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“Yes,” he snaps, then coughs again. “Yes, Elise. Have it. I’ll get another glass later. I don’t feel well.”
“It’ll be okay. He’s a good pilot.”
He doesn’t answer.
I take the glass out of his hand just as we hit more turbulence. Champagne sloshes. My heart sounds like the thump of an overpowered mixer against a cement bowl. I drain the glass in one. I’d rather not spill champagne all over myself in the middle of a murder.
My dad rests his head on the lambskin leather headrest and closes his eyes, rubbing at his chest with the heel of his hand.
I move my purse to the far side of my body and open it. This is how I usually open it, right? I’m not doing anything different. I steal a glance at him out of the corner of my eye.
His eyes are still closed.
I find the bottle of insulin first. I thought about the pistol, and I thought about poison, but poison seemed more complicated than buying a prescription from a shady doctor. I’m pretty sure my dad didn’t eat from the black tin of mixed nuts before the feds showed up, and I bet he wasn’t in jail long enough to eat. He wouldn’t eat that food, anyway.
So. It’s likely that his blood sugar is already low. Even if it’s not, I’m about to inject enough insulin to send him into insulin shock.
Enough to kill him.
I find the syringe next. It’s oversized to fit the amount of insulin I need. Take the cap off. Pull the syringe all the way back.
His head is turned the other way, just a little, so I seize the moment and take the cap off the bottle. I get the needle through the rubber top and send all the air into the bottle. Then I flip the whole thing upside down and pull the plunger again, filling the syringe.
My stomach knots. I’m so light-headed that dark spots press at the corners of my eyes. This—this is different than shooting him. I have to do this myself. I have to get the needle into his skin and make the injection.
I hate this. I don’t want to do this.
I have to do this.
The champagne taste in my mouth turns bitter.
I have to do this for Gabriel.
Okay. He’s going to be upset. He’s going to call for help.
And…then what? It shouldn’t be long until he’s unconscious. All I have to do is sow confusion until then. Make threats, maybe.
I take a long, deep breath. Please, let it work this time. Please, let me protect Gabriel.
A hand clamps down on my arm.
The hard grip knocks the syringe and the bottle to the floor of the plane. We’re still going up, and I hear it roll backward.
Damnit.
“Dad. What are you—” I look into his face, and it’s…all wrong. Gritted teeth. Huge, wide eyes. His other hand digs into his chest. “Dad?”
He lets out a quiet, agonized grunt, fingers digging into my arm. His mouth opens. I wait for him to shout. To ask for help.
He doesn’t.
Ishould ask for help. I should scream. I can feel it waiting there in my throat. Both my hands shake. My body wants to sprint away from this situation, but there’s nowhere to go.
“Lise.” A whisper. “Elise.”
My dad’s eyes close, and he slumps over the armrest, landing partially in my lap. His grip stays tight on my arm.
There’s time to tell the flight attendant.
