Loop 7
I pull the earbuds from my ears as I stare out the window beside my seat, into the glowing light of the sunset.
Whoa.
I'm shell-shocked from what just happened.
My heart races as I sink into the steady calm of the unassuming plane. I can still feel the sensation of Evelyn tucked against me. My arms wrapped around her, her body against mine, and the residual pressure of our combined weight pressed against the cockpit door. How we clung to each other as the plane fell in a thundering, shaking mass. Down, down, down.
And I can still hear her gut-wrenching screams, echoing in the recesses of my brain. Shaking in my arms, she yelled and cried, as all the fear she'd been holding deep inside came pouring out. I wanted so badly to take all that pain and anguish away. To make everything okay.
But I couldn't.
And I'm still haunted by the blood, by Heather's broken body, by the cold chill of death that hung in the air. By the man standing in the doorframe of the tiny airplane bathroom with a blade in his hand, as he lunged towards Evelyn.
But there's something else. Something more terrifying than all of that combined.
And as the pilot begins his message again, for what's now the seventh time, I sit with that thought, heavy in my mind.
From the very start, I always had a bad feeling about that bathroom. I made no secret of that. Nothing – and I mean, nothing – good could ever come from a mystery bathroom.
And boy was I was right about that.
After Heather closed the overhead bin and Evelyn left to investigate the content of that black duffel bag, I watched Heather walk to the front of the plane. Following her, I ducked into the first row and sat in an empty aisle seat, with a clear view of both Heather and the mystery bathroom.
I watched Heather pick up the intercom cradled against the wall. I leaned forward, straining to hear what she'd say as the white noise howled in my ears like it was pitted against me, trying to cancel out every sound.
She held the intercom close, just above her chin. Her words were quick and low, rushing into the receiver coiled to the wall.
But I managed to hear every word.
"Code 7700, Code 7700!" Heather breathed into the intercom. "Contraband found in row 22."
I jolted in shock. Illegal drugs. So that's what Heather found in that duffel.
I flashed a quick glance behind me to find Evelyn balanced precariously on top of the armrest, reaching for the black bag over her head.
But I couldn't focus on her, because at that very moment, the bathroom door opened.
"Alert the authorities for landing," Heather continued, cupping her hands around the intercom. "Repeat, Code 7700, contraband found."
Then she looked up at the man standing in the doorframe of the lavatory. He heard her, his eyes widening in alarm. One hand circled his watch and next thing I knew, he pulled a blade out of his back pocket. A box cutter of some sort. It wasn't long, but even from where I was sitting, I could tell it was sharp.
I felt the gentle turn of the plane changing directions as shock blanched Heather's face. In the seconds she debated what to do, the man already sprung to action. He reached forward – so fast I could've blinked and missed it – and grabbed Heather by the lapel of her blazer.
And that's when I realized, Evelyn and I had it wrong. Heather didn't walk inside the bathroom. She was pulled inside.
And then the door snapped shut behind her.
I blinked, my mind swimming. What. Just. Happened?
On the opposite end of the cabin, I heard the aftermath of Janelle collapsing as I rose from the seat, knowing this was my chance. I had to get that bathroom door open.
So, I did what Evelyn said to do. I used the trick Heather once told her, by pushing the lavatory sign up and twisting the knob hidden beneath it. My palm, slicked with sweat, gripped the handle and pulled it down.
When the door folded open, I stood frozen to the spot. I couldn't believe what I saw.
And I don't just mean all the blood.
Or that there was a man holding a blade in his hands.
Or the realization that he just killed a flight attendant by slashing her neck.
What was most shocking – which is probably the wrong way to describe it given that everything about the entire scene was the most shocking thing I ever saw in my life. But the most startling, bone-chilling thing of all happened when the man holding the blade suddenly looked up at me.
Realization struck me in that very moment and my stomach fell, like lead, straight to the ground.
I know this guy.
It was the same exact reaction I had when I first saw Janelle Fiori sleeping in the very back row. As I stood facing this man – this murderer – and my eyes traced over the familiar features of his face, I was absolutely certain I'd seen him before.
My head throbbed as I tried to piece it together. Make it make sense, I pleaded with myself as I looked into this man's eyes.
How on earth did I know him?
He must've realized something seemed familiar with me too, or he realized something, because he was also stunned. For a long moment, this man, framed in a room full of blood, just stared at me like he was trying to figure out where I fit. Where I belonged.
And I was doing the exact same thing.
Then Evelyn ran up to us, her arms reaching out to grab me. And when the man who killed Heather saw her, his shocked expression disappeared in an instant, and he lunged at Evelyn.
It all happened so fast, but I remembered my heart leaping into my throat, and the only thing that mattered to me in the entire world was keeping her safe.
Thankfully Mason had lightening fast instincts and stepped in, punching the man, and Evelyn fell into my arms as the plane tilted towards the sea.
But as I leaned into the cockpit door, pressed against the locked hatch with Evelyn curled inside my arms screaming at the top of her lungs, a single thought rested in my mind.
How the hell did I know this man? And how did I know Janelle Fiori?
And then it hit me.
I remembered.