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It’s blissfully quiet for a moment, until Hayley storms in brandishing her phone. “This thing sucks.”
Michael shrugs.
“It’s dead. Again!”
“You have to charge it,” Sophie scoffs. “But you probably forgot that too.”
“I did…jerk.” I watch Hayley as she sits down on a barstool and sulks. “It had like…twenty percent battery!”
When no one responds to her, she tries harder to get the attention she is after. “I keep telling you guys. I need a new one.”
“What you need,” I tell her, “is a job.”
&nb
sp; “All right,” Michael cuts in, sensing WWIII coming on. “Let’s go.” He swoops around the counter and leans in for a peck on my cheek. “Everybody out the door.”
“How am I supposed to get a job? I’m just a kid,” Hayley says shoving her books in her bag, but looking at her now, we both know it isn’t true.
Michael gives me the once-over. “You’ll be back tonight?” I watch as he stuffs his keys and his phone into his pocket. There’s something he’s not saying.
My stomach seizes. “That’s the plan.”
He makes the universal whew sign, placing his hand to his forehead. Eventually, he leans in for another peck. “Good,” he says. “Because I couldn’t do this without you.”
“Nor I you.”
If there’s something he’d wanted to say, he’s changed his mind. He’s all smiles as he heads out the door. Me too, because it’s finally quiet, and I can think about murder.
Chapter Four
Charlotte
You blink and you’re making your descent into Dulles. Blink again and you’re on the runway at McCarren. Blink three times and you’re landing at Teterboro.
You takeoff at Van Nuys, land at Love Field.
Look up and you’re taxiing at Hobby.
That’s life. Always up in the air. That’s certainly how I feel now, trying to get out the door, realizing I forgot to switch the laundry over, and I’m destined to head to the airport in a damp uniform. It’s also where I first encountered Henry Noble. Henry, with his sleepy eyes and stoic demeanor. I was just back from maternity leave—a prolonged leave, but I was back nonetheless. It’s hard to believe that was almost fifteen years ago now—that is, unless I look in the mirror, at which point it’s suddenly evident. There’s little left of the girl I was back then.
In fact, almost nothing at all.
I hadn’t planned to return to work as a flight attendant after Sophie was born. At least, not until the recession hit, and the project list at Michael’s architecture firm went from having a waitlist to drying up completely. I’d thought I might try my hand at writing a novel, or a screenplay, something frivolous. In the end, there was no sense in having two unemployed parents, and so back to the skies I went.
The silver lining was the fact that I’d been offered a sweet little gig with a private charter company. This meant no more commercial flights. More importantly, the charter company paid better. I wouldn’t have to make as many bids. I wouldn’t have to spend so much time away.
I had been back at work for about three weeks when I met Henry on a flight from Bergstrom to Teterboro. We had been transporting a dignitary, I think. Or something of the sort. It’s odd to me that this is the aspect of the job that interests most people. I’ve never really cared. Not even back then. A trip is a trip is a trip. Which is to say, pretty much, they’re all the same.
It wasn’t until our third flight together that I really got the chance to know Henry. We boarded a big plane that day—the more important the passenger, the bigger the jet—but that much probably goes without saying. The crew consisted of the pilot, copilot, and two cabin attendants: Henry and me.
We were in charge of a single passenger, a graying, dark-skinned man with overbearing features and impeccable style. Italian, if I had to guess. This meant there wasn’t a lot to do on the first leg of the flight. Even though I didn’t know much about Henry, I had surmised he wasn’t one for small talk, which I found to be a relief. God knows there is enough of that embedded in the job.
I remember feeling glad I’d thought to bring along a book. I’ve heard it said that nothing is more important than an unread library. I believe it. I counted the minutes until we reached cruising altitude and I could slide that true crime novel from my bag and immerse myself.
Later, as I read, I felt Henry’s eyes on me, more curious than anything. Still, a decision was made. If he interrupted my reading, not only could we not be cordial any longer, I knew I’d spend the rest of the flight plotting his demise.
We were mid-flight, and I was somewhere around page 180 when Henry stood from his seat and made his way up the cabin. Back then I was still fairly green when it came to being a waitress in the sky on private flights, and I recall thinking there must have been something I’d missed. Although Henry and I had agreed to work in shifts, and the first leg was his, there was something in his gait that struck me as odd.
