From an author who Stephen King calls “an absolute master” comes a “heart-clutching psychological thriller” ( People ) about a young female police officer facing danger on all fronts—from a clever victim of abuse, skeptical colleagues on the force, and even her own father. Philomena McCarthy is an ambitious police officer with the elite Metropolitan Police in London, responding to a domestic violence call. Tempe Brown is a bloodied young woman and the mistress of a decorated and intimidating London detective, Darren Goodall. Philomena and Tempe strike up a tentative friendship, determined to protect each other from Goodall, but something isn’t quite right about the stories Tempe tells and the secrets she keeps. Yet the young officer is drawn into Tempe’s world, unsure of what is real or invented. After a bungled break-in and an unsolved murder, Philomena finds herself trapped—with her career, her impending wedding, and her very survival in doubt. Robotham’s brilliant ability to render complex characters, both good and bad, keeps readers unsure of whom to trust, “maintain[ing] an air of excruciating suspense” ( The Washington Post )—until the very last page. "A heart-clutching psychological thriller." — People "Robotham maintains an air of excruciating suspense in this plot-driven tale." — Katherine A. Powers, The Washington Post "Excellent and totally entertaining. . . . No one does suspense better." — Stephen King "[An] expertly paced first-person narrative. . . . Sidestepping all the clichés—the tough-girl humor is perfectly pitched and never overdone—the novel is as psychologically nuanced and emotionally engaging as it is suspenseful. . . . A flawless and compassionate psychological thriller." — Kirkus (starred review) "An engaging first-person narrative with a surprise twist at the end." — Booklist Michael Robotham is a former investigative journalist whose bestselling psychological thrillers have been translated into twenty-five languages. He has twice won a Ned Kelly Award for Australia’s best crime novel, for Lost in 2005 and Shatter in 2008. His recent novels include When She Was Good , winner of the UK’s Ian Fleming Steel Dagger Award for best thriller; The Secrets She Keeps ; Good Girl, Bad Girl ; When You Are Mine ; Lying Beside You ; Storm Child ; and The White Crow . After living and writing all over the world, Robotham settled his family in Sydney, Australia. Chapter 1 1 Four Months Ago… I was eleven years old when I saw my future. I was standing near the middle doors of a double-decker bus when a bomb exploded on the upper level, peeling off the roof like a giant had taken a tin opener to a can of peaches. One moment I was holding on to a pole, and the next I was flying through the air, seeing sky, then ground, then sky. A leg whipped past me. A stroller. A million shards of glass, each catching the sunlight. I crashed to the pavement as debris and body parts fell around me. Looking up through the dust, I wondered what I’d been doing on a London sightseeing bus, which is what it looked like without a roof. People were hurt. Dying. Dead. I spat grit from between my teeth and tried to remember who had been standing next to me. A tattooed girl with white earbuds under hacked purple hair. A mother with a toddler in a stroller. Two old ladies were in the side seat, arguing about the price of movie tickets. A guy with a hipster beard was carrying a guitar case decorated with stickers from around the world. Normally I would have been at school at 9:47 in the morning, but I had a doctor’s appointment with an ear, nose, and throat specialist who was going to tell me why I suffered from so many sinus infections. Apparently I have narrow nasal passages, which is probably genetic, but I haven’t worked out who to blame. As I lay on the street, a man’s face appeared, hovering over me. He was talking but he made no sound. I read his lips. “Are you bleeding?” I looked at my school uniform. My blue-and-white-checked blouse was covered in blood. I didn’t know if it was mine. “How many fingers am I holding up?” “Three.” He moved away. Around me, shop-front windows had been shattered, covering the sidewalk and roadway with diamonds of glass. A pigeon lay nearby, blown out of the sky, or maybe it died of fright. Dust had settled, coating everything in a fine layer of gray soot. Later, when I saw myself in the mirror, I had white streaks under my eyes, the tracks of my tears. As I sat in the gutter, I watched a young policewoman moving among the injured. Reassuring them. Comforting them. She put her arms around a child who had lost his mother. The same officer reached me and smiled. She had a round face and brilliantly white teeth and her hair was bundled up under her cap. My ears had stopped ringing. Words spilled out of her mouth. “What’s your name, poppet?” “Philomena.” “And your last name?” “McCarthy.” “Are you by yourself, Philomena?” “I