Chapter 4 - The Altitude Drop
The cabin of Flight 1482 seemed to experience a sudden, violent loss of cabin pressure—not from a hull breach, but from the catastrophic, total evacuation of air from Tyler Holloway’s lungs.
Tyler’s polished black oxford shoes skidded across the carpet runner.
His company iPad slipped from his manicured hands.
THUD.
The heavy tablet struck the floorboards, spinning until it came to a rest against the base of my seat.
The blood did not slowly drain from Tyler Holloway’s face; it vanished with concussive, apocalyptic velocity, leaving his skin the exact translucent shade of spoiled milk. His eyes bulged until the dark brown of his irises was swallowed by shattered red veins. His jaw dropped slack, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a dying fish dragged onto a pier.
He looked at me.
Sitting in Seat 28B, wearing an immaculate black cashmere sweater, my dark hair falling over my shoulders, my hazel eyes cold, still, and unblinking as two diamond blades.
Then, his gaze dropped to his right.
To Seat 28C.
Where our seven-year-old son, Mason, sat holding his Crayola drawing of the smiling airplane.
Mason looked straight up into his father’s face.
There was no smile on Mason’s face anymore. There was only the shattered, unhealable heartbreak of a little boy who had just watched his hero murder his own soul.
“D-Dad…?” Mason whispered, his voice trembling through the quiet cabin.
Tyler staggered backward two full paces, his spine slamming violently against the corner of the overhead bin in Row 27!
BANG.
Two passengers in Row 27 jumped in their seats, staring at the four-stripe captain who looked like he had just seen the devil rise through the center aisle.
“A-Audrey…?” Tyler wheezed, the word scraping past his dry, convulsing vocal cords like broken glass.
Cold sweat broke out across his hairline in thick, greasy streams, dripping down his temples onto his crisp white uniform collar:
“Audrey… Mason… what… what are you doing on this plane?!”
I didn't raise my voice.
I didn't flinch.
I reached down with my right hand, picked up his fallen company iPad from the carpet, and held it out toward him between two fingers.
“We came to surprise you, Tyler,” I spoke.
My voice was not loud, but it had that flat, razor-sharp resonance that made the passengers in rows twenty-five through thirty stop breathing entirely.
“Mason wanted to see his dad fly a big one,” I continued, each syllable dropping like an iron weight into the aisle.
“He made a drawing for you. He spent three days coloring the clouds. He thought his daddy was the best pilot in the sky.”
Tyler’s hands began to shake with violent, concussive tremors.
He lunged forward, his voice dropping into a frantic, hyperventilating whisper, reaching toward my arm:
“Audrey… listen to me… oh God, Audrey, please… that announcement… it was a joke! It was an inside joke for the crew! Vanessa is just a colleague—Marcus Vance asked me to help her stage a prank for her social media channel—!”
“A prank, Tyler?” I asked softly.
I pulled out my phone, tapping the screen once.
The high-definition video recording I had captured forty minutes earlier began playing at full volume:
Tyler’s recorded voice echoed through the rear cabin with sickening, crystal-clear fidelity:
“Vanessa, my lawyers drafted the final divorce papers yesterday morning. When we touch down at O'Hare in ninety minutes, I am officially handing my old life over to the past. Will you marry me?”
Tyler stopped breathing.
The passengers in rows twenty-six, twenty-seven, and twenty-nine gasped in horrified, nauseated realization.
An elderly man in Seat 27D leaned out into the aisle, looking at Tyler’s four gold stripes with pure, unadulterated disgust:
“You proposed to your mistress over the passenger speaker while your wife and little boy were sitting in the back row? You absolute bastard.”
Tyler spun around, his face mottling an alarming shade of dark purple, his hands clawing at his uniform lapels:
“Shut your mouth! This is private! Audrey, come to the galley with me right now! We need to talk in private!”
“Do not touch me, Captain Holloway,” I said, my voice dropping into an octave of absolute, terrifying finality.
I pointed toward the front of the aircraft:
“Go back to your cockpit. Finish flying this plane. Because in thirty minutes, you are going to land at Gate B12.”
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A cold, beautiful smile touched my lips:
“And every single person on that ground is waiting for you.”
