AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Don’t we have to talk to the police?” I asked. “Write a report?”
This time it was Henry’s turn to laugh. “Why would we? There’s no record of him having been on this plane.”
“I see.”
“I’ve been watching you,” Henry said with conviction. It was the first time I considered that he might actually be serious.
“You’ve only known me a few weeks.”
“That’s what you think.”
“What does that mean?” Who are you?
“You’ve been on our radar.”
“You’re going to have to speak English. Because I don’t understand.”
“We make it a point to look for people like you.”
“You have a thing for new moms?” I said flippantly, instantly regretting it. It was the first time since Sophie’s birth, maybe ever, that I had the sensation of what it might be like to have to— to want to—protect someone else.
“That is unfortunate, the child,” Henry answered solemnly. “But also leverage.”
He was right. I understood then. He knew more than I thought.
“You and I,” he said, motioning between us. “We come from vastly different backgrounds, I know. But the common denominators are a keen eye when it comes to observing human nature and a conviction that justice is rarely served in a way that makes a difference to the wronged.”
“Oh good,” I remarked. “A philosopher.”
“Call it what you want. It’s what I’ve learned from observing you.”
“Observations can be wrong.”
“Maybe. But I recognize the look in your eye. And I know what it means.”
“What’s that?”
“Well…let’s see. Age twenty-one. Married. One child. Homeowner. Average debt—at least by American standards. Unemployed husband. Marginally desperate.”
“Any street corner palm reader worth their salt could have come up with that.”
His eyes shifted downward. “Your mother cut out on you early. You hate weak people. Your dad was a cop. And you share his penchant for seeing justice served.”
“Justice—” I said, thinking he had no idea what he was talking about. “That’s interesting. Justice for who?”
Henry laughed knowingly. “No rush. We’ll get to that.”
“I’m sure of it.” I plopped down into a seat on the aisle.
“Anyway, point is,” he said, taking the seat adjacent to mine. “You have talent. You can shoot. And you spent twelve years in martial arts.”
“More like after school care.”
“You really shouldn’t downplay your skillset, Charlotte. It goes against your diagnosis.”
“I don’t have a diagnosis.”
“Perhaps not,” he replied, his voice low. He glanced out the window, his eyes focused on the tarmac. “But you’ve killed before. As a matter of fact, you killed your college sweetheart a few years ago, although that wasn’t the last time, was it?” Before I could respond he looked back at me. “And the most notable thing about it is you didn’t get caught.”
