The officer looked up.
Avery said:
“Language.”
Nicholas stared at the swelling near her temple.
“You were hit with a glass and you're policing my language?”
“Yes.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Mostly.”
Nicholas sat.
The officer completed the statement and left.
The door closed.
Nicholas said:
“Margaret Whitfield.”
Avery nodded.
“You know her?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Her husband’s company supplies premium cabin amenities.”
Avery stared.
“Excuse me?”
“Whitfield Hospitality.”
“I know Whitfield Hospitality.”
“They've had the contract six years.”
“I know.”
Nicholas understood the question.
“You mean do I know her personally?”
“Yes.”
“Barely.”
“Bradley?”
Nicholas paused.
“What about him?”
“She called him from the plane.”
Nicholas’s expression tightened.
“How do you know?”
“She announced it.”
Avery reached for her notebook.
“Melissa says there are executive-protection profiles that override routine passenger-service decisions.”
Nicholas frowned.
“I've never authorized that.”
“Neither have I.”
“Bradley would not have authority to override safety policy.”
“Apparently someone believes he does.”
Nicholas leaned back.
“Shit.”
“Again. Language.”
He looked at her.
“Avery.”
She almost smiled.
Then became serious.
“Freeze the Whitfield account.”
“Done.”
“Freeze Bradley’s credentials.”
Nicholas stared.
“Before interview?”
“Not employment.”
“System access.”
“Why?”
“Because if nothing is wrong, he loses six hours of email.”
“And if something is wrong?”
“He loses six hours to destroy it.”
Nicholas pulled out his phone.
“Already done.”
That was why they had worked together eleven years.
Bradley Walsh learned about the freeze at 6:43.
By 6:44, he had called Nicholas twice.
By 6:46, corporate security logged three failed attempts from Bradley’s personal device to access archived VIP files.
That told Avery more than any interview could have.
Flight 417 finally departed at 7:21 p.m., ninety-nine minutes late.
Avery did not take 2A.
She gave it to a ninety-year-old passenger whose connection had become uncertain because of the delay.
Avery sat in 3D.
Margaret’s original seat.
Melissa approached before departure.
“Champagne?”
Avery looked at the glass.
Both women paused.
Then started laughing.
Not because the incident was funny.
Because sometimes human beings needed the absurdity of timing.
“Water.”
“Excellent choice.”
Melissa smiled.
The cabin door closed.
The aircraft pushed back.
As Atlanta’s runway lights moved past the window, Avery opened her notebook.
She expected to write about seat assignments.
Instead she wrote:
The problem is not that she didn't know who I was.
Then beneath it:
The problem is that she believed she knew who I wasn't.
She underlined the sentence.
Then added:
Find out who taught the company to agree with her.
By the time Flight 417 landed in New York, corporate security had discovered the first file.
It was labeled: