Page 17 of Aftermath
I already knew where things were heading. It was a matter of if it was worth my time to pursue the argument. I sighed and gave in.
“I don’t see the point,” she went on. “I’m still using it. Where am I going to put all of this?”
She waved to all the clutter she’d managed to compile on the flight. I saw one of two routes: let the flight attendant deal with it or save her the hassle and explain myself.
“An emergency is most likely to occur during take-off or landing,” I started.
The woman’s brows shot up. Her mouth started to open, but I continued.
“If your tray remains down, it obstructs your path to make an emergency evacuation. Time could be crucial if we were to make an emergency water landing. Do you truly want to be stuck on this plane with me because we couldn’t get by your tray?” I asked.
She started to answer but closed her lips, pulling them tight.
She brushed all her belongings off the tray and locked it up in place.
I tried to hide the growing smirk on my face. I couldn’t help myself. Her face had turned a shade paler at the mentioning of an ocean landing, and I failed to mention the statistics of it happening were likely far from ever being a concern for her.
Maybe it will save the flight attendant the hassle on her next flight.
I watched out the window, spotting the Atlantic Ocean beneath us.
The waves lapped against the shore, and the boats looked like small bugs floating on water, yet it felt like any moment, the plane would connect with the ground. Even my own logic couldn’t comprehend the feeling.
Within five minutes, we landed in Portland, and I found myself pushed back against the seat as the plane braked. I held tight to the arm rests and watched the woman beside me squeeze the neck pillow she held in her lap, wide eyed.
The plane slowed, and the pilot came over the loudspeaker to announce our welcome to Maine. I couldn’t see much beyond the airport outside the plane window, but I was eager to catch a glimpse at the New England coast. I’d seen Boston and even other smaller portions of the area, but this was the first my time at the FBI had brought me to Maine.
The largest producer of lobster, a popular vacation spot in the summer, and a perfect winter resort for skiers. The facts raced through my mind from the research I’d conducted on my taxi ride to the airport.
I sat close to the front of the plane, and the moment the seatbelt sign turned off, I unbuckled myself and grabbed the leather satchel beneath the seat in front of me. Our portion of the plane was the first to make our way into the aisle.
I deboarded the plan and hurried my way to baggage claim to find my suitcase and the firearm case I’d checked.
* * *
I pulled the rental car down a narrow road surrounded by thick pine trees, the pavement covered in dirt and rarely traveled. The house I rented was on the outskirts of Briarport, and the map had shown little surrounding the place. I read each and every one of the reviews, and most said the same thing.
Clean space, great views, and private.
Privacy was my main concern.
If I was going to be working on an active cold case, I needed a space quiet enough to concentrate and secluded enough so I wouldn’t be bothered by outside distractions.
The road went on for a few miles before it turned into a long, curved bend and the pavement slowly shifted to solely dirt. The trees became sparse, and I could see the single building on a hill at the end of the road.
The light grey house with a white porch was surrounded by a bright, colorful garden, the flowers all in full bloom for summer. The closer I approached, I could see the ocean just beyond the hill the house was perched on. I knew from the listing the back side of the house was solely a rocky cliff with the water as a neighbor.
I parked the car in the single spot driveway close to the house. My suitcase and other belongings were in the backseat, and as I pulled them out, I could hear the crash of waves.
I couldn’t help myself and left the items at the start of the front walkway, abandoning them to venture into the backyard. A short, white fence lined the edge where the plush grass turned to rigid stone.
The breeze from the ocean below brushed against my skin the closer I moved. I inhaled deeply, taking in the salty smell and letting it remind me of the pacific coast I grew up near. With my eyes closed, I could almost picture home while I leaned against the fence.
“Hey, neighbor,” a deep voice called.
I startled and let go of the fence, pulling myself away from the edge.
The three miles exact I’d calculated between myself and the nearest house by road was apparently not enough.
