Unreliable Witness

by Alana Terry

  But where was her son?

  “West?” Justine tried to yell, but a coughing fit wracked her entire body. What if he’d fallen? What if he’d gotten himself trampled in the swarm of bodies?

  “West!”

  Somebody grabbed her arm. Justine couldn’t see a thing, but the person was leading her away from the throng, toward the thickest of the smoke. Justine tried to fight them off. She needed to find her son, but she was so weak.

  “West?”

  She heard a faint cry and dropped to her knees. Tiny arms reached for her and flung around her neck. He was on the floor, crouching beneath a set of seats. Good boy. She felt his body, trying to assure herself he was safe, and in that moment she understood.

  In the fire, in the chaos, in the terror she’d experienced on this flight, Justine had only one concern. To protect her son. To make sure that no matter what happened to her, West landed in Detroit alive.

  She would have done anything. If General had come at them with the gun, she would have plucked his eyes out with her bare hands if it meant saving her child.

  She wrapped her arms around him, her lungs filled with too much smoke to form the sobs that promised sweet release.

  “We’re going to be okay,” she told him, begging heaven to hear her prayers. “We’re going to be okay.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Carrie stepped into her patient’s room. “Did you press your call light, Alice?” she asked, making her way toward the woman’s bedside.

  Alice’s oxygen canula was a little crooked, and Carrie instinctively reached out to straighten it up. As she did, Alice reached up and took Carrie’s hand, pointing at the TV screen in the room.

  “What’s going on?” the old woman asked in a rattly voice.

  Carrie frowned. She and her colleagues had been watching the news at the nurse’s station as it unfolded. “A plane hijacking,” she answered, reaching for the remote. Her patient didn’t have much time left. From what Carrie suspected, Alice’s body should have given up days earlier. The only thing keeping her alive was the hope of seeing her daughter.

  It was a tragic story, one the nurses all felt keenly. Alice had been incarcerated for the past thirty years, serving a life sentence for murdering her husband. Carrie had gone online to look up the details of the case. Apparently, the murder had been one of Detroit’s greatest scandals of its day, and with good reason. Alice had taken out multiple life policies on her husband, then killed him before trying to flee the country with their child. Alice was a murderer, a felon, and a child kidnapper, and now she was trying to reconnect with the daughter she’d injured in her husband’s fatal attack.

  “Justine’s coming from Boston to visit me,” Alice announced each and every time Carrie came into the room. Carrie just hoped that her daughter knew what she was getting into. It was common knowledge on the hospital floor that Alice would say anything to get people to give her what she wanted.

  Alice continued to stare at the screen even after Carrie had turned off the news. A flight attendant and two passengers had been killed. It wasn’t the kind of story an old woman on palliative care needed to worry about.

  “Was that the flight from Boston?” Alice asked, her voice weak.

  Carrie’s stomach dropped toward the floor. Boston? It couldn’t be the same flight Alice’s daughter was on, could it?

  “I don’t think so,” Carrie replied, but her uncertainty must have been obvious.

  “Turn it back on,” her patient demanded. “I need to see this.”

  “Alice,” Carrie began, her voice softening, “I’m not sure it’s such a good idea to …”

  “Turn it on,” Alice snapped.

  Carrie obeyed. In spite of her patient’s weakness, she thought she detected a hint of the same rage that so long ago had led the woman to cold-blooded murder.

  Now, the news was even worse. A fire on the plane. The video footage panned over a tarmac studded with ambulances and fire trucks.

  “See there,” Alice announced, pointing at the screen. “Flight 219. From Boston. That’s the plane my daughter’s on.”

  Carrie patted the old woman’s shoulder. There was no way that Alice could be certain of the exact flight number, could she?

  “I’m sure it’s something else,” Carrie began, then let her voice trail off. The plane was about to land. Fire and smoke billowed from its back half. Carrie wasn’t even sure how many passengers the medical crews on standby would find alive once it touched down.

  “I don’t think we should watch this anymore,” she said, her voice low.

  Alice didn’t respond.

  CHAPTER 30

  Justine’s body had remained strong and vigilant. She knew that if they survived their landing, the passengers would be even more in a frenzy to get off the plane. She vowed to shield West with her body even if the crowds ended up trampling her to death.

  Anything to save her son.

  The landing was awful. At one point, the plane tilted and threw Justine’s head against the chair in front of her. Still, she held as steady as she could, promising herself and her son and God that she would protect West to her dying breath.

  And then they were on the ground. EMTs and emergency personnel flocked in. “Take my son,” Justine shouted at the first worker she saw. For the first time since the terror began, she allowed herself to willingly be separated from West. Her lungs were stained with smoke. She couldn’t move a single muscle. The only thing that mattered was West was safe.

  Eventually, someone else came and escorted her off the plane. She was so weak she almost had to be carried, and her legs gave out the moment they reached the steady asphalt. Justine scoured the crowds for her son. When she saw him stretched on a gurney being attended to by two paramedics. One of them leaned over and laughed at something West said. Justine let out her choppy breath.

  She had done it.

  She had saved her son. Maybe her husband was right. Maybe God really had been protecting the two of them after all.

