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eleven

Astoria

I t was nearly one in the morning by the time I arrived.

My flight to Boston wouldn’t board for a few more hours.

After dragging myself through security, I dropped my phone into the nearest garbage can and walked off in search of my gate.

There was a new one tucked away in my bag—courtesy of Nemo—but I couldn’t bring myself to turn it on. There was no one to reach out to.

At least this way, I could breathe a little easier. Piper and Sanjay were silenced.

That was it. The end of it all. No more contact. No more goodbyes.

Rainwater fell in heavy sheets against the windows overlooking the tarmac as I weaved through the rows of seats.

The airport was livelier than I expected for the middle of the night, but not busy enough to stop me from stretching out across a line of chairs and keeping to myself.

Coffee and croissant in hand, I found a quiet corner to settle in.

Still, a strange prickling at the back of my neck had me pulling my hood up and keeping my head down as I sipped and begged my eyes to stay open.

Crossing my legs, my gaze dropped to the flecks of dried blood staining my white Converse.

I frowned, trying to forget Regina’s lifeless eyes as I fled the room.

The scene replayed in my mind with ruthless precision.

Recoiling, I pulled my collar up over my nose.

I’d have to live with it—her death—and the blood that glared back at me from my feet.

It was done. There was no changing what happened.

The next few hours blurred, my eyelids fluttering with exhaustion as I promised myself I could sleep on the plane.

As a last-ditch effort, I took to pacing with the only book I owned.

A few others began to trickle in—some in suits, scrolling their phones like lifelines, leather briefcases at their feet.

Others wore sweats and trench coats, tennis shoes and tired expressions.

Vacationers, maybe. Or people like me, people who were running from something.

A man took the seat at the end of my row, scrolling his screen and sipping from a paper cup. Occasionally, our eyes met over the edge of my book as I walked past. He stayed silent, watching with careful eyes and a kind smile.

“Does Hell interest you?” he asked when I neared him again.

My lips tugged down. “Excuse me?”

He pointed to the book in my hand, brow raised. “ Dante’s Inferno ?”

Oh. A sense of relief swept through me as I actually read the cover I hadn’t processed in hours.

I laughed. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. Long night.” I ventured a step closer.

He was tall, dressed casually in jeans and a sweater, a thick trench coat folded beside his bag.

If I had to guess, he was in his late forties, maybe early fifties—the silver threaded through his beard gave him away.

“Favorite of yours?” he asked, setting his phone down and turning his full attention to me.

“It is, yeah. Ever read it?”

“A long time ago.” He sat straighter. “That looks like a first or second edition, though. May I?” My hesitation must’ve been obvious, because his smile softened. “I’m a collector myself.”

I sat beside him, leaving a seat between us, and passed over my most prized possession. He was right. It was a second edition, printed the year my mother was born, and the only thing of hers I truly treasured.

“Wow,” he said, reverently turning the pages. “I’ve never seen one in such fantastic condition. If you don’t mind my asking… how did you come by it?”

“Family heirloom.”

“Are these notes yours?” he asked, scanning the back pages.

I’d forgotten about those. My stomach twisted. I wrung my hands, resisting the urge to snatch it back. “Oh. That’s nothing. Mostly nonsense. I shouldn’t have written in it.”

He paused, lingering on a line. “No, this is—it’s good. Not nonsense at all.” There was genuine awe in his voice. “Do you write?”

“Does emotional journaling count?” I smiled sheepishly, tucking the book between my legs as an anchor.

“Definitely. I think those tend to make the best stories.”

I shifted under his stare.

“Why do you love Dante’s Inferno ?” he asked.

The question caught me off guard. When I’d chosen to keep my mother’s book, it hadn’t been for sentimental reasons. It just… fit in my bag. But over time, it became something else. The more I read, the more I saw myself in its pages.

“It’s a reminder,” I said, quietly. I couldn’t tell him the truth, that the book had become my map and unlike Dante, my journey wouldn’t end in paradise.

My sins fit the judgment I’d been passed.

“Hm…” he paused, considering what I said until something across the room snagged his attention. “I suppose the devout would agree with you.”

His gaze dropped to a man seated across the way. The guy was dressed sharp, in a tailored shirt and dark slacks. His suit jacket caught on the chair as he turned to the man beside him, flashing a silver badge at his waist.

Damn it.

The officers eyes caught mine, and my posture went stiff.

The man kept talking, something about Dante’s Inferno and eternal suffering or whatever. I forced my attention back to him, though the officer stayed in the corner of my eye. He wasn’t here for me. Probably . But my skin prickled all the same.

“Don’t you think?” the man asked, angling his phone toward me. A painting filled the screen.

“Hm? Oh. Yeah. Definitely.”

