great deal—but…” She makes a small but deliberate movement with the book in her hands, and I take the hint.
On my way to the galley, I’m stopped by a passenger at the back of business class who snaps his fingers at me, his eyes still on his screen. He’s playing a game, one of those mindless stacking puzzles that gets faster with each level.
“Coffee,” he says.
I leave a pause before saying, “Of course,” in the hope of extracting a please, but it goes unnoticed. In the galley, Erik and Carmel break off from their conversation, and as I make my passenger’s drink, I have the distinct impression I’ve interrupted something.
I return to the cabin. “Your coffee, sir.” I smile as I deliver it, then stand as if I’m waiting for a tip. He’s tall and blond, with a face full of angles, as though each part has been carved separately then slotted together. “You’re most welcome.”
The man’s jaw tightens.
“Really,” I say as I walk away. “It’s my pleasure.”
In the galley, I catch another look between Carmel and Erik. “Is there a problem?”
“It’s nothing,” Carmel says. Erik snorts, and I stare him down.
He doesn’t flinch. “Is it okay, that coffee? Did you manage to make it? Because it seems you don’t have so much practice.”
“What?” I’m too taken aback to form a proper sentence.
“Carmel and I, we have done everything. Meals, drinks, cleaning the bathrooms. You are doing nothing!”
“Erik, don’t. The passengers will hear.” Carmel looks nervously toward the cabin.
“I’m sorry.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the telltale sting of tears. “I’m just tired.”
“We are all—”
I thrust my hand in my pocket, tearing out the photograph of Sophia and holding it with shaky hands, but before I can say anything, Carmel has wrapped her arms around me and is squeezing me tight.
“Oh, bless you. You must miss her. Is she with her daddy? They’ll be having a lovely time, I bet you. She’s probably hardly noticed you’ve gone. You know what they’re like.” Over Carmel’s shoulder, I see Erik roll his eyes before leaving the galley. Carmel releases me, taking the photograph and saying, “Aww,” before folding it carefully and tucking it back in my pocket. “Lovely to keep her with you like that. Come on. Let’s get you a glass of water.” She keeps talking, as though I’m a child myself. “Is it the menopause? Mum says she’s a slave to her hormones.”
“I’m thirty-four!”
“Does that mean it is?”
“No, Carmel, it’s not the menopause.”
“Well, you just stay here. We can handle the cabin. Make yourself a nice cup of tea.”
I see my reflection in the window, its edges ragged and indistinct, and picture someone standing by Sophia’s school, a camera raised to the glass. My head is filled with white noise, but it isn’t enough to block out my thoughts.
I shouldn’t be here.
Carmel and Erik are clearing the cabin, trays piled high with glasses and dirty napkins. Carmel sweeps through, dumping her tray on the side, and I make my feet move toward it, dividing the rubbish, the dirty cutlery. Erik brings a tray, and then Carmel another, and I’m separating the linen when I see an envelope, half hidden beneath a napkin. It’s light blue, like an old-fashioned airmail letter, with a single word, written in ink.
Mina.
“What’s this?” I hold it up.
My efforts to help with the clearing have failed to placate Erik, who stares at me. “It is an envelope.”
“Perhaps it’s a tip,” Carmel says.
Erik snorts. “For doing what?”
“From who?” I say urgently.
They both shrug, Carmel looking helplessly at the pile of rubbish they’ve cleared from the cabin. It could have come from anyone.
“Maybe it’s a love letter!” Carmel says. “If it’s from the guy in 5F, I’ll be green with envy—he’s lush.”
“If it is a tip, you must share it.”
The walls of the plane curve around me as if they’re crushing me, my lungs too tight, my rib cage too small. I push past Carmel to the bathroom, locking the door and pressing my back against it as I tear open the envelope. Inside is a single sheet of paper, the same navy ink running in neat handwriting across the page.
I read the first line, and my world shatters.
The following instructions will save your daughter’s life.
EIGHTEEN
PASSENGER 8C
My name is Peter Hopkins, and I’m a passenger on Flight 79.
Almost as soon as we’d taken off, people started moaning about the legroom. The woman next to me put her seat back, only to be kicked in the