Page 50 of Since She's Been Gone

I still don’t know whether they’re on the plane or not. If they are, they will undoubtedly follow me off. And I only have one goal now—to make it to Paul’s car safely.

I look around, calculating what to do. I decide to follow the mother of the unruly toddler a few rows behind me. I bet she’ll need to make a pit stop with him, and if someone’s following me it’ll be more challenging for them to be inconspicuous around a three-year-old and a young mom.

I remain seated until she and her son make their way into the aisle and then get up and follow them off the plane. Sure enough, she ducks into the first bathroom she passes, pulling the little boy by his hand, who doesn’t want to go inside but relents.

I follow them in and use the stall right next to them. When I finish, I look underneath the divider and see their feet. The boy is whining and protesting using the toilet, until he finally does, and they exit.

We stand side-by-side at a row of sinks. The boy doesn’t want his hands washed and throws another fit, legs and arms everywhere like a belligerent octopus. The mother looks at me apologetically.

“It was a long flight,” she says.

“It was,” I agree.

He won’t comply, so she takes out a small bottle of antibacterial hand sanitizer and squirts a dab of the liquid onto the top of his pointer finger. He starts dabbing the gel on the side of the sink like it’s finger paint until she takes his hand and walks him out of the bathroom.

I follow them to an escalator and stand on the step right behind them as it leads us to the baggage claim area. I don’t have any luggage other than my carry-on, so once I’m downstairs, I scan for the exit and run outside the terminal, searching for Paul’s blue Prius with the license plate number Eddie gave me.

He immediately pulls up, and I breathe a sigh of relief for the first time since I got the threatening text on the plane.

“Beatrice,” he says, rolling down his window.

“That’s me,” I say, quickly jumping into the passenger side.

“It’s so nice to meet you finally,” he says.

He has a clean-cut haircut and a warm smile. I couldn’t be happier to see him. “Same,” I say. “Thanks so much for picking me up.”

“Of course,” he says. “How was your flight?”

I debate whether to tell him about the text and opt not to because there’s no doubt in my mind that if I tell him, he’ll tell Eddie, and the two of them would put the kibosh on what I need to do now that I’m finally in New York.

“It was fine,” I say. “I should text Eddie that you picked me up.”

“Good idea,” he says.

I take out my phone:

I’m with Paul heading back to his place.

Thank you for arranging this. Love you.

He immediately texts me back:

Tell him I say hi.

Be in touch soon, and stay safe.

Love you.

“Eddie says hi,” I tell Paul.

He nods. “When was the last time you were in New York?”

“Eddie didn’t tell you?” I say.

He shakes his head.

“I’ve never been.”

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