“But we heard it.”
“I know.”
“Who is Sienna?”
“We’re going to talk about that when we land.”
His eyes filled.
“You know who she is.”
I hesitated.
That hesitation answered him.
“You do.”
“I know her name.”
“How?”
I closed my eyes.
Because suddenly I remembered.
Eight months earlier.
A voicemail.
Adrian had left his phone charging in our kitchen while he was showering.
It rang twice.
Then stopped.
A minute later, the home tablet chimed because his messages were still synced to it.
I glanced over without thinking.
A voicemail transcription appeared.
Adrian, I can’t keep pretending this is fine. You keep saying you’ll deal with it, but I’m tired of waiting for you to tell her. Call me. — Sienna
I had stared at those words.
Adrian came downstairs twenty minutes later.
I showed him.
“Who is Sienna?”
He stopped.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“She works for the airline.”
“What is she waiting for you to tell me?”
He looked at the message.
Then sighed.
“There’s a crew complaint.”
“What kind of crew complaint?”
“She reported a supervisor.”
“I’ve been helping her because she doesn’t trust management.”
“Why are you involved?”
“Because she asked.”
“Why does she care whether you tell me?”
His explanation came quickly.
Too quickly, I realized later.
“She called me at home twice and you were asking questions.”
“I told her I wasn’t going to keep covering for the calls.”
“She’s upset because she thinks everyone is abandoning her.”
I remember staring at him.
“Is there something between you?”
“No.”
Immediate.
Firm.
Almost offended.
“No, Mara.”
I believed him.
Not because the explanation was perfect.
Because we had been married eleven years.
Because he had never given me a concrete reason not to.
Because marriage requires some willingness to believe the person beside you.
Otherwise you become an investigator instead of a spouse.
Sienna’s name disappeared after that.
Or Adrian became better at hiding it.
I did not know which until the flight to Bellhaven.
Caleb squeezed my hand.
“Mom.”
I came back.
“Sorry.”
“Is Dad leaving?”
There are moments when being a parent means swallowing your own panic because the child in front of you cannot survive both theirs and yours.
I turned toward him.
“I don’t know exactly what Dad is planning.”
“He said the marriage is dead.”
His voice broke on the word dead.
I hated Adrian for using it.
Not because our marriage was healthy.
Because Caleb had heard his father describe his family like something already buried.
“Our marriage is an adult issue.”
I said it carefully.
“It is not because of you.”
“Did you know?”
“No.”
That answer came easily.
“No, Caleb. I did not know.”
“Does Dad know we’re here?”
“No.”
Caleb looked toward the front of the plane.
For weeks he had dreamed about the moment Adrian discovered him onboard.
Now he looked frightened by the idea.
“I don’t want to surprise him anymore.”
That nearly broke me.
I took the sketchbook from the seat pocket.
The drawing was still inside.
Adrian beside the ridiculous fourteen-engine airplane.
DAD’S FIRST FLIGHT WITH ME
I closed it.
“Okay.”
“We won’t.”
Caleb wiped his eyes.
“Can we go home?”
“We have to land in Bellhaven first.”
“Then can we go home?”
“Yes.”
I had originally booked our return on Adrian’s later flight.
