Chapter 2
The Girl in the Mirror
The sweathogs dropped me at the airstrip just as the wind picked up.
“Be a bumpy ride,” said Dennis, pulling my bag from the back as another gust blew his stringy hair sideways. “Use your GPS.”
As if I needed it.
“—and Hannah,” he said, sounding annoyed, “no flight-seeing this time—you bring that punk straight here, understand?”
“Whatever you say,” I mumbled, though my tone was anything but agreeable.
I didn’t even look at him as I grabbed my duffle.
Then I turned my back. Normally, I’d roll my eyes or fire off a sharp retort, but at that moment, I hated him too much to pay him attention.
He was a callous brute, and he didn’t deserve it.
Besides, he wasn’t the boss of me.
…use my GPS… Whatever.
I was perfectly capable of flying the Cub to Anchorage, thank you very much, and a flight-seeing tour with the new punk was now on the agenda. In ink.
Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I feigned a lazy salute, my middle finger stretching skyward as I trudged to the small plane tied down beside the airstrip.
The wind picked up, and that was fine. That night, I wanted turbulence. A smooth ride to Anchorage would feel wrong after such a brutal week. Plus the wind kept the mosquitoes away as I untied and did my walk-around.
Both wing tanks were full, so after a check of the dipstick, I was ready to roll.
Strapped in with my headsets turned up, I checked my fuel again. It was a force of habit, really. I’d filled the tanks myself that afternoon, and sure enough, both sight gauges showed the little red bobber hovering at the “full” line.
After flipping a couple switches, I pushed the start button, and my baby rumbled to life. She sounded sweet, the vibrations reaching deep in my chest, and I loved the noxious smell of avgas that seeped into the cockpit.
This Cub was my freedom.
Even a quick flight could release a whole week of stress, but the best thing about the camp bush plane, besides being at my beck and call—it was intimate.
It sat only two, one behind the other, and it was the perfect conveyance for my targets.
Most clients didn’t know you could get a pilot’s license in your teens and own a plane at twenty, so it always shocked them when I pointed out the 2-seater Super Cub as our ride to Camp.
I enjoyed every slack-jawed second too. Yes, a young female bush pilot was impressive, exotic even. The most arrogant brats thought so.
It made the perfect impression as we started rehab, because by the time we landed safe and sound at Camp Aurora, I’d earned a measure of respect.
My passenger would climb out of the tiny plane exhilarated, our budding friendship cemented with trust, and later, when the rehab shit hit the proverbial fan, they’d turn to me for strength.
That’s how it was supposed to work anyway: Dr. Death broke them down.
Then I built them up, and we’d leave camp the same way we’d come—facing into the wind in this very plane.
I threw a glance over my shoulder, caught the empty passenger seat, and looked away, my insides gone hollow. With only a terrible secret for company, I taxied to the end of the strip and stared, letting my mind drift until it found something pleasant.
Camp Aurora’s airstrip was the second best kept secret this side of Anchorage.
More like a clearing than an airfield, it blended so perfectly into the landscape, a pilot could fly right over and never see it.
“Hidden in plane sight,” Dad had said when he’d first delivered me here, faking a cheesy humor bond we never truly shared.
Man he was manipulative. Secretive too, like this runway, which stretched in front of me, perfectly camouflaged among the spruce and alder, a ribbon of burlap under summer’s twilight.
Beautiful.
I peeked at the only road near the airstrip, found the morons had gone and smirked.
With just my flight bag onboard, I could go for a short take-off—see if I could beat my record.
“Alright, Pretty Boy,” I said to no one, “let’s get the hell outta here.”
Humming the silly refrain from his latest love song, I gunned the throttle, and the engine roared. In seconds, I was airborne, smiling, and taking mental note of the time and date for the record book as Pretty Boy’s delicate voice joined the heartrending hum in my head…
Over and over and over again
You hurt me, relax,
come confuse me and then
Over and over and over again
I forgive you, relive you,
can’t quit you.
We’ve been through
Over and over and over again
And when I fall over,
everything’s over,
I’ll never be over you,
over you…
Fifty minutes later, I touched down on a strip next to Anchorage International, wiped my eyes, tethered the plane, slung my bag over my shoulder, and hoofed it to the terminal, ready to begin my transformation into a debutante.
After checking in, I headed straight for the board room, showed my first-class ticket, and claimed the shower. It was time to morph.
Dropping my pack on the floor, I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror and stopped.
I’d just thrown another dead human into a pit.
Clutching the sink with both hands, I stared at myself.
He was a young man lost to the trappings of celebrity, trying to find a toe-hold in the rat-race of stardom, hoping and dreaming of another life—just like I did. He’d had a name, and that name was…was…
I tightened my grip, pressing my lips together. The girl in the mirror knew this was all wrong, and we shared a long, sorrowful look. I snapped my eyes to the drain before grief turned to accusation, but my stomach lurched anyway, and by the time I made it to the toilet, I had a mouthful of vomit.
At least I didn’t have to swallow it back down. Dad had made the lipsticked robot do that. Twice.
I hurled again, falling to my knees as I held tight to the bowl.
Just like Pretty Boy, she’d killed herself.
Dad had given her a choice: she could’ve used the skills she’d learned at camp and extracted herself from the bush.
It would’ve been difficult, cold, uncomfortable, and dangerous, but she could’ve done it.
Instead, she chose to stay where I’d dropped her.
And she’d OD’d on the cocktail of drugs I’d dropped with her.
She’d given up, and I couldn’t save her.
It wasn’t my fault.
I stared at a fleck of vomit stuck to the seat, repeating those words inside my head until I believed it.
It wasn’t—it was not my fault.
The porcelain felt cold trapped in my arms as I steadied my breathing. Then, still staring at that speck of puke, I wiped my face with a yard of toilet paper, flushed, and stood on shaky legs.
Finally I blinked.
I had to get moving or I’d miss my flight.
Showering fast with expensive shampoo accomplished a couple things.
First and foremost, rushing around didn’t give my brain time to whisper dead names.
Also, the lavender and rose fragrance overpowered the vomitous DEET stuck in my nose.
By the time I finished, most of Camp Aurora had washed down the drain, and an actual human emerged from the stall.
Twisting a quick, uncombed French braid worked to recover some of the time I’d lost to the toilet.
Plus, it actually looked nice—elegant, but effortless.
I checked the mirror again, staring at it until a carefree girl stared back.
Gone was the haunted expression, which betrayed the kink in my stomach.
Years of practice paid off: all told, it took a bit of concentration and less than five seconds to completely sever the link between my face and my feelings.
I looked happy, vibrant even.
But not pretty.
Not a chance I’d pass for pretty. Not with the weight of the dead pressing against my gut, dulling the light in my eyes.
The best I’d ever done was intriguing, which worked well enough, but this next job required more.
And this new, innocently buoyant persona could work.
If I added the whole subtle-make-up-cute-shorts thing, I might pull off “unintentionally attractive.” Maybe even turn a few heads.
For Senator Junior, that’s exactly what I’d need.
An arrogant punk like him would find this irresistible.
With a curt nod at the happy girl in the mirror, I abandoned my guilt, swept out the door, and headed for the gate, where I found, standing next to the window with perfectly stiff posture—his midnight cup of coffee in hand, cell phone pressed to his ear—Dr. Death.
One glimpse of him and that carefree girl bolted.