Page 117 of Mile High Ruin

She gives him one back.

I intervene before the aircraft becomes a courtroom. “Sit down, Daniel.”

He does.

Sloane mutters, “You really do say that to everyone.”

“I told you.”

Once we are airborne, the tension inside the cabin gradually changes.

Camille remains nervous during takeoff, gripping the armrests whenever the aircraft shifts, and Sloane notices before anyone else does. She moves into the seat beside her after the seatbelt sign goes off and spends most of the first hour talking quietly to her.

I can’t hear everything.

I don’t try.

There’s something about watching Sloane comfort another person that interests me more than it should. She doesn’t tell Camille to calm down or insist nothing will happen. She simply stays beside her, occasionally touching her arm, asking questions about ordinary things until the conversation moves away from the attack.

Eventually Camille laughs. The sound is small, but it’s the first time she has looked remotely like herself since arriving.

I catch Sloane looking toward me afterward. There’s no smile on her face, but something softer passes between us.

I look away first.

Daniel joins them after a while, apparently deciding that being questioned by Anton is less appealing than sitting with the women.

He apologizes to Sloane. “I should have noticed Hale was drinking earlier.”

“You weren’t responsible for him.”

“I was second in command of the aircraft.”

“You were flying it while he was wandering around doing whatever he wanted.”

Daniel looks at her for a moment. “You are remarkably forgiving considering what happened.”

“I’m not forgiving him.”

“I meant me.”

She gives him a tired smile. “I’ve had enough people deciding I’m responsible for things other people did.” Her eyes move toward me when she says it. There is absolutely no possibility that is accidental.

I pretend not to notice.

Several hours pass without incident, which is almost disappointing after the previous day. Sloane sleeps briefly, curled sideways in her seat with her head against the window, then wakes when Camille gets up to use the lavatory.

She looks around, and her gaze finds me.

I’m working through messages on a secured tablet across the cabin.

She unfastens her belt and walks over, settling into the seat opposite me. “Can I sit?”

“You have asked after already sitting down.”

“I’m adapting to your management style.”

“That is concerning.”