Trouble
A couple of months ago
Another hour or so and I’d be safe, leaving Seattle behind forever.
As I walked through patches of golden sunshine at Sea-Tac, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.
Every step through the airport’s sprawling concourse echoed louder, every glance from a passerby seeming prolonged.
I was just another traveler, but today, anonymity felt like a fragile mask.
With a shiver, I pulled my ballcap lower over my eyes.
My spinner suitcase rolled quietly on the terrazzo floors, hauled effortlessly toward the security checkpoint. Seattle had been my home for a while, but now it felt like a prison. I was so close to freedom, though. I couldn’t let anything—or anyone—stop me now.
For a moment, I took off my oversize shades and absorbed the unaltered colors of the magnificent morning, but then I put them back on.
They were a small price to pay for staying unnoticed, together with my hair clumped in a low bun and the Seahawks ballcap I wore all the time.
Like this, I was nobody. Just a twenty-seven-year-old woman in a ballcap and shades, jeans, and a light jacket over a nondescript gray T-shirt. So average. So forgettable.
My mind drifted, taken by the low hum of activity that occasionally blended with distant PA announcements.
I drew closer to the wall to make room for a group of loud businesspeople and checked the time again.
Not even half an hour left until my departure.
My chest swelled with excitement; I’d always wanted to visit Las Vegas. And I was so done with Seattle.
Footsteps approached, but I didn’t turn to look. It didn’t seem to matter.
“Hey!” a man called loudly behind me. The voice, disrupting the airport’s routine, raised a few passengers’ eyeballs from device screens. I still didn’t look, although the voice sounded somewhat familiar.
But it couldn’t be. No one knew I was leaving today.
“Hey!” The same voice, angrier and closer, brought a shiver down my spine.
I didn’t have time to look behind me. Catching up, he grabbed my shoulder and twisted me in place, then slammed me against the wall, knocking the breath out of my lungs.
“I’m talking to you!” he shouted, inches from my face, his breath searing my skin. He clumped the fabric of my denim jacket sleeve in his hand and twisted it, squeezing my arm until the fabric gave with a loud rip.
I stared at the scowling teenager in disbelief. I didn’t recognize him at first, with the features I knew so well in his father diluted by youth, by eyes filled with rage, and his rebellious, tousled comb-back.
Avery Sinclair.
I squirmed and gasped, whimpering as fear choked me.
“What do you want?” I asked, even more worried when I noticed a couple of travelers getting ready to intervene.
The last thing I wanted were witnesses. Questions.
Suspicion. Pictures of me posted all over the internet as the latest unwilling star of some sordid airport drama.
I turned my face away from him and from the bystanders’ busy cameras.
He grabbed the lapels of my jacket and squeezed, crushing my chest and almost lifting me off my feet.
He stood about eight inches taller than me.
“Do you know what you did? Do you have any idea? I could kill you right now.” He slammed me into the wall and let go of the jacket as one of the bystanders approached.
My head bobbed, seeding a throbbing ache where my skull slammed against the cold gray stone.
“What do you want?” I hissed under my breath, glancing around for an escape.
The bystander touched his elbow gently. “No need for this, kid. Let’s go.
” The broad-shouldered man was twice Avery’s weight, in his fifties and with a shaved scalp and thick, muscular neck, the type you’d see at the gym lifting weights every day like their life depended on it.
But the kid didn’t care. He turned around and threw a punch at the man without even looking at him.
The man dodged the blow with ease, quick on his toes despite his sturdy build, and then grabbed Avery’s arms and held them immobilized behind his back. “Settle down, kid, and no one will get hurt today.”
In the distance, a couple of uniformed cops rushed toward us.
Great . . . That was the last thing I needed. Panic swirled inside me, mercilessly conquering my mind.
Eyes still round in unfeigned fear, I straightened my jacket and adjusted the ballcap on my head. Then I looked at two more concerned bystanders who’d moved in. “I don’t know who this man is. He must have the wrong person or something.”
“Liar!” Avery shouted, starting to writhe against the strong arms holding him still. “You lying bitch! How would you like to lose everything you got, huh?”
“What’s going on here?” The first cop was a burly man in his forties with a bit of a limp in his heavy gait and thick, sausage-like fingers.
He was out of breath from the stretch of light running he’d done to respond to the incident.
His name tag read Jenkins in an all-caps black font on bronzy gold.
His face crumpled in disapproval when he looked at Avery.
