NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • The iconic thriller series that inspired the upcoming streaming show on Prime Video , in development now! By the time psychologist Dr. Alex Delaware reached the school the damage was done: A sniper had opened fire on a crowded playground, but was gunned down before any children were hurt. “Virtually impossible to put aside until the final horrifying showdown.”— People While the TV news crews feasted on the scene and Alex began his therapy sessions with the traumatized children, he couldn’t escape the image of a slight teenager clutching an oversized rifle. What was the identity behind the name and face: a would-be assassin, or just another victim beneath an indifferent California sky? Intrigued by a request from the sniper’s father to conduct a “psychological autopsy” of his child, Alex begins to uncover a strange pattern—it is a trail of blood. In the dead sniper’s past was a dark and vicious plot. And in Alex Delaware’s future is the stuff of grown-up nightmares: the face of real human evil. “Though a time bomb is ticking away at the heart of this novel, readers will forget to watch the clock once they start it.”— Chicago Sun-Times   “A marvelous read.”— The New York Times Book Review Jonathan Kellerman  is the #1  New York Times  bestselling author of more than three dozen bestselling crime novels, including the Alex Delaware series,  The Butcher’s Theater, Billy Straight, The Conspiracy Club,   Twisted,  and  True Detectives . With his wife, bestselling novelist Faye Kellerman, he co-authored  Double Homicide  and  Capital Crimes . With his son, bestselling novelist Jesse Kellerman, he co-authored the first book of a new series,  The Golem of Hollywood . He is also the author of two children’s books and numerous nonfiction works, including  Savage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children  and  With Strings Attached: The Art and Beauty of Vintage Guitars . He has won the Goldwyn, Edgar, and Anthony awards and has been nominated for a Shamus Award. Jonathan and Faye Kellerman live in California and New Mexico. CHAPTER 1 Back to school. It evokes memories of the tests we’ve passed, or the ones we’ve failed. Monday. Milo’s call punctuated a hard, gray November day that had finally erupted into rain. He said, “Turn on your TV.” I glanced at my desk clock. Just after two-forty p.m.--talk show time. The cathode freak display. “What? Nuns who murder, or pets with ESP?” “Just turn it on, Alex.” His voice was hard. “What channel?” “Take your pick.” I flicked the remote. The sound came on before the picture. Sobs and whimpers. Then faces. Small faces, lots of them. Eyes wide with bafflement and terror. Fragile bodies blanketed and huddled together on the floor of a large room. Gleaming hardwood floors and chalk-white goal lines. A gym. The camera moved in on a little black-haired girl in a puff-sleeved white dress as she accepted a plastic cup of something red. Her hands shook; the beverage sloshed; a false bloodstain spread on white cotton. The camera lingered, feasting on the image. The little girl burst into tears. A chubby boy, five or six, cried. The boy next to him was older, maybe eight. Staring straight ahead and biting his lip, straining for macho. More faces, a sea of faces. I became aware of a mellow-voiced commentary--calculated sound bites alternating with strategic pauses. Sucked into the visuals, I let the words pass right through me. Camera-shift to rain-slick asphalt, acres of it. Squat flesh-colored buildings spattered calomine-pink where the rain had penetrated the stucco. The voice-over droned on and the camera got manic--a flurry of visual slices, so brief they bordered on the subliminal: flak-jacketed, baseball-hatted SWAT cops crouched on rooftops, poised in doorways, and muttering into hand-held radios. Yellow crime-scene tape. Assault rifles; the glint of telescopic scopes; bullhorns. A cluster of grim men in dark suits conferring behind a barrier of squad cars. Police vans. Pulling away. Policemen packing and leaving. Then a sudden wide pan to something in a black zip-bag being carted away through the rain. The owner of the mellow voice came on screen. Sandy-haired, GQ type in a Burberry trenchcoat and electric-blue crunch-knotted tie. The coat was soaked but his hair spray was holding up. He said, “Information is still trickling in, but as far as we can tell, only one suspect was involved and that individual has been killed. Here we see the body being taken away, but no identity has been released. . . .” Zoom in on black bag, wet and glossy as sealskin. Stoic morgue techs who might have been taking out the garbage. The bag was hoisted up and into one of the vans. Slam of door. Close-up of the reporter squinting into the downpour, playing intrepid war correspondent. “. . . Recapping then, Nathan Hale Elementary School in the West Side community of Ocean Heights was the scene of a sniping that took place approximately forty minutes ago.