Chapter 2 - The Manifest of Flight 184
The noise inside the cabin of Flight 184 was the low, collective sigh of two hundred and eighty passengers settling into an eleven-hour transatlantic haul. Overhead bins were slamming shut; air nozzles were hissed to life; the smell of warmed airline meals drifted from the aft galleys.
In seat 34K, next to the small oval window, Brenda Vance adjusted her fake cashmere scarf around her neck.
She was thirty-two, with sharp, narrow features, dark hair dyed a harsh jet black, and pale skin covered in heavy foundation. Her hands—thin, with chipped pink nail polish—were clasped tightly over her leather handbag. Inside that bag was a one-way ticket to London Heathrow, a fresh British work permit for an administrative job at an estate firm in Guildford, and four thousand dollars in cash—the absolute last of her late husband’s liquidated life insurance payout.
She closed her eyes and pressed her head back against the blue fabric headrest.
It’s done, she told herself, her pulse drumming a wild, ragged beat against her ribs. It’s finally done. I gave him three years. I gave those brats three years of my youth. I didn't ask for Julian to get cancer. I didn't ask to get kicked out of Evanston.
She thought of the twins sitting near Gate 26.
She had bought them two oversized sugar cookies from the bakery near Gate 22, dropped them on the metal seats, and told them she was going to the restroom to get paper towels. Then she had walked fast—almost running—straight down the jetbridge, showing her boarding pass to the flight attendant with a bright, tight smile.
They'll find them, she reasoned, her mind working furiously to build a wall of excuses. It’s an airport. It’s full of cameras. State workers will pick them up by midnight. They'll go into a foster family in Dallas. Rich people live in Dallas. They'll get better shoes.
The plane shuddered slightly as the ground crew prepared to disconnect the tow tug. Brenda let out a long, shuddering breath. The cabin lights dimmed for taxiing.
Then, the plane jerked to an unexpected, sharp halt.
A low murmur broke out across the economy cabin. Passengers leaned toward the windows to see if another aircraft was blocking the taxiway.
Ten seconds later, the chime above the cabin door sounded three times—the emergency signal from the flight deck.
The chief flight attendant, a tall woman with grey hair and a crisp navy uniform, unbuckled herself from her jump seat and hurried toward the cockpit door. She disappeared inside for a brief moment before stepping back out, her face pale.
She walked straight to the PA system, picked up the phone, and spoke into the microphone:
“Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the brief delay. Ground control has requested that we return to Gate 26 due to an administrative documentation issue. We should have this resolved shortly. Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened.”
Brenda’s stomach dropped into a cold, dark pit.
Administrative documentation issue? No. That didn't make sense. Her passport was stamped. Her visa was verified at the desk.
She leaned toward the window. Outside, two black-and-white police cruisers with flashing red and blue lights were speeding across the tarmac, their tires spray-painting water from the wet pavement. They pulled to a stop directly beneath the L1 door.
“Oh God,” Brenda whispered, her fingers tearing at the fringe of her scarf. “No. No, no, no.”
She reached up to hit the call button, intending to claim she felt sick, that she needed to get off the plane for medical reasons—anything to slip away into the crowds of the terminal.
Before her finger could touch the yellow light, the forward cabin door swung open with a loud, pneumatic HISS.
Two armed DFW airport police officers stepped onto the carpeted aisle, followed by a tall, striking man in a crisp charcoal suit who looked like he owned the airline.
The senior officer pulled a laminated manifest sheet from his pocket and looked down the center aisle. His voice boomed across the silent cabin:
“Brenda Vance. Seat 34K. Please step forward immediately and bring all personal belongings.”
Every head in rows 30 through 38 turned toward the window.
Brenda sat frozen, her breath caught in her chest, her pale skin turning a mottled, terrifying grey under the harsh overhead reading lights.
“Ms. Vance,” the officer repeated, his boots marching down the narrow aisle until he stopped directly beside her row. “Stand up. Now.”
“I... I don't know what you're talking about,” Brenda stammered, her voice thin and screechy. “I have a valid ticket! I’m catching a connecting train to Guildford!”
Garrett Holloway stepped up behind the officer. He didn't raise his voice. He simply held up the Manila envelope he had pulled from under the airport seat.
“You left this under Gate 26, Brenda,” Garrett said. His dark eyes locked onto hers with a cold, terrifying clarity. “Along with two five-year-olds who think you’re coming back with paper towels.”
A collective, horrified gasp rippled through the surrounding passengers. The man sitting in seat 34J—an elderly British traveler who had been reading a newspaper—instinctively shrank away from Brenda, his face filled with sudden disgust.
“They aren't my children!” Brenda screamed, her composure completely shattering as the officer grabbed her wrist and pulled her out of her seat. “Their father died! I don't owe them anything! You can't force me to take them!”
“No,” Garrett said calmly as the officer snapped silver handcuffs around her wrists behind her back. “Nobody is going to force you to take them. But you’re going to spend the next five to ten years in a Texas state facility learning what felony child endangerment means.”
As the officers dragged the screaming, sobbing woman down the narrow airplane aisle toward the open jetbridge, Garrett stood by the galley door. He took a slow breath, straightened his tie, and looked out at the rainy Texas tarmac.
He had stopped the plane. He had caught the stepmother.
May you like
But as he walked back toward Terminal D, his mind wasn't on Brenda Vance or the criminal charges that were about to tear her life apart.
His mind was on the little girl in the yellow cardigan and the little boy with the brown stuffed dog who was currently fast asleep on his wool coat.