  Everything was going to be all right.

  CHAPTER 31

  Justine held her husband’s hand. Ever since he landed in Detroit just a couple hours after she did, he hadn’t left her or West’s side. Even when the federal agents wanted to question her about the events that took place during the skyjacking, Steve refused to separate from her for even a few minutes.

  She was thankful he was here. Glad for his support. Now, two days had passed since she landed in Detroit, but her lungs sometimes still stung from the smoke.

  West was running up and down the hospital hallway. Justine had snapped at him once, but Steve reminded her that there were worse things her kid could be doing than expending a little extra energy.

  Her husband gave her hand a squeeze. “You sure you’re ready to do this?” he asked.

  She nodded. Ready or not, this was why she had flown to Detroit in the first place. If she didn’t carry through, her and West’s traumatic experience would be for nothing at all.

  “Do you want us to come with you?” Steve’s voice was gentle. They’d had this same conversation multiple times before, and each time Justine’s answer was the same.

  “This is something I need to do on my own.”

  Steve gave her hand one last squeeze. “All right. I love you.”

  “I know.” She smiled at him. She and Steve had gone through a lot of changes this past year. Some of them good, some of them terrifying. She didn’t even want to think about what it would be like once they drove home and Justine had to settle back into life as normal. What’s normal after witnessing your son nearly dying in a plane crash?

  She was already replaying all the conversations she’d have with her therapist. She should probably find someone for West to talk to as well. There was no way that kind of fear could be healthy for someone so young to keep bottled up. It wasn’t healthy for anyone, as a matter of fact, no matter what age they were. Justine couldn’t sleep at night wi
thout waking up in cold sweats, her lungs stinging with smoke, her stomach dropping as the plane from her nightmare crashed to the ground.

  Well, maybe it was good news. After all, she and her therapist had spent so much time this past year analyzing Justine’s mother. Maybe it would be nice to have a change. That was one way to look at it, at least. The other way to look at it was Justine had endured more than any human being should ever have to endure. When would God look down and decide she’d had enough?

  “I’m gonna take the kiddo to get donuts from the cafeteria.” Steve spoke quietly, but not quietly enough.

  “Donuts?” West did a complete about-face and sprinted back toward his parents. “Are we getting donuts, Dad?”

  Steve smiled and tussled West’s hair. Justine noticed he’d been touching his son a lot more than normal these past two days.

  Her husband gave her one last kindly gaze. “You ready?” he asked.

  Justine nodded. Ready or not, she was here. She was going to do this.

  She reached her hand to knock gently on the door of her mother’s hospital room, then quietly let herself in.

  CHAPTER 32

  “So she’s been asleep for how long?” Justine asked.

  “Two days,” the nurse answered. She had introduced herself as Carrie, had explained that she’d been Alice’s primary nurse since she arrived here for hospice care.

  “Is it a coma?” Justine stared at the woman on the hospital bed. She looked so frail and weak. There was nothing to indicate that this woman had once been young, beautiful, and murderous.

  Nothing to indicate she’d spent almost the entirely of her adult life behind bars.

  “Not a coma,” Carrie replied. “But she’s very, very tired.”

  “Is she in pain?” There was an inexplicable lump in Justine’s throat, which she did her best to ignore.

  “I don’t think so. In fact, she was pretty restless yesterday, but today she seems so much more at peace.”

  As if on cue, Alice let out a faint sigh. Justine looked, trying to decide if that was a smile on her mother’s face.

  “I think she knows you’re here.”

  Justine had no idea how Carrie could make a presumption like that, but she didn’t want to waste time arguing. No matter how well this nurse claimed to know her mother, the stranger’s presence felt intrusive.

  “Have a seat,” Carrie said, pulling a chair up closer to Alice’s bedside. “You can talk to her. There’s no reason to think she can’t hear you. Just press that call button if you need anything.”

  Justine’s legs trembled slightly as she lowered herself into the chair. She hated that she felt so nervous. It wasn’t as if Alice was going to wake up from her near-coma and try to stab her in the thigh like she had when Justine was just a toddler.

  “One more thing,” Carrie said, reaching for a tattered notebook on Alice’s bedside table.

  She passed the book to Justine, who reached out for it tentatively.

  “Your mother wanted me to give this to you when you got here.”

  “What is it?” Justine asked, uncertain if she wanted to open up the pages.

  “I’m not sure,” Carrie answered. “But it was very important to her to make sure you read it.”

  The nurse left, and as soon as she was gone, Justine wished she’d come back. She had no idea what to do, what to say. Should she tell Alice she was here? Try to hold her mother’s hand? What good would it do if Alice was already unconscious?

  Two days ago, Justine had been terrified of dying and losing her child to terrorists. Now, she was afraid of a little old lady asleep in a hospital bed.

  Justine let out her breath. Well, if she didn’t know what to say, maybe she’d let her mother’s words fill up the silence of her soul. She opened up the notebook, and her hands started to tremble even as she read the first line.

  I didn’t murder my husband. It’s important to explain that from the very beginning.

  Justine flipped ahead, trying to guess just how many pages in this notebook Alice had filled. How long had she been working on it? And was it just for Justine?

