Page 15 of Hunting Brooklyn (Stalkers in the Woods #5)

At the front of the line, a guard with a shaved head and a nametag that reads "B.

Themba" gestures for my passport and boarding pass.

I pass them over, trying to keep my hand from trembling.

He studies the ID photo, then looks at my face.

His eyes linger a little too long on the spot just below my jaw, down to where my collar has fallen open and exposes my bruise.

"You okay, miss?" he says, so quietly that I almost miss it.

"Yes, fine," I say, voice crisp and practiced. "Just tired."

He nods, hands back the documents, and waves me through.

I step into the scanner, arms raised, feeling exposed and ridiculous.

The machine slides around me, a ring of white light.

For a split second, I imagine the watcher waiting on the other side, arms crossed, grinning as I shuffle out in my socks and humiliation.

But there is no one. Just another guard, another conveyor belt, another rush to put myself back together before anyone can see me unravel.

I find the nearest bathroom and lock myself in a stall.

The floor is sticky and the walls are covered in a mosaic of old graffiti and official "Out of Order" stickers.

I sit for a moment, bag clutched between my knees, and press my forehead to the cool metal of the stall door.

I take a slow, careful breath, counting to four on the inhale and eight on the exhale.

I do this three times, until the world stops tilting and the roar in my ears fades to a manageable buzz.

In the mirror, my reflection is drawn and spectral. The concealer has failed to hide the worst of my skin discoloration, and my eyes are shadowed and too bright. I reapply a bit of lipstick, twist my hair tighter, and practice a smile that doesn’t look like I’m dead. It’s almost convincing.

At the gate, the seating area is a swarm of bodies, every seat taken by someone clutching a phone or a takeaway coffee or a plastic-wrapped muffin. I find a spot by the window, stand, and stare out at the tarmac. The plane is there, baggage carts swarming around it like beetles.

My phone buzzes again. A message from my brother: "Safe flight. Let me know when you land." I type a quick response, "Will do," and delete the message thread as soon as it’s sent. I don’t want anyone else’s worry clinging to me right now.

I join the queue at the airport coffee stand. The woman behind the counter is bored, her ponytail bobbing in time with the music piped through the speakers. I order a latte and pay ten rand , feeling the brief warmth of her smile as she passes me the cup.

I carry the coffee back to the window and wrap both hands around it, letting the heat seep into my bones.

The tremor in my fingers is visible now, a low-level earthquake that threatens to spill everywhere.

Fucking hate flying. I sip anyway, scalding my tongue, forcing myself to focus on the pain instead of the thousand other things clawing at the inside of my head.

The boarding call comes over the loudspeaker, first in English, then in Zulu, then Afrikaans.

I listen to each version, letting the words blur together.

The business class passengers are invited to board first, so I gather my things and move to the front, rolling my bag with the practiced detachment of someone who has done this too many times before.

The boarding ramp is cold, the air thinner, somehow more real. I hand my boarding pass to the attendant, who smiles and says, "Have a good flight, Ms. Marcus." I wonder if she means it, or if it’s just something to say to fill the silence between people.

Inside, the plane is a narrow tunnel, all gray and navy and stale recirculated air.

I find my seat—6A, a window, as always—and stow my bag in the overhead.

The seat is too firm, but at least I have extra room.

After waving a steward down for an extender, I buckle in with a click and try to make myself as small as possible.

There’s a chance someone bought the seat next to mine and I don’t want to inconvenience them.

The next few minutes are a study in waiting.

Other passengers file in, some pausing to argue over overhead space, others chatting loudly about the rugby scores or the merits of different airlines.

I put in my earbuds and queue up a podcast, closing my eyes.

It’s something wild, about unsolved murders, because I find the certainty of other people’s disasters oddly soothing.

I don’t notice the man who slides into the seat directly behind me until the plane is almost full.

He doesn’t make a sound, just settles in, adjusts his seat belt, and leans back.

I catch a glimpse of his reflection in the window: he’s well-dressed, but the window blurs anything other than the tie that stands out.

He is looking at his phone, but every so often, I sense the focus shift—to me, to the curve of my shoulder, to the way my hair falls over the seat.

I shiver, and pretend it’s from the air conditioning.

The doors close. The safety demo begins. I watch the flight attendants, noting the forced cheer in their voices, the way their eyes dart from passenger to passenger, scanning for problems. I wonder if I look like a problem.

The plane taxis, and I press my forehead to the window, watching the ground slide by in a blur of painted lines and flashing lights. I feel the man behind me lean forward, just a fraction, and for a second the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

When the plane lifts off, I grip the armrest so hard my knuckles ache. I don’t look back.

I stare out at the clouds, the endless blue, and try to imagine myself as a dot on the map, a blip in the sky, anonymous and untouchable.

The seat belt sign dings off. I loosen my grip and breathe in. The coffee is gone, replaced by the metallic taste of fear and anticipation.

I close my eyes, lean my head against the window, and let the hum of the engines lull me into a waking dream.