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I slip the sign onto the outside handle and lock the door again, sealing myself in with the blood and the death. I return my attention to the body on the floor.

This makes three people who died at my hand. Three!

There is no time to think about that now.

Lips pressed tight, eyes avoiding Red’s mangled face, I grasp her under the arms and drag her to the closet, laying her torso against the shelving and then pushing her legs in.Do not cry. Do not cry.

One last thing to do. I grab a mop, wet it in the sink and then proceed to remove every trace of blood from the sparkling white floor.

Lurchinginto the hallway outside the bathroom, I stumble against the far wall. The sign on the door sways as the door swings shut.

My purse gripped tight in my fist, I push off the wall and start back toward the lounge. There is blood on my shoulder. My hair is loose from the bun it had been in.I look a wreck. I can’t go out there like this.

The family bathroom is to my right. I step into it and lock the door, closing my eyes against the florescent lights.I'm shaking.

I don’t have time for this.

Forcing calm, I step up to the mirror. There is a bruise blooming on my chin and a blood-stained tear in my shirt on my right shoulder. I delicately pull the fabric apart; there is a stab wound from her stiletto oozing blood.

Grabbing paper towels, I wad them up and press them to my shoulder, hissing at the pain the pressure brings. Pain is screaming to life all over my body as the adrenaline drains away. I pull the paper towels away, and they are bright red, the wound still bleeding.

Crud, crud, crud. How am I going to explain this to Julian? Would they even let me on the plane looking like this?

Sing.I open my purse with my free hand, keeping the other pressed to the wound. Pulling out my phone and wallet, I find his card and dial the number. It rings twice before he picks up.

"It's Angela," I say, my voice coming out breathless.

"Angela, I didn't expect to hear from you."

"I'm having some trouble at the airport..." Was it safe to say anything over this line? Why the hell didn't Temperance give me more information—a better way to reach out for help?Because I'm not going to get any.I shake my head, pushing away the paranoid thought.

"At the airport," Sing says. "Your flight is in about an hour, right?"

"Yes, but..."

"It's okay," he says, low. "This is a secure line."

My shoulders relax. "I just got attacked in the bathroom of the first-class lounge. On the far side of freaking security!" I bite my lip as emotion wells again.

"Oh," Sing says.

A long silence follows. Long enough for me to find my gaze in the mirror, look at the wad of red paper towels at my shoulder, and see the mark on my chin darkening into a hell of a bruise. "Sing," I finally say, prompting him. "I need some help here. I look like I’ve been in a bloody fight. And…” I drop my voice to a low whisper. “There is a body in the maintenance closet.”

"I can send someone." He sounds way too calm. Like this happens all the time.It probably does.There is a shadowy world filled with spies—good guys and bad gals—waging a war under the surface of our calm society. “Tell me precisely where you are."

I tell him, and he hangs up.

I sit down on the closed toilet and put my head between my knees, just breathing.

What did I sign up for?

My phone buzzes. It's Julian. He must be worried about me. I send him to voicemail and then type a text.There is a woman getting sick in the bathroom; I'm helping her.

Doesn't that just make me sound sweet?

Okay,he writes back.Let me know if you need anything.

Returning to the mirror, I pull out my makeup bag and start to work on the bruise on my face. A knock at the door jerks my head up. "Cleaning service," a perfect American accent says.