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He looks the part, though. His uniform is as flawless as the inside of the plane. I inhale leather and the light scent of the cleaner the crew uses. My usual seat is on the right side of the plane, next to the window.
I settle into plush leather. In some other life, this could be a regular flight on a private plane. No secret plans. No murders.
My dad takes the seat next to me. He relaxes into it. Shifts around. Relaxes again. Sits up. “These seats aren’t as comfortable as they used to be.”
“No? Mine’s okay.”
He looks over at me, a smile around his eyes. I smile back.
It’s the little-kid version of me who still wants his warmth so badly. I thought I’d left her behind when I moved out and started my bakery, but maybe that’s impossible. Maybe, no matter how old we get, we can still be hurt by our parents. We can still glow inside when they’re proud.
Our flight attendant comes to our seats with a bright smile. “Drinks for either of you before we take off?”
“Champagne. For me and my daughter.”
The attendant nods, her eyes getting that much brighter. “Right away, Mr. Bettencourt.”
On either side of us, the plane’s engines spin to life. The power of them vibrates below us. My heart speeds up along with the engines, but my stomach sinks.
It’s almost time.
The pilot’s voice comes over the address system. “Awaiting final confirmation for takeoff, Mr. Bettencourt.”
“Let’s go,” my father says to the attendant. She moves away from the drink station to give the message to the pilot.
Then we’re moving down the runway.
She brings us our champagne. “Congratulations, Mr. Bettencourt.”
He laughs. “What am I being congratulated for?”
“I assumed there was an occasion.”
The flight attendant winks at him. She actually winks. Then she goes to her seat by the drink station.
“Let’s toast, Daddy.”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
Weclinkour glasses together. I drink half the champagne in one long sip. Scotch would probably be better for murdering my dad. Not that a more sensitive drink pairing is going to make this easier. I just need courage.
And for this light-headed feeling to go away.
The plane lifts off the ground. Gravity pulls my stomach down and down and down, but then we get high enough for it to let up a little.
I drink the rest of the champagne.
We’re in the air now. Killing him is a federal crime. The flight has to be, too. I seriously doubt we have the approval of the FAA. My father’s supposed to be in jail, so…this can’t be sanctioned.
The plane bumps over a pocket of turbulence. I tuck my empty glass into a holder on the side of my seat. My dad’s hand is back on his chest.
He hasn’t had any of his champagne.
After a minute, he blinks, like he’s just noticed the lights. He hits the switch on his armrest. The low lights dim to nothing.
“I’m not—” He holds out his champagne glass. “Finish this, would you, sweetheart?”
“Are you sure?”
