“No.”
“Why?”
“Because every time someone in this story says ‘send me what you have,’ another layer disappears behind lawyers.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No?”
She stood again.
“You knew my father’s aircraft went into a restricted maintenance bay and never told me.”
“I told federal investigators.”
“Did they investigate it?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“They found nothing conclusive.”
“Nothing?”
“Records were incomplete.”
“Convenient.”
Ethan’s voice hardened.
“Do not confuse me with the people who hid the original maintenance recording.”
Naomi stopped.
He was right.
That did not make her less angry.
She softened slightly.
“I know.”
Ethan continued.
“I pushed Bay 14 hard.”
“Why?”
“Because Marcus mentioned an electrical smell.”
Naomi froze.
“When?”
“The morning of the accident.”
“You never told me that.”
“He mentioned it casually.”
“What did he say?”
Ethan searched memory.
“He asked whether I smelled hot insulation near the forward galley.”
“And did you?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“He said maintenance had checked it.”
“That was it.”
Naomi sat again.
Her father had noticed another problem.
Again.
A machine speaking.
Again.
Someone reassuring him.
Again.
He flew.
She looked at the letter.
“Come to Chicago.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“I’m in Denver.”
“Then get on a plane.”
Ethan gave a tired laugh.
“You still order captains around like your father.”
“I’m not asking.”
“I noticed.”
He arrived that night.
Older.
Much older than Naomi sometimes remembered him.
His hair was white now.
His shoulders slightly rounded.
But his eyes remained the same.
He placed his coat over the chair in Naomi’s apartment.
She handed him the maintenance tag inside a clear evidence sleeve.
Ethan stared.
“That’s real.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“The tag format.”
“The punch marks.”
“Bay 14 used metal tags because adhesive labels failed near heat-test equipment.”
Naomi watched his face.
“Why would somebody keep this?”
“No idea.”
She handed him the letter.