Page 35 of Aviatrix

“Long enough,” he mutters, eyes narrowing at the image. “Long enough to see that Gina was obviously a plant.”

He straightens, arms crossing as he exhales through his nose. “Aviatrix,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “No one uses that term in this century.”

“I know,” I reply, still shaken. “What do you think it means?”

Lark stares at the monitor, his expression indecipherable. “I have no idea. But it was important enough for the Major to fly here, sneak onto a secured airfield, and risk everything just to try and slip it to you without me noticing.” His jaw locks. Hard. “And that,” he adds, “makes it dangerous.”

“First the Legion, now this?” I rub my forehead with tired fingers. “It has to be connected.”

“Not necessarily,” Lark replies, his tone clipped. “The Legion could be tied to my father. Aviatrix feels like Rourke’s play.”

“But don’t they work together?” I frown, scanning his face for cracks.

Lark lets out a dry, bitter laugh. “My father has, and always will, work alone. If he could’ve run for President and Vice President at the same time, he would’ve.”

I glance back at the screen. “This has to have something to do with female pilots. Aviatrix isn’t a random name. And the aliens… they made contact with me. A female pilot. That’s not coincidence.”

“I know,” he says with a sigh, resting his hand on the back of my chair. “But until we know for sure, we treat them as two separate problems.”

I click through the last few images, half-expecting more grainy photos of hotels and hand-holding, but then something catches my eye.

A picture of Gina and Rourke sitting outside a café in what looks like Brussels, maybe. I zoom in. Frown when I realize there’s something pinned to her lapel… distinctively silver. Wings.

A flight pin.

“Lark,” I whisper. “Did Gina have a flight pin?”

Silence.

I turn.

His face is blank. Too blank. That practiced military mask he wears when he doesn’t want to give something away.

“Lark,” I say sharper now. “Where did she get it from?”

Technically, the only reason Gina would even have one is if she was enlisted aircrew. Or assigned to a special unit with flight training.

Unless Lark is hiding something…

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. That look says everything.

“Are you going to answer me?” I snap.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I saw it once or twice. Assumed it was because she was at a classified site.”

“You never asked why she had it?”

He exhales and rubs the back of his neck. “I did, but she said it was her brother’s. Or her father’s. I didn’t think it mattered enough to commit it to memory.”

“You didn’t think a flight pin mattered?”

“Lots of crew and support personnel have flight pins.”

“A secretary with no prior military rank or record shows up with a flight pin and you don’t think to ask about it?”

We lock eyes. Whatever’s still tethering us—grief, history, something softer—is splintering. Not with a bang, but with a breath, a silence that says we both know it’s coming undone. Like we’re fracturing down the middle under the weight of too many half-truths.

Before I can say more, a chime breaks through the room.