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Lied to the world about our relationship for years.
Nothing stopped her from lying to me about her flight details.
At some point, the two officers who speak to Winnifred step outside, and we are left alone. Her red, bloodshot gaze lifts from the floor. Once she registers me, recognition kicks in. She looks like she’d love nothing more than to club me with one of the empty benches in the waiting room.
“Stop looking at me like a fawn. It’s not them,” I bite out, baring my teeth like a ghastly beast. “They’ve got the wrong people. We’ll be out of here before dawn.”
“You can’t be serious.” She lets out a pained moan. “Do you actually believe it’s an identity mix-up?”
“Yes,” I say tersely. “And I’m not willing to be persuaded otherwise by a fully grown woman wearing a Disney princess dress.”
She turns her head in the opposite direction and closes her eyes, pressing her lips together. Let her hate me. I care only about Grace.
I start pacing. What’s taking them so long? You can’t call people to recognize a body in the middle of the night and then keep them waiting for hours. After fishing my cell phone out, I google private plane crash Teterboro Airport and click on the news tab. There is one lone article about it, vaguely explaining there was a crash during takeoff and that the details are currently being investigated.
The officers return with a sleepy-looking receptionist and the two officers who came with Winnifred.
The four officers ask both of us to step aside with them to try to piece the timeline together.
“Do you know what the plane’s destination was?” asks Officer Damien.
“Zurich,” I say, at the same time Winnifred answers, “Paris.”
I give her a pitiful look. “Not all European capitals are the same, Country Bumpkin.”
It gives me sick pleasure to be cruel to her. I need to let my steam off somewhere, and she is the perfect victim.
“I can confirm the plane was headed to Paris.” Officer Hannah is jotting something on a notepad she is holding, not lifting her gaze from it.
My jaw slackens. Paris? Grace went to Paris? Why?
“How many people were on the plane, as far as you’re aware?” Officer Damien continues, turning his attention to Winnifred, who obviously has more information than I do.
“Three, minimum.” She rubs at her chin, looking wide eyed and lost, like a stunned teenager. “Paul, Gracelynn, and the pilot. Although I suppose there might’ve been a flight attendant or two. And a copilot? Gosh, I know nothing about those things.”
Fuck me. My source of information is currently wearing yellow plastic earrings.
“Is there any more information you can share with us?” Officer Hannah asks.
I stay silent. Whatever is happening, I’m not in the goddamn loop. Now, I’m just waiting for the officers to go away so I can interrogate Dolly Parton Jr. here.
She hesitates before shaking her head. “No. This is all he told me, sorry.”
Officer Hannah looks pained when she asks, “Do you happen to know, Mrs. Ashcroft . . . did they travel for business or . . . um, leisure?”
Closing my eyes, I feel everything inside me collapsing, brick by brick. Everything I built over the years is gone, buried in ashes. The memories. The stolen kisses. The games. The stakes. The winning. All gone.
Winnifred’s voice sounds far away. “I—I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if they were traveling for business or pleasure?” Officer Damien repeats crassly.
“No.”
“I suppose this means you didn’t know that they were traveling together at all, then?”
“Stop that,” Officer Hannah chides under her breath.
“No,” Winnifred says, jutting her chin up, proud despite the ridiculousness of her outfit and this situation and this question. “He didn’t tell me he was traveling with Miss Langston.”
“All right.” Officer Damien bites his inner cheek, frustrated. “Thank you, Mrs. Ashcroft. The good news—if you could call it that—is that the pilot had attempted to land safely in the Hudson, so the bodies are in, er, presentable condition.”
“Fantastic news,” I drawl, unable to stop myself. “So they drowned, didn’t burn up in flames. Makes a world of difference. Country Bumpkin, aren’t you proud your husband’s funeral will be an open-casket event?” I throw her a deplorable smirk.
Winnifred gasps as if I just slapped her.
Officer Hannah puts a hand on Winnifred’s shoulder. “People say terrible things when they’re hurting,” she says to comfort her.
“Oh, saying terrible things is his party trick. It’s got nothing to do with what’s happening here.” Bumpkin side-eyes me.
Finally, Officer Damien gets a phone call, and the officers nod between them. “We’ll be right back.”
They all stride outside, mumbling between themselves, leaving Paul Ashcroft’s wife and me alone.
I turn to her. “You need to tell me everything.”
“Why! Are you talking to little ol’ me?” She stubs her index finger in her chest, putting on her thickest Tennessee accent. “’Cause I don’t know Rome from Reykjavík. So why don’t you take your big, smart brain and giant, intolerable attitude and shove them up your bu—”
