Someone has been asking airport security where to find you.
Those words kept repeating in my mind.
“Who?” I whispered.
Noah hesitated before responding. He looked toward the aisle, where travelers were already stretching their necks to catch a glimpse of him. Two rows ahead, a man acted as though he were fixing his jacket while secretly directing his camera at us.
Noah leaned toward me, speaking so quietly that nobody else could make out his words.
“Do you trust your ex-husband?”
I nearly released a bitter laugh without the slightest trace of amusement.
“No.”
“Then we’re not walking through the main terminal.”
I pulled Lily closer. “I can’t just disappear with you. I don’t even know you.”
His expression grew gentler, although the urgency remained. “You’re right. You don’t. But whoever is looking for you knew your flight, your name, and that you were traveling with a baby. That’s not casual.”
The passengers began filing out. Noah got to his feet and reached toward my diaper bag, but paused, allowing me to decide whether he could take it.
That tiny gesture of consideration—something a man wealthy enough to own much of the city beneath us had no practical need to offer—helped ease the tightness inside me.
I gave him a nod.
He picked up the bag.
As we entered the aisle, the same attendant who had addressed him as Mr. Whitman politely held back two impatient travelers.
“Please remain seated for just a moment.”
A tall woman dressed in black appeared near the aircraft entrance. Her hair was tightly secured in a bun, and her watchful eyes scanned the passengers as though she had already committed their faces to memory.
“Noah,” she said.
“Mara,” he replied. “This is Emily and her daughter, Lily.”
Mara studied me with an expression that wasn’t unfriendly, though it was intensely alert. “Ma’am, a man at arrivals has been asking for you. He claimed there was a custody emergency.”
