Chapter 8 - Thirty Thousand Feet Above a Lie
Nothing makes you feel more helpless than being strapped into a seat while strangers decide whether to dismantle your life.
I watched clouds drift beneath the wing and tried to remember the last honest conversation I'd had with my husband. At our anniversary dinner, he'd asked if I'd ever thought of stepping back from Northstar. I told him I wanted to stay until every rural clinic on our route could count on us.
"Always the hero," he'd said, smiling into his wine.
I'd mistaken contempt for teasing.
Nina sat two rows behind me. We weren't hiding from the airline; we were limiting the chance that Carlos could track our conversations. Adrienne was working with the bank's fraud team. June had the company's audit logs locked away.
I opened the notes app and wrote down every detail I could remember: Marta's bare feet on the rug, the sound of the zipper, the time on the clock, the words of the call. At first my hands shook. By the last line, they were steady.
When we landed, my phone erupted with messages. My aunt wanted to know whether I was in jail. A vendor said he'd seen my mug shot online. There was no mug shot; Carlos's cropped airport photo was spreading with a fake caption.
Then came a voice message from a regional clinic manager, Pilar Mendoza.
"Elena, the bank froze our fuel cards. My drivers are sitting outside a hospital with insulin they can't deliver. They think you authorized it. Tell me that's not true."
I called her immediately. "It isn't. Don't let the medicine sit. Use the emergency contract. I'll cover it."
"There's more," Pilar whispered. "Someone told our drivers that if they support you, they'll lose their jobs."
May you like
"Who?"
"Carlos's office. And Elena? A company truck has disappeared with its entire shipment."
