by Britney King
Eventually, Dan promised me he’d tell his wife. He said she’d leave him, or vice versa, that we would be together, that everything would be fine. But of course it was all a lie. He was friendly enough when I told him I couldn’t go through with the abortion, but as the weeks went by and I began to show, he began to distance himself.
“I won’t bother you with any of it,” I promised my dad. “I just need to know I have a place to stay until she is born.”
His eyes met mine. “This is your home. You know that.”
Glancing at my father in his La-Z-Boy, I felt exactly as I had as a child, when I’d made a mess, or broken something, or said the wrong thing, or watched the TV with the volume too high. In those days, before she left for good, my mother would rage and yell and slam the front door, leaving my father and me alone. He would call me over to him, set me on his lap, and tell me one of his police stories. One of the good ones, with the happy endings. Afterward, he would smooth my hair and say, “Go clean your room,” or “When she comes back, make sure you say you’re sorry,” and most often, “Just fix it.”
But this time he did not call me into his lap, and he did not smooth my hair. He did not tell me to fix it. He sat and stared at the muted TV, his eyes fixed, his jaw set.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, and just briefly which didn’t happen often, I wished my mother were there. I would have given anything for shouting and slamming doors over the deafening silence.
“I can’t believe you’d give away your own child,” he said, and then he turned the TV up as loud as he could.
Chapter Nine
Charlotte
“What were you thinking?” Henry demands to know the second I step foot on the plane. I have to give credit where credit is due—Henry asks really good questions.
The meeting at Estero was risky. Janine and Richard were not the reason I was in Florida. I considered the risk. I knew there was the chance of ruining things before they had ever gotten off the ground. I knew all of this before we ever landed. I just didn’t think any of it was probable. Plus, I was thinking about other things.
I was thinking about my appearance, wondering if it would be enough to draw him in. I was thinking about how to handle it if I did, understanding I had to be careful.
I was thinking about the consequence if I wasn’t.
This seems like a lot to explain, so when Henry repeats the question again, I simply say, “I’m not sure what you mean.”
Henry’s face darkens, as quickly as a cloud moving in front of the sun. “Your lunch date.”
“That’s not what I’d call a date.”
“Yeah…well—” He nods at my dress. “I beg to differ.”
I smile. I can’t help myself. “You like it?” I ask, striking a bit of a pose. I knew he would. “It’s Zuhair Mur—”
“He had eyes on him, Liv.”
“I know.” Turning away, I give the overhead bin an irritable shake. Lies require noise and misdirection. Silence is the best way to draw the truth to the surface, which is why I leave it at that.
“If you knew…then what in the hell were you doing?”
I turn and smile. “Having fun.”
“My God—I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to say to that.”
I don’t know either. I could tell him he shouldn’t have followed me, but we both know it doesn’t matter, and anyway, this isn’t the point he’s trying to make.
“It wasn’t his security detail,” he tells me with a sigh. “And it wasn’t one of us.”
“So who was it?” I ask, because even if the shoe doesn’t fit, Henry wants you to shrink into it.
His eyes close slowly before opening again. When they do, they pin me in place. It’s as though he is looking straight through me. Finally, he shakes his head. “That,” he says with a mirthless flash of teeth, “is the million-dollar question.”
I start to speak, to say something, to say anything—to prove that this isn’t as big of a deal as he’s making it. But before I can form the words, he steps forward and grabs my wrist, and something in his eyes stops me. That something, whatever it is, reminds me of the Italian with the watch. It takes me back to that first kill, reminding me how easily accidents can happen. It’s all reflected there now, a warning or a premonition, I’m not sure. “It’s dangerous to go digging around in the past, Liv. You know that.”
When I don’t offer the rebuttal he is expecting, Henry raises my wrist, and motions for me to flatten my palm. He slaps his phone into it. “Geoffrey Dunsmore,” he nods. “You might recall—the reason we flew to Fort Lauderdale.”
My eyes shift from Henry’s to the screen. Our passenger, who is inconveniently running late, stares back at me.
I take in the close-set eyes, the oversized nose, and backward smile. Then I glance up at Henry. “I am not as good at forgetting as you might think.”
It’s an olive branch, the photo. “Quite the colorful history, he has.” Henry’s expression and his tone tell me that he’s willing to forget my little excursion, at least for now. They tell me he’s calmed down, that he wants to focus on the job at hand. Henry is a professional, first and foremost. But it’s more than this, I realize. He detests men like Geoffrey Dunsmore.
“The hit,” I say. “Who contracted it?”
Henry avoids my question by leaning down and rubbing at a smudge on a window, which only makes it worse.
The truth is it doesn’t matter. I’m aware of Dunsmore’s history. I’ve read his file. Twice. Child pornography, statutory rape, and enough family money to make those things go away.
Still, this doesn’t dull my curiosity.
When Henry—who has now devoted himself to properly cleaning all of the windows, going from row to row—finally looks up, disappointment is strewn across his face. “You know better than to ask that.”
My brows rise. “Apparently not.”
“Even if I knew—you know I can’t say.”
“Just want to know how far I’m allowed to take things.”
