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The officers wait for me in the reception area. It’s a small blue-green room, with a row of simple benches. The air-con is on blast. The walls are littered with plastic holders offering brochures about group therapy and funeral homes and casket makers. Zero points for subtlety.
“Was the drive here okay?” Officer Hannah asks sympathetically.
“A fucking delight.” I pocket my car keys. “Let’s get it over with. You have the wrong person, and I’ve no time for this bull crap.”
Her concerned, poor-you frown doesn’t waver. “So here’s what we know so far. Miss Langston’s private plane left Teterboro Airport at quarter past midnight this Friday—”
“See?” I sneer. “You’ve got your facts wrong. Grace boarded a United Airlines flight to Zurich. UA2988. She flew out of Newark. Jesus Christ, I can’t believe my hard-earned tax money is wasted on you and your likes.”
Officer Hannah’s face twists, like I’m beating each word into her skin. Officer Damien remains calm, his expression unreadable, but he does write things down in a stupid little notebook.
Nice journal you have there, Gossip Girl.
“I understand this may be the information you have—” she starts.
“This is not a matter of opinion,” I say sharply, losing all traces of decorum. “It’s the truth. There was a computer mix-up or something. Grace flew commercial out of Newark. Check again.”
“We were able to recover her passport.” Officer Hannah clears her throat, her eyes meeting mine for the first time.
I’m rendered speechless. It can’t be. Why would Grace lie about flying private?
Is it possible they got a perk this time around and she forgot to tell me? Unlikely, but not completely impossible.
I shake my head. “What about Chip Breslin? Paul Ashcroft? Pablo Villegas? Were they on the plane too?”
The two officers exchange glances. I want to grab them by the collar and shake the information out of them.
Suddenly, I’m on the brink of laughter. This is ridiculous. It is the kind of thing that happens to other people. People you read about in the newspapers. People who go on talk shows. Write heart-wrenching autobiographies. Not me. Not. Me.
“Look, Mr. Corbin, I understand you’re upset. However, we—” Officer Damien starts.
The automatic doors behind us slide open. A small woman blazes inside. She’s wearing a brown wig, a puffy yellow dress with a hoop, elbow-high satin gloves, and heavy makeup.
Because my life is not bizarre enough as it is tonight.
“Lord! Tell me it ain’t true!” the strange woman wails in a southern accent.
Winnifred.
She either came straight from the theater or developed an extremely questionable fashion sense between Italy and now.
Her trim waistline doesn’t scream pregnancy. I’d forgotten to ask Grace if she was knocked up. It seemed of no importance at the time, when we were neck deep in wedding preparations.
Now I’d never get the chance to ask Grace about the unlikely Ashcroft couple.
Never get the chance to do a lot of things with her.
“Where is he?” Winnifred demands, looking left and right frantically. “I need to see him!”
Two officers rush toward her, trying to calm her down.
Grace went to Zurich with Paul. Well, that makes sense. He was her boss.
“I’m going to see if they can accept you now.” Officer Hannah rests her hand on my arm. “I can’t find the receptionist, but someone should be here to help us. Officer Damien went to see if we could get the dental records of those who were on the flight. We’ll be right back, Mr. Corbin. Please wait here.”
The words brush past me. I’m more focused on Winnifred, who looks like the human answer to a dumpster fire, tears running down her face, leaving pale streaks of makeup. She is speaking to two officers. Maybe they have more information than the two clowns who knocked on my door. I strain my ears, piecing together parts of the conversation.
“. . . private plane . . . certified pilot . . . a seasoned professional . . .”
“. . . preflight inspection . . . poor tire condition . . . bear no legal responsibility, but a lawyer will be able to tell you more . . .”
“. . . no one is certain . . . these things unfortunately happen . . . anyone you’d like to call?”
Sharp, intense agony slices through me for the first time since this shit show unfolded. The prospect is becoming real, and with it, the consequences of losing the only person in this world I truly care about.
Everything I didn’t feel when Douglas died—the sorrow, the pain, the helplessness—is now cutting my inner organs into thin ribbons. I want to get closer, to hear everything. At the same time, I want everyone to shut the hell up. For this nightmare to go away.
Grace, enchanting as she is, isn’t the most trustworthy person on planet Earth.
She lied to our parents about me.
