My fingers trembled slightly as I locked the phone screen, staring at the message sent from that unknown number. The photograph of Ryan outside that Dallas hotel was not just evidence; it was the final missing piece of a life I thought I knew.
Around me, the cleaning crew moved briskly through the aisles, preparing the aircraft for its brief turnaround back to Dallas. The Cancun heat radiated through the jet bridge, heavy and humid, but inside my chest, everything had turned entirely cold.
My colleague Elena stepped into the galley, holding two bottles of water, her eyes searching my face with gentle concern. She had worked international routes with me for four years and knew when my quiet demeanor hid an encroaching storm.
“Val, you look completely drained,” Elena murmured, handing me a chilled bottle. “Is everything all right with that man in 3A? I saw him whispering to you earlier during our descent.”
I took a slow sip, feeling the cold liquid ground my racing pulse before offering a practiced nod. “Just someone from my past, Elena. Nothing that will disrupt my duties on the turnaround flight back home.”
