Page 5 of Dearly Departed

“Have you found anything?” I ask, in lieu of admitting that, so far, I can’t see any way out of this aircraft that doesn’t end up with us drowned or dead on impact.

“Not yet.” Catherine purses her lips, still scrolling. “I have a lot of wedding-related photos. Some pretty good photos of London in the winter. Look, our house!” She turns the phone so I can see. The photo on the screen was taken earlier this winter. I’m standing on the steps of the townhouse hanging a holiday wreath on the door, smiling at the camera over my shoulder. I was thinking of Raymond Harris even then. He was the last person on the list, and I was desperate to get to the end. I thought, like a fool, that finally handing that man a check would absolve me of at least some of the crushing guilt. Catherine turns her phone again and smiles at the photo. “I like this one.”

“But you’re not in it.”

“Yeah, but I took it. I’m there in spirit. And it’s not like I left myself out.” She flips the phone around again, and there she is, grinning at the camera in a selfie, her auburn hair tumbling out from underneath a winter hat. In the photo, Catherine’s looking slightly above the camera as if I’d called her name just before she tapped the screen. Because I did call her name just as she took the photo. I’d finished hanging the wreath and turned around and shouted kitten, I’m freezing to death, take me to the nearest hot chocolate shop or I don’t think I’ll make it.

“That one’s better,” I manage to say, though my throat closes around the memory.

There was fresh, white snow scattered over London, and I still thought we were never going to get married because our engagement was only a way to pass the time until Catherine turned twenty-one. If I’d seen this photo on that day, I might have done everything differently. Catherine’s pink-cheeked and happy. She’s in love. That’s how she looked when she was looking at me. That’s how she looked because she heard my voice saying something ridiculous about hot chocolate, and the result isn’t a posed facsimile of happiness, it’s sheer joy, captured by accident.

“This one’s better.” It’s the one Catherine took of both of us a minute later, pressed together, the wreath and front door blurry in the background. She’s laughing, and I have my arm around her, and we look nothing like two people who have promised each other they’ll never, ever make wedding vows to each other.

I’ve thought about how far back in time I’d have to go to change all this, and it’s a question that’s impossible to answer. My parents’ decisions about their lives took shape long before I was born, and the consequences of what the consortium did will last for decades after I die.

If I could, I’d go back to the day in the photo, when I thought I’d have a chance to move past the guilt and shame and embarrassment at my parents’ legacy. I have a father in prison and a mother who’s moved to one of their few remaining properties on the Virgin Islands.

If Raymond Harris flew there, could Catherine and I convince her to help?

It’s a laughable idea. If my parents wanted to keep me out of harm’s way, they would have hidden the existence of the Consortium from me entirely. But alas, they were too invested in the idea of a family business. My father would never have agreed to exclude me from his criminal ventures.

Ah, well. He realized his mistake in the end when I turned over every bit of paperwork that came across my desk to the Hills’ lawyers. When I gave a deposition about the sickening initiation ritual I participated in under threat of death. When the prosecutor met with me personally after he’d received the transcript to assure me that I’d have immunity from any proceedings against the Consortium.

Although maybe it will always be a double-edged sword. Maybe, no matter how much I try to repair the damage done by my father and his friends, I’ll still end up on a metaphorical hijacked plane with my fiancée, hurtling through the sky to our deaths.

Or a literal hijacked plane with my fiancée, hurtling through the sky to our deaths.

“—parachutes?” Catherine says.

“Pardon?” I shake my head like I can shake off the curdled, guilty feeling clinging everywhere in my mind.

“Do you know if there are parachutes on the plane?” Catherine purses her lips and peers at the screen of her phone like it might have the answer, then seems to realize it won’t and turns her honey eyes on me.

So many wishes, and none of them can come true. I wish I could tell her that of course there are parachutes on the Gulfstream. There are nice, luxurious parachutes complete with instruction manuals that will allow us to strap ourselves into them and soar away into the night, landing softly on a white sand beach with a surprise resort nearby.

But I’ve read the safety instructions for this plane every time I’ve boarded one. I’ve read the full manual for the aircraft, too, and not once does it mention on-board parachutes for use if your plane gets hijacked by a madman.

Is Raymond Harris a madman? Looking into Catherine’s eyes makes me think I would absolutely hijack a plane for her.

Should I reverse-hijack the plane for her?

Probably not. I already know Raymond Harris owns at least one gun, and there odds he left it safely at home are zero. If I managed to break into the flight deck, he’d shoot me before I could threaten him with…

My bare hands, I suppose. I didn’t bring any other weapons. I was going to be no one when the plane landed. Just a mysterious handsome gentleman who disappeared from society and was never seen again. I didn’t think to prepare for hand-to-hand combat.

“There aren’t,” I’m forced to tell Catherine. “Unless Raymond Harris brought one as backup.”

Catherine wrinkles her nose. “That wouldn’t do us any good. If he has one parachute, we’d have to figure out how to harness both of us into it. And I haven’t done any parachute research yet.”

“Were you thinking about it?”

“Not, like, parachutes specifically.” The blush across Catherine’s cheeks darkens. “But I was looking for a hobby. The mummies pushed me over the edge.”

“Mummies?”

“At the British Museum.” Catherine lets her phone fall into her lap. Does she know how lovely she is when she’s embarrassed? “The day you were flying back from New York.” Her eyes narrow. “When you were getting shot.”

“I got shot the night before I flew back, not that day.”