“Naomi.”
“Do you know what Bay 14 is?”
Silence.
Not confusion.
Silence.
Naomi stood.
“Ethan.”
His voice changed.
“Where did you hear that?”
The room suddenly felt too small.
“So you do know.”
“Naomi—”
“Do you know?”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes.
There it was.
Another adult pause.
Another hesitation.
Another moment where somebody knew something about her father and had not told her.
“How long?”
Ethan exhaled.
“What exactly do you have?”
“Wrong question.”
“I need to know what was sent to you.”
“How long have you known about Bay 14?”
Another silence.
Naomi’s anger rose.
“Ethan.”
“Since the second investigation.”
She gripped the desk.
“That was twenty-four years ago.”
“I know.”
“And you never told me?”
“Because there was nothing we could prove.”
“What was Bay 14?”
“It was a restricted maintenance position.”
“For what?”
“Aircraft that needed work outside normal line-maintenance documentation.”
Naomi went still.
“That sounds illegal.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Not necessarily?”
“Some modifications were proprietary.”
“Some were security-related.”
“Some involved manufacturer investigations before service bulletins were public.”
“And Flight 608?”
Ethan said nothing.
Naomi whispered:
“Was my father’s aircraft in Bay 14?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Six days before the accident.”
Naomi sat.
The chair felt suddenly necessary.
“For the actuator?”
“No.”
Her pulse accelerated.
“What?”
“An electrical anomaly.”
“What anomaly?”
“Intermittent heat signature near the forward avionics bus.”
Naomi stared at nothing.
The official accident sequence.
She knew it better than almost anyone alive.
Actuator failure.
Hydraulic degradation.
Electrical damage.
Fire.
But the investigation had concluded the electrical fire followed structural and hydraulic damage.
Not preceded it.
Naomi looked toward the maintenance tag again.
“The letter says the fire didn’t begin where the report says.”
Ethan inhaled sharply.
“You received a letter?”
“And a Bay 14 tag.”
“Photograph it.”
“No.”
“Naomi.”