“I’ll have another,” he said, handing her his crystal tumbler.
A few moments later, the flight attendant returned the tumbler to him. He thanked her, took a small sip, and headed toward the aft lavatory.
It was one of the small indulgences of owning his own plane. Nobody told him when to sit down, when to buckle up, or how many drinks were too many.
My plane. My rules.
He entered the large lavatory, set his tumbler on the counter, and unfastened his pants before lowering himself onto the cushioned seat. He had just started his business when the plane jolted hard. His tumbler flew from the vanity and shattered, spraying single malt across the mirror and his bare legs.
“What the hell?”
The first shake had been hard, like hitting a speed bump at one hundred miles an hour, but the second was even more violent. The plane banked sharply to the right, tossing Westcott sideways and then slamming him into the wall. The third shudder was harder than the first two combined and sent him to the floor, his pants still tangled around his ankles. His right shoulder took the brunt of the fall, and he heard—and felt—something pop. The pain was immediate, but his scream was muffled by the high-pitched alarm that was blaring from somewhere beyond the lavatory door.
His left arm was no longer cooperating. It was either broken or dislocated. Still, Westcott tried to push himself up with his one good arm, butthe angle of the plane had changed, and the floor was too slanted now, maybe thirty or forty degrees and increasing.
“Help!” he shouted. “Help me!”
A metallic groan rippled through the fuselage, followed by another series of violent shakes. Westcott heard the sound again, as if the Gulfstream was being torn in half. He reached for the counter, his fingers scrabbling at the sink as he tried again to haul himself up in a desperate attempt to yank his pants up. But he couldn’t do it. He could feel the nose of the plane dip further. The Gulfstream was no longer flying; it was falling.
Westcott let his head fall back to the floor.
I tried, love. I really did. Maybe too hard. I’m sorry if I failed you.
He closed his eyes, and he saw her. His Nailah. She stood barefoot in the sand, her white dress catching the wind. But she wasn’t smiling; she was screaming at him, and her eyes were wild with rage.
Westcott gasped at the sight.
And then his vision stopped as the Gulfstream disintegrated upon impact fifteen miles east of Atlantic Beach.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Maine Medical Center
Portland, Maine
The first thing Caspian felt was the weight in his chest. It wasn’t pain exactly, but heaviness, as if his ribs had been wrapped in lead. Then came the low, dull burn pulsing from his left leg.
He opened his eyes slowly. The light inside the room was dimmed, and there was a recurring beep coming from a monitor to his right. Caspian realized he was connected to machines, but at least he was breathing on his own.
He turned his head, but it required more out of him than it should have. To his left, Liesel sat curled in an armchair. Her arms were folded across her chest, and her head rested on her shoulder.
I’m alive.
A moment passed before he noticed the call button clipped to his bed railing. He raised his hand, but his muscles protested. His fingers were stiff, but he managed to press the button.
A soft chime sounded.
Liesel stirred, and she opened her eyes. When she saw him watching her, she shot to her feet so fast the armchair skidded back, almost toppling. She was beside him in a second, her knees bumping the edge of the bed as she leaned over the railing. She brushed the edge of his arm with her hand.
“You ... you’re awake,” she said.
Caspian wanted to say something, but his throat was raw. He winced, and Liesel reached for the cup of water on the nightstand. She guided the straw to his lips.
“Slowly, Casp,” she said as he drank.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
Liesel shook her head, her eyes not leaving his.
