Chapter 4

The curtain between first class and economy was thicker than it looked. Nadia pushed through it and stopped.

The cabin behind it was a different country. The lights were harsher, the seats narrower, the air thicker. A baby was crying somewhere near the back. A man in a wrinkled suit was asleep with his mouth open. The overhead bins were stuffed with bags in ways the first-class bins never were.

She scanned the rows. The middle seats. She was looking for a broad-shouldered man in a black turtleneck, a gray-flecked beard, a mourning band on his cuff.

She didn't find him.

She walked down the aisle, keeping one hand on the seat backs to steady herself. Row 12. Row 14. Row 18. No Owen. No black turtleneck. No gray beard.

She reached the last row. The lavatory light was on. The seat beside it — 24B — was empty. The tray table was still down, folded up only halfway. As if someone had left in a hurry.

Nadia stood there for a long moment, breathing shallowly.

He was gone. He had given up his seat, walked to the back of the plane, and then, when landing was near, stood up and slipped forward or back — somewhere — to avoid her.