I did my best to look completely clueless. It wasn’t difficult. I was shaken. “I have no idea, Officer. He . . . he just grabbed me—”
“She’s lying! She knows who I am!” the young man screamed. “She knows what she’s done, and now she’s running away!”
“You can let go now, sir,” Jenkins said. The Good Samaritan released his hold on Avery and stepped aside.
The cop’s hand landed firmly on the teenager’s shoulder. “If I have to chase you all over this airport, you’re going straight to jail. Is that clear?”
Avery’s jaw dropped slightly, but he nodded.
“I won’t run. I want her to know what she’s done.
To hear it from me.” He propped his hands on his hips, breathing heavily and shaking his head as he looked straight at me, seething with rage.
Then he spat on the floor, landing it inches away from my boot.
“That’s enough, kid. Let’s see some ID.” Jenkins held his hand out until Avery handed over his wallet.
My gut locked in a painful twist. I was one purse-search away from serving time in prison.
At any moment, Jenkins or his partner—a slightly overweight woman with a fierce look on her face and a name tag spelling out Ramirez—could turn around and ask for my ID.
They could also choose to interrogate us both until they got to the bottom of the teenager’s beef with me.
My knees felt weak without warning, and I had to touch the wall for balance. No one noticed.
“Avery Sinclair,” Jenkins said, and then he whistled quietly, shooting his partner a loaded look. He looked at the kid. “As in . . . ?”
Avery straightened, seeming a couple of inches taller. “As in Sinclair Airlines. I’m that Sinclair’s son,” he clarified.
His rather arrogant statement changed the demeanor of the two cops. They became tense, guarded . . . concerned with the outcome and how it could affect them and their careers.
“And what is the problem here?” Jenkins looked at Avery first, then at me. I shrugged again, but conspicuously checked the time. A few more minutes of this nonsense and I was going to miss my flight.
“There’s no problem,” Avery said between gritted teeth. “I’ll find her, wherever the hell she’s going.”
“Whoa, Mr. Sinclair,” Ramirez intervened. “You didn’t just threaten someone, did you?”
“No. Just stated facts,” he replied. The officer seemed satisfied with his answer.
Jenkins turned toward me. “And you, ma’am? Would you like to file a complaint?”
For a moment, I considered it, just because I wanted to teach this snotty, arrogant asshole a lesson, and because the back of my head was still throbbing in pain. But I couldn’t afford to have the police poking around in my life.
“No. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. I don’t know who this young man is or what he wants with me,” I said. “All I know is that I’m about to miss my flight.”
Jenkins nodded. “Have a nice trip, ma’am.”
That was all I needed to hear. I started running toward the checkpoint. “Thanks,” I threw over my shoulder.
Behind me, I heard Avery’s voice raised in disbelief. “What? You’re letting her go?”
As I turned in to the business-class security screening aisle, I caught a glimpse of Avery being walked out of the terminal by the two officers.
It took me about ten minutes of running—all the time looking over my shoulder—to get to the gate.
I barely made it; I was the last passenger to board the flight to Las Vegas.
I took my aisle seat on the first row, still breathless, while a male flight attendant put my spinner in the overhead compartment. Another attendant locked the aircraft door, then pressed some buttons on a display above a folded jump seat.
And I breathed, relieved and yet shuddering under the jet of air from the vents above my head.
“Perhaps I could pour you a glass of champagne, ma’am?” the flight attendant offered. “We have a couple more minutes until takeoff.” He opened a storage bin and returned with a small blue fleece blanket. “In case you need it,” he whispered, setting it swiftly on the empty seat next to me.
I thanked him as I took the glass of champagne from his hands with a grateful smile.
Here’s to Avery Sinclair finding someone else to threaten, I thought, raising my glass in a silent toast to myself.
May I never hear the name Sinclair again.
As I dipped my lips to the sparkling liquid, the Jetway started whirring and withdrew.
The aircraft set itself in motion, pushing back from the gate.
My eyes shifted toward the window, where the sun pierced the sky right above the terminal.
I wondered what had happened to incense Avery so much as to chase me through the airport. And how he’d figured out where I was.
The Seattle business had ended badly; I knew that. It was messy. And messy meant dangerous.
I finished my champagne and wrapped the soft blanket around my shoulders. When I rested my head against the seat, I drifted off into thoughts of the past and plans for the future as the plane took off.
One more and that’s it. Only one more.
I promise.