The tires of flight four-eighty-two slammed onto runway twenty-eight-center at Chicago O’Hare International Airport with a sharp, screaming screech of smoking rubber:
SCREEECH.
The reverse thrusters roared, decelerating seventy tons of aircraft down the long concrete strip: ROOOOAR.
The aircraft turned off the high-speed taxiway, navigating the labyrinth of yellow guide lines toward Terminal 1, Concourse B.
Over the speakers, Tyler’s voice returned, light, triumphant, and brimming with the effortless joy of a man who believed his escape was complete:
*“Welcome to Chicago, folks, where local time is two-thirty in the afternoon.
On behalf of this entire flight crew, and especially from me and my future bride in seat Two-B, thank you for sharing this unforgettable journey with us.
Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened until the captain has turned off the Fasten Seatbelt sign.
Have a wonderful stay in Chicago, or wherever your final travels take you.”*
The bell chimed: ding.
The seatbelt sign flicked off.
Instantly, one hundred and eighty passengers stood up in the aisles, opening overhead bins, retrieving luggage, and chatting happily about weekend plans.
I unbuckled Mason’s seatbelt.
I took his small, cold hand in mine.
We didn’t rush.
We didn’t push through the crowd.
We waited in row twenty-four until the rear cabin emptied, slowly walking down the long carpeted aisle toward the front galley.
As we stepped through the curtain dividing Economy from First Class, the scene in row two was in full, triumphant bloom.
Vanessa Sterling was standing in the aisle, wearing an eight-thousand-dollar cream-colored cashmere traveling coat over a crimson silk blouse, her platinum-blonde hair styled in loose, expensive waves, holding an open flute of champagne in one hand.
On the fourth finger of her left hand blazed a five-carat, emerald-cut diamond ring that caught the recessed cabin downlights in blinding, prismatic daggers of fire.
