I was flying a dying aircraft when a voice came through a secret frequency—the brother I’d buried seven years ago whispered, “They needed you to take the blame.”

Chapter 2

The first thing I noticed was the empty captain’s seat.

The second was the blood.

Captain Everett Barlow was slumped against the center console like a man who had been dropped there from a height, a thin red line running from his temple and curving down his cheek, pooling in the collar of his uniform shirt. He was breathing — I could see the slow rise of his chest — but his eyes were closed and his hands hung loose, the left one still latched around the trim wheel as if he’d been fighting it when the fight ended.

The first officer gripped the controls with white-knuckled hands, his face the same color as the instrument panels he was scanning. Riko Tanaka — I’d seen his name on the crew manifest only because he’d welcomed me aboard in the jet bridge with a polite nod, and I’d felt the pang of it, the way anyone who has ever loved flying recognizes another person who loves it too. He looked at me and the relief that came over him was so naked it hurt to witness.