Page 1 of Dearly Departed

1

CATHERINE

Ishould have known from the second the pilot stepped out of the cockpit with an evil-villain smirk on his face that something had gone terribly wrong, but you know me—Catherine Chambers née Bettencourt, professional optimist and holder-out of hope until well past its expiration date.

Reality began to sink in when the pilot said I came to say congratulations on your marriage and let out a genuine evil-villain laugh, but it’s not until he finishes with now sit down, Mr. Chambers. I’ll get you and your new bride to where you need to go in the most sinister tone I’ve heard out of anyone’s mouth since my father died that I know:

We’re screwed.

The bloodless, stricken expression on my husband’s face is just the cherry on top.

Jacob had not looked happy to see me on the plane. He’d gone too pale for his sandy hair, absolutely stunned, then heartbroken. And, of course, I was ridiculous and naive and in love with him, so I thought he felt bad because he’d forgotten to bring me on the surprise honeymoon.

Only he didn’t take my hands in his and say kitten, I’m so glad you’re here.

He said what are you doing here?

Even then, I was willing to chalk it up to post-wedding fatigue, but that doesn’t make sense. Jacob Chambers is so good at being the charming life of the party that New York society celebrated when he came back last year.

They celebrated by gossiping and, in my mother’s case, by trying to rope him into an engagement with me like we’re in a Jane Austen novel. My mother’s initial plan failed, but when I needed an escape from my father’s house, Jacob and I used my mother’s machinations to our advantage, and one thing led to another—a real-enough engagement led to a real-enough temporary life together led to a very real wedding, complete with marriage license and our signatures on paper—and now Jacob is my husband.

But.

But!

Before we’d even had a chance to discuss the secret honeymoon, he’d leapt out of the seat beside me and rushed up toward the cockpit to tell the pilot to turn the plane around.

I’m beginning to suspect this wasn’t meant to be a surprise honeymoon after all.

Jacob stares at the pilot. He must be a real pilot, since he got the plane into the air in what felt like a normal fashion, but he’s very clearly not just a pilot. He’s evil, and Jacob watches him like the man is an apex predator who will kill us if we don’t have eyes on him at all times.

The pilot smirks back. He’s proud of himself. Whatever he’s planned to do when he takes us where we need to go, it’s probably not deliver us safely to Jacob’s planned destination.

My heart, which had been beating at a slightly faster rhythm in my excitement over surprising Jacob, feels like a clenching fist between my ribs. I keep wanting to believe that this man—this pilot—is only playing a prank, but playing pranks isn’t a thing pilots on private jets do. It’s not a thing Jacob would have paid him to do. There is no reason for the pilot to be looking at Jacob like his next murder victim unless he actually wants to kill him.

That means we’re alone on a private plane, speeding through the air above the ocean, with a psychopath.

Who wants Jacob to sit down. He might be doing reverse psychology to get Jacob to do the opposite of sitting down—attacking him, maybe—and that way he can murder him before we land, but if that’s the pilot’s plan, it’s not going to work.

I reach over and tug Jacob’s sleeve as surreptitiously as possible.

Jacob drops himself heavily into the seat beside me, his eyes still on the pilot.

Neither of them breaks eye contact. If I were being monitored for heart trouble right now, the doctors would have to assume I was about to die.

Am I about to die?

Are we about to be double-murdered less than an hour into our honeymoon?

Are we even on a honeymoon?

Yes. Of course we’re on a honeymoon.

I am choosing to believe we’re supposed to be on a honeymoon. It’s post-wedding fatigue that made Jacob try to take us back, and it’s being reasonably afraid of a sinister murder-pilot that’s making him so pale and freaked out.

The pilot huffs, like Jacob is being laughably predictable, then turns his back on us, goes into the cockpit, and closes the door. He doesn’t slam it behind him. It closes with a soft whoosh and a firm but quiet click. If there’s a lock, I don’t hear it. We’re on a private jet. Even having the murder-pilot shut us out comes with an aura of luxury.

Jacob and I sit in complete silence, neither one of us moving.