PART 2 — THE NAME IN THE FILE
I didn’t know what to say.
For several seconds, all I could hear was the soft hum of the engines and the clink of dishes being cleared in the cabin.
My father was alive.
That was impossible.
My mother had told me he was dead.
Not missing.
Not overseas.
Dead.
A car accident.
That’s what she’d always said.
When I was little, I used to ask why I had never seen his grave.
She’d tell me his ashes had been scattered at sea.
I believed her because children believe the stories adults repeat often enough.
I looked at Mr. Blackwood.
“You’re lying.”
“I expected you to think that.”
“Then why tell me?”
“Because we’re running out of time.”
“Time for what?”
He glanced at the aisle.
A man in a gray jacket was standing near the galley.
Mr. Blackwood lowered his voice.
“Your father discovered a financial operation involving several corporations. Money was being moved through shell companies and hidden accounts. He thought I was responsible.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
“Then who was?”
“My brother.”
I stared at him.
“You have a brother?”
“Had.”
The man’s jaw tightened.
“Daniel died eleven years ago.”
“Then how could he have done it?”
“He didn’t act alone.”
Mr. Blackwood pulled another photograph from the briefcase.
This one showed a group of people at a formal dinner.
There was Daniel Blackwood.
There was Graham.
And there, standing near the center of the room, was a man I recognized.
My mother’s brother.
My Uncle Thomas.
I felt like the cabin had suddenly become too small.
“That’s my uncle.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Your mother knew.”
“She trusted him.”
“She trusted the wrong man.”
Mr. Blackwood opened a thin folder.
On the first page was my mother’s handwriting.
I knew it instantly.
The letters were slanted slightly to the right, and she always made the capital C too large.
I read the first line.
If Mia is reading this, then I am already gone.
My breath caught.
I touched the page.
“Where did you get this?”
“Your mother gave it to me.”
“When?”
“Six months before she died.”
I looked up.
“Then why didn’t you give it to me?”
“Because if I had contacted you earlier, the people watching her would have known where you were.”
I stared at the page again.
There was another line.
Trust Graham Blackwood only if he tells Mia the truth about her father.
I looked at him.
“You knew my father?”
“I knew him very well.”
“What was his name?”
“Ethan Bennett.”
The name sounded strange coming from his mouth.
Almost intimate.
“My father told me he worked in finance.”
“He did.”
“And then he disappeared.”
“No.”
Mr. Blackwood shook his head.
“He ran.”
“Why?”
“Because he realized the people he had been investigating were inside your family.”
My throat tightened.
“My uncle?”
“Yes.”
“What did he do?”
“He was laundering stolen money through charities and medical foundations. Your mother found evidence.”
“My mother worked at a hospital.”
“She found transfers that didn’t belong there.”
Mr. Blackwood pointed at the symbol on the photograph.
“That was the mark used by the people controlling the operation.”
I remembered my mother’s letters.
The symbol.
The warnings.
The strange phone calls.
The nights she used to lock every window twice.
I had always thought she was simply frightened because she was sick.
“What happened to my father?”
Mr. Blackwood was silent.
Then he reached into the briefcase and removed a small envelope.
“Your father is in Boston.”
I stopped breathing.
“You’re sure?”
“I’ve spoken to him.”
My hands began shaking.
“Where?”
“I can’t tell you yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because the man sitting behind you is not a passenger.”
I slowly turned my head.
The man in the gray jacket was now seated two rows back.
He was holding a newspaper.
But he wasn’t reading it.
He was watching us through the reflection of the window.
I turned back.
Mr. Blackwood’s voice was barely audible.
“When you boarded this aircraft, I was told someone might try to take you.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how do you know?”
He looked at me.
“Because someone tried to change your ticket before the flight.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“They wanted you in the very back of the aircraft.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
He glanced at my backpack.
“What did your mother send with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Think carefully.”
I frowned.
“My clothes. My books. My phone.”
“Anything she gave you personally?”
I thought about it.
Then remembered.
A little stuffed rabbit.
My mother had bought it when I was six.
I had almost left it behind because it was old.
But I’d stuffed it into my backpack at the last second.
I pulled it out.
Mr. Blackwood stared at it.
“Where did you get that?”
“My mother.”
He reached toward it.
I pulled it back.
“Don’t.”
He nodded.
“Good.”
Then he whispered:
“Your mother hid something inside it.”
I looked down at the rabbit.
“There is nothing inside.”
“There is.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I put it there.”
I couldn’t speak.
“You?”
“Your mother asked me to.”
I turned the rabbit over.
There was a tiny seam near its back.
I had never noticed it.
“Whatever is inside,” he said, “your father has been trying to recover it for twelve years.”
I opened the seam with trembling fingers.
Inside was a tiny metal key.
And a folded piece of paper.
I unfolded it.
There were only four words.
Locker 217. Central Station.
Then the airplane lights flickered.
The man in the gray jacket stood up.
Mr. Blackwood immediately closed the briefcase.
“Put the key away.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re no longer dealing with a stranger.”
The man started walking toward us.
Mr. Blackwood stood.
“Stay behind me.”
The man reached into his jacket.
And Elena, the flight attendant, screamed.