He smiled. “I’m sorry—I never got your name?”

Panic flared. “Astoria,” I blurted, then slapped a hand over my mouth.

I wasn’t supposed to say that. I never gave anyone my real name.

“It’s nice to meet you, Astoria. My name is Ira. Ira Morrison.” Instead of giving me his hand, he handed me a business card. One with his information plastered across the front: Morrison and Sons Publishing .

The flight attendants began calling for boarding, and I felt the heat of attention prickling my skin. The officer’s gaze lingered, but I tried to stay focused as Ira rambled on, oblivious to my discomfort.

“Hey, if you ever think about publishing those emotional journals—” he said, air-quotes around the words. “Give me a call. Your writing’s solid. Really good. Just keep at it.” He stood, grabbed his coat and briefcase. “I’ve got to board, but seriously, give me a call. Nice meeting you, Astoria.”

“Yeah, you too, Ira. Thanks for the company.”

“Anytime.”

I waited, even as everyone else boarded and I missed my group number. The officer and his associate sat still, watching. I’d wait them out, if only to avoid their questioning gaze. I could always skip this flight and go book the next one. Boston was going to be freezing this time of year anyhow.

When the last stragglers stood at the front, scanning their tickets, I pulled my bag over my shoulder and slowly made my way to the front, telling myself I was being silly. They're not here for me.

All of my false confidence died the second they stood, following close behind me. I’d made it a few steps ahead in line before fingers reached forward, tapping me on the shoulder.

“Excuse me miss?” the officer said, pulling his hand back as I turned around. His associate stood behind him. Both wore stern expressions. "I noticed you in line for coffee, and you seemed to have dropped this."

Suddenly my chest grew tight as I glanced at the blood on my shoes and back to his unchanging face. Between his fingers, he held a length of black ribbon. I swallowed. “Oh, thank you."

"I'm Liam, Liam Phillips. Oh–" he swung back to his partner who lingered behind us, conveniently wrapped up in something on his phone. "And my partner, Smith. Officer Smith." He glanced down at the boarding pass before handing it back to me, "And you're Britta Armstrong.”

I took the boarding pass from his hand like it might burn me. “Right,” I said. My voice didn’t sound like mine—too high, too bright, like I’d borrowed it from someone. Just like my identity. “That’s me.”

My fingers fumbled to tuck the ribbon into my pocket as if I could hide the shaking in my hands.

Officer Phillips didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he was pretending not to. “You headed home or headed out?” he asked casually.

“Out,” I replied, keeping my voice steady, though my guilt was beginning to unravel. “Last-minute trip,” I added, instead of…

To escape the city where I’d left a body cooling on tile. To vanish before they found me.

“Spontaneous. I like it.” He gave me a side glance, that crooked grin tugging at his mouth again. “That’s rare these days. Most people plan everything down to the minute.”

He wasn’t wrong. I’d planned everything, except for the part where someone died at my hand, but I guess I planned that part too.

I forced a laugh, but it came out thin and awkward. “Yeah, well. Sometimes plans don’t work out.” I stared ahead, willing the line to move faster. To carry me away. To get me on that plane before I could crumble.

“You okay?” he asked. “You’ve gone kind of pale.”

I laughed again, this time it came out more like a cough. “No, I’m fine. Just nerves.”

“I get it.” Officer Phillips leaned in slightly, his voice lowering as if we were sharing a secret. “If it makes you feel any better, turbulence freaks me out. Feels like the universe shaking you by the shoulders, you know?”

I nodded, but all I could think was: I killed someone with these hands.

My fingers curled instinctively, like I could still feel the softness of her skin, the sickening finality of it all.

“You’ve got kind eyes,” he said suddenly. The compliment came out wrong; a thought that haphazardly fell out of his mouth.

I blinked. “Sorry?” Was this his way of flirting? Or was I really about to be arrested for having kind serial killer eyes, because it definitely felt like the latter.

“Kind eyes. Like... someone who volunteers at animal shelters and makes soup from scratch.”

I nearly choked. “Soup?”

He laughed. “Yeah. You just seem…good. That’s all.”

The guilt hit me so hard I swayed. Good. He thought I was good. I’d just—

The boarding agent waved the next group forward.

Saved by the boarding call.

“I should—” I pointed lamely toward the gate.

“Of course,” he said, stepping aside to let me pass. “Have a good flight, Elizabeth."

I froze.

Elizabeth? I turned, but he was already deep in conversation with the woman checking his boarding pass.

Then it hit me. He hadn’t said "Elizabeth" He’d said, “Britta.”

My stomach dropped. I patted the ribbon in my pocket, and my heart started to race. It wasn’t even mine…

Nor was the calm I was desperately trying to hold onto.