The second book of the smash-hit Wayward Pines trilogy, from the New York Times bestselling author of Dark Matter, Recursion, and Upgrade It’s the perfect town . . . as long as you don’t try to leave. Nestled amid picture-perfect mountains, the idyllic town of Wayward Pines is a modern-day Eden—at least at first glance. Except that within its fences, the residents are told where to work, how to live, and who to marry. None of them know how they got here. Some believe they are dead. Others think they’re trapped in an unfathomable experiment. Everyone secretly dreams of leaving, but those who dare face a terrifying surprise. As sheriff, Ethan Burke is tasked with enforcing the town’s laws, and he’s one of the few entrusted with the truth—even though, for all his knowledge, he’s as much a prisoner of Wayward Pines as anyone else. But when a murder investigation draws him deeper into the town’s inner workings, Ethan learns that its past is darker than even he suspected—and finds himself faced with an impossible choice. The second novel in Blake Crouch’s blockbuster trilogy, Wayward delves deeper into the irresistible mysteries and horrors of this perfect little town, even as it asks what it means to live with secrets—and what price we’ll pay for the truth. Blake Crouch  is a bestselling novelist and screenwriter. His novels include Upgrade, Recursion , Dark Matter , and the Wayward Pines trilogy, which was adapted into a television series for FOX. Crouch also co-created the TNT show Good Behavior , based on his Letty Dobesh novellas. He lives in Colorado. Chapter 1 Mustin had been watching the creature through the Schmidt & Bender telescopic sight for the better part of an hour. It had come over the cirque at daybreak, pausing as the first radials of sunlight struck its translucent skin. Its progression down through the boulder field had been slow and careful, stopping occasionally to sniff the remains of others like it. Others Mustin had killed. The sniper reached up to the scope, adjusted the parallax, and settled back in behind the focus. Conditions were ideal—clear visibility, mild temperature, no wind. With the reticle set at 25x zoom, the creature’s ghostly silhouette popped against the gray of the shattered rock. At a distance of one and a half miles, its head was no larger than a grain of sand. If he didn’t take the shot now, he’d have to range the target again. And there was a possibility that by the time he was ready to shoot, the creature would have passed out of his sight line. It wouldn’t be the end of the world. There was still a high-voltage security fence a half mile down the canyon. But if it managed to scale the cliffs over the top of the razor wire, there’d be trouble. He’d have to radio in. Call for a team. Extra work. Extra time. Every effort would be made to stop the creature from reaching town. He’d almost certainly catch an ass-chewing from Pilcher. Mustin drew in a long, deep breath. Lungs expanding. He let it out. Lungs deflating. Then empty. His diaphragm relaxed. He counted to three and squeezed the trigger. The British-made AWM bucked hard against his shoulder, the report dampened by the suppressor. Recovering from the recoil, he found his target in the sphere of magnification, still crouched on a flat-topped boulder on the floor of the canyon. Damn. He’d missed. It was a longer shot than he normally took, and so many variables in play, even under perfect conditions. Barometric pressure. Humidity. Air density. Barrel temperature. Even Coriolis effect—the rotation of the earth. He thought he’d accounted for everything in calculating his aiming solution, but— The creature’s head disappeared in a pink mist. He smiled. It had taken a little over four seconds for the .338 Lapua Magnum round to reach the target. Helluva shot. Mustin sat up, struggled to his feet. Stretched his arms over his head. It was midmorning. The sky steel blue and not a cloud in sight. His perch was atop a thirty-foot guard tower that had been built on the rocky pinnacle of a mountain, far above the timberline. From the open platform, he had a panoramic view of the surrounding peaks, the canyon, the forest, and the town of Wayward Pines, which from four thousand feet above, was little more than a grid of intersecting streets, couched in a protected valley. His radio squeaked. He answered, “Mustin, over.” “Just had a fence strike in zone four, over.” “Stand by.” Zone 4 encompassed the expanse of pine forest that bordered the southern edge of town. He took up his rifle and glassed the fence under the canopy of trees, tracked it for a quarter mile. He saw the smoke first—coils of it lifting off the animal’s scorched hide. “I have a visual,” he said. “It’s just a deer, over.” “Copy that.” Mustin swung the rifle north into town. Houses appeared—colorful Victorians fronted with perfect squares of bright grass. White picket fences. He aimed down into the park where a woman