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“Enough with the questions.” He checks his watch and then looks back at me. “You’re hurt. You need to be careful, Liv. Things could have gone really badly today. They still can.”
“I was—I am fine.”
“Last night must have been rough.”
“No—why would you say that?”
“You’re limping.”
“I’m not.”
Henry sighs heavily. “From now on, just stick to the plan, all right?”
The plan is simple: Henry’s job is to slip a little Rohypnol into Dunsmore’s scotch before takeoff. By the time we reach cruising altitude, I’ll slip my gloved hands around his rather large neck and squeeze until his eyes pop, until the blood from biting his tongue creeps out of the side of his mouth, until the life drains from his bones. That’s how Henry pictures it. And me too, to a certain extent. Of course, that isn’t what actually happens.
Chapter Ten
Charlotte
One thing about psychopaths, they’re incredibly perceptive. It’s evident in Geoffrey Dunsmore’s expression as he introduces us to his niece. “This is Clara,” he offers with a vacant look.
He glances over at me. His expression turns curious, and he is very obviously awaiting a response. When it comes in the form of a tight smile, he shifts his attention to the girl. Another thing about psychopaths: they’re like wild animals; it’s important to hold your own. It’s a matter of life and death. And even still, sometimes they win. A thought that is never too far from my mind.
Although we met once, years ago, Geoffrey Dunsmore doesn’t appear to place me. But then, I haven’t positioned myself in a way that he would. While Henry was busy sulking and scrubbing windows, I was working on a transformation of another kind. I shed the wig and the glasses and switched out the green contacts I’d worn to lunch in favor of murky brown ones
. For good measure, I added thick-rimmed glasses, swept my hair up into a French twist and changed into my uniform.
“Nice to meet you, Clara,” Henry says, ushering the girl toward a seat. It gives me the time I need to really take her in. Her hair is disheveled. Not dirty, but not exactly clean either. Her clothes are ill-fitted. Her eyes disclose a fear that is contained.
She offers Henry a nod that is nearly imperceptible.
I place her at about fourteen—older than Hayley, younger than Sophie. It’s hard to tell, especially these days, and to come right out and ask would be taking the kind of risk I can’t afford.
Henry glances over his shoulder toward me. I see instantly what he wants to convey: a warning. Our plan hadn’t accounted for the girl. It shouldn’t be a surprise that Geoffrey Dunsmore has brought a guest along, but it is.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask, my voice a little off, a little too high-pitched, the mother in me coming through loud and clear. None of this goes unnoticed by Henry. His annoyance is written all over his face. “Are you hungry?”
The girl’s eyes flit toward Geoffrey Dunsmore.
“She’ll have water,” he answers. “We’ve just come from a late lunch.”
Taking his seat, he offers a bellied chuckle. “I’ll take a scotch on the rocks.”
As I prepare the drinks, Henry stands at my shoulder, alternating between glaring at me and peering into the cabin. “We can’t take the risk, Charlotte.”
I give him the side eye. Henry never calls me by my real name. Flight attendants should be like strippers he said once, early on. You play a part. The rest, no one needs to know. Later, after I’d officially accepted the role he offered, I understood what he meant. By that point, I realized it was a part of it. He had been warming me up all along. Turning me into what he wanted me to be. Henry has a way of doing that, which is unprecedented. But by then it was too late. I’d already become someone else. Codename: Olivia.
“She’s just a girl,” I say. “I’d hardly call her a risk.”
It’s a lie, and it comes out sounding like one. Henry folds his arms across his chest. “No witnesses—you know that.”
“I’m not letting him off this plane with her.”
He looks at me, appalled. “Then we’ll have to kill them both.”
I force an apologetic grin. “No.”
“She’s going to die either way.”
