CHAPTER 6
They look so much alike that for a second I forget Henry is dead. I suck in my breath, repeating the truth to myself like a soothing mantra.
Henry Harris is dead, which means the man who just stepped onto this plane isn’t my captor.
He can’t be.
But he looks so much like him, from his unshaven face to his beer belly to that gaudy Hawaiian shirt.
Henry is dead, I tell myself. Dead. He can’t hurt me anymore.
He can’t reach me at all.
This man isn’t Henry.
And then I see the girl traveling with him. The fear that looks so familiar behind her haunted eyes.
She doesn’t belong with him.
I stare at the other passengers. Don’t they see? Isn’t someone going to do something? The flight attendants are cheerily helping people load the overhead bins and reminding folks to buckle up.