“What does it matter?”
“I’d bet it matters to his victims and their families a lot.”
“Enough with the questions.” He checks his watch and then looks back at me. “You’re hurt. You need to be careful, Liv. Things could have gone really badly today. They still can.”
“I was—I am fine.”
“Last night must have been rough.”
“No—why would you say that?”
“You’re limping.”
“I’m not.”
Henry sighs heavily. “From now on, just stick to the plan, all right?”
The plan is simple: Henry’s job is to slip a little Rohypnol into Dunsmore’s scotch before takeoff. By the time we reach cruising altitude, I’ll slip my gloved hands around his rather large neck and squeeze until his eyes pop, until the blood from biting his tongue creeps out of the side of his mouth, until the life drains from his bones. That’s how Henry pictures it. And me too, to a certain extent. Of course, that isn’t what actually happens.
Chapter Ten
Charlotte
One thing about psychopaths, they’re incredibly perceptive. It’s evident in Geoffrey Dunsmore’s expression as he introduces us to his niece. “This is Clara,” he offers with a vacant look.
He glances over at me. His expression turns curious, and he is very obviously awaiting a response. When it comes in the form of a tight smile, he shifts his attention to the girl. Another thing about psychopaths: they’re like wild animals; it’s important to hold your own. It’s a matter of life and death. And even still, sometimes they win. A thought that is never too far from my mind.
Although we met once, years ago, Geoffrey Dunsmore doesn’t appear to place me. But then, I haven’t positioned myself in a way that he would. While Henry was busy sulking and scrubbing windows, I was working on a transformation of another kind. I shed the wig and the glasses and switched out the green contacts I’d worn to lunch in favor of murky brown ones
. For good measure, I added thick-rimmed glasses, swept my hair up into a French twist and changed into my uniform.
“Nice to meet you, Clara,” Henry says, ushering the girl toward a seat. It gives me the time I need to really take her in. Her hair is disheveled. Not dirty, but not exactly clean either. Her clothes are ill-fitted. Her eyes disclose a fear that is contained.
She offers Henry a nod that is nearly imperceptible.
I place her at about fourteen—older than Hayley, younger than Sophie. It’s hard to tell, especially these days, and to come right out and ask would be taking the kind of risk I can’t afford.
Henry glances over his shoulder toward me. I see instantly what he wants to convey: a warning. Our plan hadn’t accounted for the girl. It shouldn’t be a surprise that Geoffrey Dunsmore has brought a guest along, but it is.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask, my voice a little off, a little too high-pitched, the mother in me coming through loud and clear. None of this goes unnoticed by Henry. His annoyance is written all over his face. “Are you hungry?”
The girl’s eyes flit toward Geoffrey Dunsmore.
“She’ll have water,” he answers. “We’ve just come from a late lunch.”
Taking his seat, he offers a bellied chuckle. “I’ll take a scotch on the rocks.”
As I prepare the drinks, Henry stands at my shoulder, alternating between glaring at me and peering into the cabin. “We can’t take the risk, Charlotte.”
I give him the side eye. Henry never calls me by my real name. Flight attendants should be like strippers he said once, early on. You play a part. The rest, no one needs to know. Later, after I’d officially accepted the role he offered, I understood what he meant. By that point, I realized it was a part of it. He had been warming me up all along. Turning me into what he wanted me to be. Henry has a way of doing that, which is unprecedented. But by then it was too late. I’d already become someone else. Codename: Olivia.
“She’s just a girl,” I say. “I’d hardly call her a risk.”
It’s a lie, and it comes out sounding like one. Henry folds his arms across his chest. “No witnesses—you know that.”
“I’m not letting him off this plane with her.”
He looks at me, appalled. “Then we’ll have to kill them both.”
I force an apologetic grin. “No.”
“She’s going to die either way.”
“I’m not killing the girl,” I say. “And you aren’t either.”
“How do you want to play it?”
“She’s not his niece. You know that. And I know that.”
“We all know that. So what? It changes nothing. She’s a witness at best, a liability at worst.”
“I don’t—”
“You take him,” he quips. “I’ll handle her.”
My palms start to sweat. I think it over and then shake my head.
The captain pops by, and Henry’s nastiness vanishes. Once he leaves, Henry shifts gears and, trying to offer something kind, he leans in, his eyes radiating sympathy. “I’m sorry, Liv. We don’t have a choice.”
Placing the drinks on a tray, I maneuver around him before briefly turning back. Thinking of my father, I say, “We always have a choice.”
Chapter Eleven
Charlotte
We land early enough that I am home in time for the take-out Michael has ordered for dinner. We made good time today, even considering how long it took to get Henry off the plane and safely into bed. Rohypnol is a powerful drug. Good thing I’d only slipped a fraction of the required dose into his coffee.
Something, no doubt, I’ll have to answer for later. Something I’ll deny, but still. I put it on my list of problems I need to figure a solution for. I trust Henry. But not enough to bet my life on it. There are limits, even for me, when it comes to breaking the rules.