  I didn’t murder my husband, Alice repeated on the second line.

  Justine settled in her chair then checked the time. This might turn into a very long day.

  ***

  Thanks for reading Unreliable Witness, book 3 in the Turbulent Skies novella series.

  If you’re ready to jump into more fast-paced, action-packed adventures featuring other characters aboard Flight 219, dive into All That She Saw, book 4 in the Turbulent Skies Christian Thriller series today.

  She's not the woman her husband thinks he married. She didn't intentionally deceive him, but their relationship progressed so quickly. After a whirlwind courtship, Anastasia finds herself the wife of a conservative pastor and stepmother to his four young kids. She looks like the picture-perfect Christian, but she's not who everyone thinks she is.

  Unfortunately, the terror about to befall Flight 219 threatens to reveal Anastasia's darkest past ... even the secrets she'd rather die for than expose. The Turbulent Skies series delivers a string of interconnected novellas about strangers traveling together aboard a doomed flight. Find out why Christian fiction readers can't stop raving about this unforgettable, fast-paced series you can devour in a single sitting.

  Buy All That She Saw for an unforgettable high-altitude adventure full of danger, suspense, and life-changing faith. Keep scrolling for a sneak peek, or if you really can’t wait, download your next binge-read immediately!

  ***

  CHAPTER 1

  I’m not who you think I am. These are the words I rehearse to myself when I board the plane with my husband.

  I’m not who you think I am. I hold little Annie’s hand. She gazes up at me, her eyes wide and full of blissful adoration. She insisted on wearing glittery make-up to the wedding, and the corners of her eyes still sparkle with the tiny incandescent sprinkles.

  I’m not who you think I am. The words catch in my throat. Beat through the four chambers of my heart. Pulse throughout my entire body.

  People stare at us as we board the plane. I need to get used to the constant gawking. This is my life now.

  Russel holds our boarding passes out like they’re a crucifix that’s meant to ward off the devil himself. “Here’s our seats,” he says, indicating two aisles.

  Two aisles. A short courtship (Russel’s word, not mine) plus a 25-minute ceremony, and I’ve gone from being a woman who thrived on personal freedom and independence to this. A wife. A mother. A mother of four young children, to be exact. The kind of woman who wears a head covering and skirt that reaches the floor. The kind of woman with a family that takes up two aisles on an airplane.

  The kind of woman people gawk at while she boards.

  I’m not who you think I am.

  I came so close to telling Russel everything the night before our wedding. He could tell I was nervous. Thought it had more to do with the fact that his wife’s only been dead for six months and not only am I inheriting Sarah’s marriage bed but her entire way of life. The five-hundred square-foot garden. The two separate chicken coops, one for layers, one for meat birds. Up until my first dinner over at Russel’s house, I had no idea there was a difference.

  I’m also inheriting Sarah’s kitchen utensils, her pottery wheel (not that I have a clue how to use it), and her position of first lady at Gospel Kingdom. Funny really, if you were to have known me before I met Russel, to think that I’m now married to a pastor. Especially at a place like Gospel Kingdom. Where they don’t let women wear pants, and skirts must reach past the ankle. I’m not supposed to make much of myself in the sanctuary, but my new husband assures me that if I want to visit with the ladies after the sermon’s over, that would probably be seen as a hospitable gesture.

  I’ve also been informed that Sarah hosted a women’s luncheon at the parsonage every other Wednesday, although the church ladies are g
oing to be kind enough to not expect me to follow in my predecessor’s steps until I’ve had at least a couple more weeks to settle in.

  Of course, after this vacation, the church ladies are planning on throwing me a proper bridal shower. They all want to get to know the woman who stole Pastor Russel’s heart after he was bereaved of his darling wife.

  I’m not who you think I am.

  Russel gestures with his hand, a silent motion telling me to take the seat behind his. He and the two eldest girls will sit in front of us. I let go of Annie’s hand, and she clambers excitedly into the window seat. Andrew, so far the only one of Russel’s kids that hasn’t seemed to instantaneously warm up to me, eyes me warily when I ask him if he wants the middle seat or aisle.

  As it turns out, Andrew only wants the aisle seat if I’m seated in the window. We shuffle everyone around since Annie refuses to sit anywhere that’s not next to me. It’s musical chairs in a three-foot area. Not that I blame my stepson, mind you. How hospitable can you expect a five-year-old to be in a case like this? This little boy is already expected to call me Mom, adjust to an entirely new way of life, and his poor mother isn’t yet cold in her grave. That’s a metaphor, by the way. Russel had Sarah cremated. I should have mentioned her urn in my litany of odds and ends I’ve inherited as Russel’s new wife.

  Sarah’s remains still sit in the greenhouse where she grew her prize-winning tomatoes. Russel assures me he’ll take care of it by spring, but I haven’t asked him what he plans to do with them. Somehow, it doesn’t seem like that’s any of my business.

  I love Russel, I really do. We’re an unlikely pair, even more so if you were to know my entire history. Let’s just say that I didn’t grow up churning butter and wearing head coverings in public (or anywhere at all for that matter).