Truth, Lies, and Second Dates - MaryJanice Davidson Page 0,3

your butt in your seat.”

“That’s my cousin, Xenia. But aye-aye, Cap Capp. Consider my butt planted,” he replied, and then—

Oh, shit. Here it comes.

—let out his patented giggle. Which never failed to make her snicker. Dennis Monahan was as close to a cliché as a man could be and not work in movies or ads as central casting’s rugged-yet-sensitive guy: tall, with sleek runner’s muscles, thick dark tousled hair, just the right amount of stubble, bright blue eyes, light tan—Dennis Monahan was an absurdly good-looking man.

So the giggle, which sounded like a noise an effeminate cartoon character might make if someone poked them in the belly, was always incongruous. And she had never been able to resist it.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered before she could stop herself, which made him giggle harder. And like that, it was ten years ago, her best friend was alive, and she had a crush on the cutest guy in town. “Go sit down already. I can’t be having that weird tittering in my head for the next three hours. My God. The idea.”

With a smile and a wave, he obeyed.

“Weird tittering?” India commented, staring straight ahead as Ava took her seat. “Good call. He sounds like a cartoon villain on helium.”

“Yep.” Fortunately, there was no need for further small talk, because she got the high sign from G.B. just as they got their authorization and picked up the mic.

“Northeastern Southwest 402, cleared for takeoff. Contact Departure on frequency.”

She clicked in. “Roger, Tower, Northeastern Southwest 402 switching to Departure.”

So began another day in the sky, and she wasn’t hiding.

She wasn’t. She didn’t love flying out of some silly half-formed notion that no one could corner and kill her in the air. She loved it for other reasons. Lots of other reasons. The, um, uniforms, for one. And the food. And the long hours. And the drunken unruly passengers who thought she was an overpaid cab driver.

No question.

At all.

Two

Minneapolis–Saint Paul International Airport Terminal 1, Lindbergh

“… and we’ve just landed in the Twin Cities, where the temperature is sixty-four degrees despite being high summer because Minnesota. Which is just … bleah. Anyway, we at Northeastern Southwest—we fly everywhere!—appreciate your business and wish you a pleasantly frigid day.”

Ava could hear G.B. bitching from the jump seat (“Oh my God with the weather again. She will not let it go.”) and the new crew member laughing softly.

“No comment from the copilot?” Ava asked sweetly.

India shook his head and quirked a smile at her.

“Oh boy, I know that look. Out with it.”

“You know it’s not in my nature to pry into my captain’s personal life.”

“Oh my God.”

“Right. Now that that’s out of the way…” He cleared his throat. “That guy. The last passenger to get on. He looks, um, familiar.” When Ava said nothing, he added, “He looks like Danielle Monahan. In fact.”

“Dennis is Danielle’s twin,” Ava replied. Or would it be was her twin? Were you still twins when one was in the grave? Not that Danielle was in a grave; there’d been precious little of her left to bury. And there was no point asking how India knew what Danielle looked like. Sooner or later, everyone in her flight crew eventually found out about Danielle and how her murder literally propelled Ava into the sky.

“Tenth anniversary of the, um.”

“Yep.”

“And you don’t like the Twin Cities under the best of circumstances, never mind now. So,” he finished, “no wonder you’re grumpy about the weather.”

“The weather sucks.”

“It’s actually kind of ni—”

“I don’t like MSP because most of the time I have to crosswind taxi. And that’s after we navigate the OPDs.”*

“Uh-huh.”

“And there’s no need to look at me like I’m about to set you on fire. We’ve been flying together how long? You know I’m not gonna bite your head off. Most likely.”

“That’s true. In fact, you seem kind of, um, detached about the whole thing. The murder. And what happened after. Or at least like you don’t mind.”

She made an exasperated noise. “Or because I’ve had a decade to come to terms with it.”

Alas, India wasn’t having it. “New employees are skittish about it because they assume it’s an unbroachable subject.” India jerked his head to the side, indicating the jump seat. “Takes ’em a few flights to learn it doesn’t seem to bother you at all.”

“Aaaaand again: it’s been a decade, India.”

“A long time to be alone.”

“Ah-ha!” Then she realized what he was getting at. “Oh, no.” Abort, abort! This was worse than an unwanted-yet-casual chitchat about feelings with