Chapter 2 - THE OBJECT BENEATH 11B
The first ten minutes of the flight were ordinary.
That was what frightened Claire afterward.
There had been no dramatic warning.
No suspicious announcement.
No sudden change in Margaret’s behavior.
Only the familiar vibration of engines and the soft pressure of acceleration as Flight 417 rose above Colorado.
Claire watched Emma through the gap between seats.
Her daughter stared out the window.
Margaret occupied the middle seat but behaved as though the entire row belonged to her.
Once the seatbelt sign disappeared, she opened her tray table and placed a bottle of water on it.
Then she stretched both legs across Emma’s extra space.
Emma shifted closer to the window.
Claire’s jaw tightened.
She reached toward her seatbelt.
The woman beside her noticed.
“You want me to get the flight attendant?”
Claire hesitated.
“No. I’ll handle it.”
But before she could stand, Emma did.
The girl looked down at Margaret.
“I tried to warn you.”
Margaret frowned.
“About what?”
Emma reached between the seats.
Her fingers disappeared near the floor.
Margaret’s expression changed.
It happened so quickly Claire almost missed it.
A flash of fear.
Emma pulled out the black leather wallet.
Margaret lunged.
“Give me that.”
Emma stepped into the aisle.
Passengers looked up.
Claire was already moving.
The flight attendant arrived at the same time.
“What’s going on?”
“She stole something from me,” Margaret snapped.
Emma shook her head.
“No. She was sitting on it.”
“Give it here.”
The flight attendant held out her hand.
Emma surrendered the wallet.
Margaret became frantic.
“You have no right to open that.”
The attendant looked at her.
“If it belongs to you, you can identify what’s inside.”
Margaret hesitated.
The cabin changed around them.
People could sense something was wrong.
Claire reached Emma.
“What happened?”
Emma pointed at Margaret.
“She was hiding it.”
The flight attendant opened the wallet.
Claire saw silver.
Then a photograph.
Then the name.
DANIEL WHITMORE.
The air left her lungs.
She took the credential.
The edges were worn.
Daniel’s photograph showed him wearing a dark suit.
His hair was shorter than when Claire had known him.
His expression was serious.
The issue date was eighteen months earlier.
Claire stared at it.
Daniel had never worked for the federal government.
At least that was what he had told her.
He had worked as a logistics consultant.
He traveled frequently.
He had clients in Seattle, Chicago, Washington, and Atlanta.
Or so she had believed.
“Mrs. Whitmore?”
Claire looked up.
The flight attendant was watching her.
“That’s my husband.”
Margaret closed her eyes.
Claire continued.
“He’s dead.”
Silence.
The passenger in 10C slowly turned around.
“What agency is that?”
The attendant looked again.
Claire saw three letters stamped beneath an eagle.
DIA.
Not the Defense Intelligence Agency.
Something else.
A division Claire had never heard of.
The Department of Internal Analysis.
The flight attendant touched her headset.
“I need the purser.”
Margaret suddenly stood.
“I need the bathroom.”
“You need to remain seated.”
“You can’t hold me here.”
“Please sit down.”
Margaret shoved her tray table upward.
Emma backed away.
Claire moved between them.
“Who are you?”
Margaret looked at her.
For the first time, Claire saw something beyond entitlement.
She saw calculation.
“I told you. Margaret Collins.”
“How do you have Daniel’s identification?”
“I don’t.”
“You were sitting on it.”
“Someone planted it.”
“Who?”
Margaret laughed.
“How would I know?”
Emma spoke quietly.
“There’s an envelope too.”
Margaret’s face collapsed.
The flight attendant retrieved it.
FOR CLAIRE WHITMORE.
Red evidence tape sealed the flap.
The cabin supervisor arrived.
One look at the credential was enough.
“Captain needs to know.”
Margaret grabbed her wrist.
“Don’t.”
The supervisor pulled away.
Margaret stared at Claire.
“You have no idea what you’re doing.”
Claire moved closer.
“Neither did you when you took my daughter’s seat.”
Margaret’s eyes flicked toward Emma.
Then Oliver.
A strange sadness appeared.
“He was never supposed to be here.”
Claire went still.
“Who?”
Margaret looked at the baby.
“Oliver.”
The infant stirred.
Claire covered his head protectively.
“How do you know my son’s name?”
Margaret said nothing.
The attendant spoke into the cabin phone.
Two minutes later, the captain locked the cockpit door.
May you like
Five minutes later, Flight 417 changed course.
They were no longer flying to Washington.
