“You're sure?”
The Black woman smiled faintly.
“Yes.”
That unsettled her more than anger.
The jet began taxiing.
Seatbelt lights illuminated.
Everyone settled.
The Black woman buckled her belt.
The socialite did the same.
Neither spoke until takeoff.
As the aircraft climbed through cloud, Manhattan disappeared beneath them.
The Black woman watched the city vanish.
Her father loved takeoff.
He used to say the first sixty seconds told you everything about whether a crew trusted its aircraft.
He had taught her to listen for engine changes.
To feel vibration.
To notice whether crew members moved calmly.
She had thought it eccentric as a child.
At thirty-two, she understood.
Her father studied systems because systems fail before disasters become obvious.
The socialite lifted her phone.
No signal.
Airborne connectivity would activate in several minutes.
She looked irritated.
The Black woman’s own phone vibrated.
Internal cabin network.
A secure message from her chief counsel.
Need to speak privately. Something changed overnight.
She read it twice.
Then typed:
Conference compartment. Ten minutes.
A second message arrived.
Do not discuss vote in cabin. Meridian may have obtained draft board materials.
Her fingers stopped.
Obtained how?
The vote materials were restricted.
Only directors, senior counsel, and two internal analysts had full access.
She looked toward the socialite.
The woman was staring determinedly out the window now.
Coincidence?
Maybe.
The Black woman had built her career around not confusing suspicion with evidence.
She closed the message.
The flight attendant returned with sparkling water.
“And we have a replacement outfit in the rear suite if you'd like.”
The Black woman smiled.
“Someone planned well.”
“Your assistant stocked several options last week.”
“Of course she did.”
The attendant leaned closer.
“Would you prefer I move the passenger beside you?”
The Black woman considered.
“No.”
The attendant looked surprised.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Let her stay.”
The socialite heard.
Her back stiffened.
The attendant nodded.
“Of course.”
When she left, the socialite said:
“How generous.”
The Black woman sipped water.
“It isn't generosity.”
“What is it?”
“I dislike unfinished conversations.”
The socialite looked toward her.
The Black woman continued.
“Why did you pour the wine?”
“I told you. Accident.”
“No.”
“You can't prove otherwise.”
“Probably not.”
“Then why keep asking?”
“Because lying when proof is unavailable is still lying.”
The socialite’s expression sharpened.
“You think owning an aircraft means you can interrogate people?”
“No.”
“Then stop.”
The Black woman nodded.
“Fine.”
The socialite seemed surprised.
That had been easy.
Too easy.
The Black woman stood.
“Excuse me.”
She walked toward the rear conference compartment.
Her chief counsel was already waiting.
A Black man in his forties with glasses and the permanent expression of someone disappointed by human paperwork.
He shut the door after her.
Then looked at the wine.
“What happened?”
“Hospitality.”
He stared.
“You've been onboard forty minutes.”