“A long time ago.” He sat straighter. “That looks like a first or second edition, though. May I?” My hesitation must’ve been obvious, because his smile softened. “I’m a collector myself.”
I sat beside him, leaving a seat between us, and passed over my most prized possession. He was right. It was a second edition, printed the year my mother was born, and the only thing of hers I truly treasured.
“Wow,” he said, reverently turning the pages. “I’ve never seen one in such fantastic condition. If you don’t mind my asking… how did you come by it?”
“Family heirloom.”
“Are these notes yours?” he asked, scanning the back pages.
I’d forgotten about those. My stomach twisted. I wrung my hands, resisting the urge to snatch it back. “Oh. That’s nothing. Mostly nonsense. I shouldn’t have written in it.”
He paused, lingering on a line. “No, this is—it’s good. Not nonsense at all.” There was genuine awe in his voice. “Do you write?”
“Does emotional journaling count?” I smiled sheepishly, tucking the book between my legs as an anchor.
“Definitely. I think those tend to make the best stories.”
I shifted under his stare.
“Why do you loveDante’s Inferno?” he asked.
The question caught me off guard. When I’d chosen to keep my mother’s book, it hadn’t been for sentimental reasons. It just… fit in my bag. But over time, it became something else. The more I read, the more I saw myself in its pages.
“It’s a reminder,” I said, quietly. I couldn’t tell him the truth, that the book had become my map and unlike Dante,myjourney wouldn’t end in paradise.
My sins fit the judgment I’d been passed.
“Hm…” he paused, considering what I said until something across the room snagged his attention. “I suppose the devout would agree with you.”
His gaze dropped to a man seated across the way. The guy was dressed sharp, in a tailored shirt and dark slacks. His suit jacket caught on the chair as he turned to the man beside him, flashing a silver badge at his waist.
Damn it.
The officers eyes caught mine, and my posture went stiff.
The man kept talking, something aboutDante’s Infernoand eternal suffering or whatever. I forced my attention back to him, though the officer stayed in the corner of my eye. He wasn’t here for me.Probably. But my skin prickled all the same.
“Don’t you think?” the man asked, angling his phone toward me. A painting filled the screen.
“Hm? Oh. Yeah. Definitely.”
He smiled. “I’m sorry—I never got your name?”
Panic flared. “Astoria,” I blurted, then slapped a hand over my mouth.
I wasn’t supposed to say that. Inevergave anyone my real name.
“It’s nice to meet you, Astoria. My name is Ira. Ira Morrison.” Instead of giving me his hand, he handed me a business card. One with his information plastered across the front:Morrison and Sons Publishing.
The flight attendants began calling for boarding, and I felt the heat of attention prickling my skin. The officer’s gaze lingered, but I tried to stay focused as Ira rambled on, oblivious to my discomfort.
“Hey, if you ever think about publishing those emotional journals—” he said, air-quotes around the words. “Give me a call. Your writing’s solid. Really good. Just keep at it.” He stood, grabbed his coat and briefcase. “I’ve got to board, but seriously, give me a call. Nice meeting you, Astoria.”
“Yeah, you too, Ira. Thanks for the company.”
“Anytime.”
I waited, even as everyone else boarded and I missed my group number. The officer and his associate sat still, watching. I’d wait them out, if only to avoid their questioning gaze. I could always skip this flight and go book the next one. Boston was going to be freezing this time of year anyhow.
