The photo at the bottom of the article showed me—fleeing the hospital, face tilted toward the cameras.Shit.
“She’s even wearing the same hoodie—” Brett gasped, jabbing his finger at the screen to zoom in.
“We could be doppelgängers for sure. Super crazy!” I rushed, shoving the phone back into his hands. “Hey, mind if I squeeze past ya? I need to go to the bathroom.” I unclipped my seatbelt, already shifting toward the aisle.
“Yeah, dude. No problem,” Brett said, leaning back to let me climb over his legs, though he barely glanced away from the screen.
As I made my way past, he turned in his seat and swung his phone toward the guy behind us. “Hey, don’t you think they look alike? Crazy, right?”
I cringed, pulling my hood up as I hurried down the narrow aisle, dodging shoulders and stray elbows. My palms weresweaty and my heart pounded. My face was on that screen. And Brett was on a mission to show it to the whole damn plane.
With a glance over my shoulder, Phillips and Smith both looked in my direction—probably because of Brett’s stupid, shrill voice.
Once inside the tiny bathroom, I locked the door and leaned against it, my forehead resting on the hard plastic. I was trapped. Flying through the sky. For another three hours.
Shaking my arms out, I tried to regain control, but it was slipping away from me as the events of the day began to take their toll.Count, Astoria, breathe.I walked myself through breathing exercises, staring at my haggard appearance in the small mirror.
Damn it.
I slammed my hand against the sink.
One article. Just one. The information was vague, but the journalist had still managed to spin it in the worst possible light. And how could they not? If anyone dug deep enough, they’d find out Elizabeth Rhodes didn’t exist.
The thought made my stomach turn.
Piper. Sanjay. Ishani.
“Ma’am, are you alright?” a feminine voice called through the door.
“All good,” I lied, wiping my sleeve across my face.
I needed a plan. Something with more direction thanshow up in a random city and hope the consequences don’t find me.
Damn it.
My fist met the sink again, the pain grounding me for half a second before frustration overwhelmed me—spilling out in the form of hot, humiliating tears.
“Miss?” she asked again, more urgently now. “My name is Charlotte, I’m your flight attendant. Do you need any assistance?”
I clenched my jaw, willing my hands to stop shaking.I had used the name Charlotte once. It only made the pain in my chest worse. I reached for some toilet paper to dab my face, but stumbled, knocking into the wall with a loudthud.
“Ma’am!”
The voice was sharp now. I could hear her moving. Probably calling for help.
“Britta?” Officer Phillips' voice cut through next, in a way that felt as if he was speaking to a frightened animal. “Are you alright?”
He murmured something to the attendant, who replied, but their words blurred together, distant against the pulse pounding in my ears.
“I’m fine,” I called weakly, even though I wasn’t.
My body wouldn't stop shaking.
I need help.
The thought came unbidden, unwelcome, and the second it landed, my entire body flushed with feverish shame.Helpmeant trust.Helpmeant surrender. And there was only one person I knew who might show up if I asked.
Death.
