay in shadow and he couldn’t see what Whiskey was barking at. He whistled and waved. “Hey, doofus.” Whiskey was a big dog, part Irish setter, part golden retriever. Part sofa cushion. And all heart, every dumb inch of him. His hackles were up. If Whiskey ran off, chasing him down could take forever. Then he’d totally be late. But Seth was fifteen—in a month, anyhow—and Whiskey was his responsibility. He whistled again. Whiskey glanced at him. He could swear the dog looked worried. He pulled out his earbuds. “Whiskey, come.” The dog stayed, fur bristling. Seth heard traffic outside the park on Fulton. He heard birds singing in the trees and a jet overhead. He heard Whiskey growl. Seth rode toward him. It might be a raccoon, and even in San Francisco raccoons could have rabies. He stopped beside the dog. “Hey, boy. Stay.” He heard a car door close, back on Kennedy. Boots crunched on leaves and pine needles. Whiskey’s ears went back. Seth grabbed his collar. Tension was vibrat