In my defense, I wasn’t thinking clearly at the time. Not only was I tired, but I didn’t have all the facts. Henry will see this as weakness, as will the higher-ups, even though that’s not what it was at all.
I didn’t feel up for the extra work that a double kill takes. By the time I was aware we’d be transporting not one, but two passengers, I’d already dosed Henry up. The last thing I wanted was to have to argue about what happened at Estero the entire flight home.
Enclosed spaces and all, we were in a metal capsule hurling through the air. There’s really nowhere to go.
Thankfully, Henry shouldn’t remember too much of the details. His memory will be foggy, and I’ll help fill in the dots. Also, I found out where Dunsmore is staying. Plan B—knowing I’ll get to make a late night excursion helps lift my mood, if only slightly.
This way, I can get both Henry and the agency off my case. When all is said and done, I’ll have taken care of Dunsmore and spared the girl’s life.
I play the scene out in my mind, over Thai food, which I pick at but don’t eat. Looking at my own daughters is distracting. I’m thinking about what that girl is going through when Hayley exclaims she is supposed to take brownies for Home Ec class tomorrow.
I may be preoccupied but not enough to miss how counterintuitive this seems. Michael comments, saying as much. When she claims it’s for a taste test, to see who can tell which brownies are store bought and which are homemade, I know without a doubt that it’s complete and utter bullshit.
“I’ll take her to the store,” Michael offers, sensing my agitation. “But you’re helping with the baking—otherwise I can guarantee the results of that taste test.”
“I was planning to go to the gym. It’s a box recipe,” I say. “How hard could it be?”
He glares at me over his Pad Thai. “Tough day?”
“Just long.”
“Well, at least you have a few days off.”
I rub at my eyes, silently detesting his unwarranted optimism. “Actually, I picked up a flight tomorrow.”
When I look up, his face says everything I need to know, so his words don’t have to.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him staring into my soup. “They’re desperate, Michael.”
He drops his fork and pushes away from the table. “I know the feeling.”
I don’t move to follow him. Space and time are powerful forces and often necessary ones when it comes to getting what you want. I know how this works. I know how he works. Years of experience have to count for something.
I know exactly what will happen later. He’ll offer his version of an apology. He’ll say something simple. Something like, “I know you’re devoted to your job. But we miss you when you’re gone.”
I’ll sigh, sidle up close to him, and respond the way I’m supposed to, even if it’s not the way I actually feel. I’ll tell him I miss him too.
“Do you?” he’ll ask as his hand trails down my back, eventually finding my ass. Maybe he’ll want mercy sex, maybe it’s a sign of submission. But more likely, it’s only packaged that way. He’s asserting himself, claiming both his position and me. I won’t care. I’ll kill it either way.
“You know I hate being away from you and the girls,” I’ll tell him, the lies dripping effortlessly from my lips.
His fingers will relax before stretching out again as he toys with the edge of my panties. For sure, I won’t let the moment go to waste. “I’m sure business will pick up for you in the New Year and then I can cut back.”
His hand will drop, and he’ll tell me we don’t need the money that bad. His lies won’t come so easily.
I’ll pull back and look him in the eye. “I know,” I’ll say. “It’s just…who knows what the economy is going to do? Your work is slow as it is, and I don’t think I could handle another 2008. Could you?”
He won’t be able to argue against uncertainty, so most likely he’ll say nothing. “You do so much for us,” I’ll tell him, knowing I have hit a nerve. My husband does not take rejection well. Never has. Mostly though, he doesn’t like being reminded that we need my income.
I’ll slide my hand up
his shirt. A peace offering, both the gesture and the way my suggestion is posed. “Let me take Hayley.”
He won’t turn me down, which is good, because as it turns out, I have a little catching up to do with my daughter. She doesn’t realize I survey data for a living, that I spend my days deciphering code, reading people, and so when it comes to where my children are concerned, it’s like a walk in the park.
Until it isn’t.
She’s not a good enough liar. Yet.
Chapter Twelve
Charlotte
The brownies aren’t for home economics. They’re for a little twerp named Elliot Brown who talks down to my daughter and frequently requests that she send pictures of her tits. I would kill the little fucker myself but, given what I have on my plate, it might be better to fire off a warning shot than to go full-bore right out of the gate. Some wins take time.
I haven’t a clue what would make my daughter interested in a boy like Elliot Brown, but I know that if this kind of behavior isn’t nipped in the bud straight away, I’m in for a lifetime of blood on my hands.
We’re on aisle ten. I’m looking at laxatives while Hayley furiously taps away at her screen. We’ve already had a fight in the brownie aisle and currently aren’t speaking, but that will just make the discussion on the car ride home that much more enjoyable.
I’m in the process of trying to decide Ex-Lax or Dulcolax when a loud sound causes a jump scare that nearly buckles my knees.
It’s unmistakable. The sound of gunfire. Rapid, unrelenting gunfire.
“Get down!” I command as shots ring out, rendering my voice useless.
Her eyes are wide, but her fingers punch furiously at her phone. She stands frozen. “Oh my God.”
“What are you doing?” I hiss, grabbing her forearm and forcing her to the floor.
