Then the flight attendant appeared.
Her name tag read Grace Miller, and she seemed perfectly normal until she leaned down to check my seatbelt. Her fingers tightened around my wrist—firm, almost shaking. She bent close enough that her breath brushed my ear and whispered:
“Sir, pretend you’re not feeling well. Get off this plane. Do it now.”
I blinked at her, thinking she must have made a mistake. But her eyes… her eyes were full of something real. Something urgent.
A lifetime of reading faces during tax audits gave me the ability to spot sincerity instantly. Whatever she had heard or seen had shaken her. So, without fully understanding why, I pressed a hand to my chest, let my breath hitch, and said loudly:
