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CHAPTER ONE

Laurel

I don’t run.

I plan.

There’s a difference, and it matters.

Running is reactive. Emotional. The kind of thing Maggie does apparently, because here I am, standing at Gate 23 with my carry on digging into my shoulder, with a woman in a navy blazer telling me, for the third time, that boarding is closed.

“It’s not closed,” I say, keeping my voice level in the way that’s gotten me through meetings with executives who think volume equals authority. “You’re still standing here. The door is still open. There are people still boarding.”

Her smile tightens, professional but brittle. “Ma’am⁠—”

“Laurel.”

“I’m sorry, Laurel, but the system has⁠—”

“I don’t care about your system.” That slips out sharper than intended, and I can feel the eyes on me now. People always look when a woman loses composure, like it’s a performance. “I need to be on that plane.”

She glances past me, probably hoping I’ll dissolve if ignored. I step closer instead, lowering my voice.

“My sister is missing.”

The words feel… overdramatic. Even as I say them.

‘Missing’ makes it sound sudden. Alarming. Like something happened to her.

More likely, Maggie left. Again. No note, no explanation, just another mess for someone else to step into when it inevitably unravels.

Still, it’s the version people respond to.

The woman hesitates. It’s subtle, but I see it. I always see it. The moment people recalibrate, shifting from procedure to person.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says, softer now. “But there’s nothing I can⁠—”

“I'll sit on the floor if I have to,” I cut in. “I'll stand in the aisle. I won't make a sound. You won't know I’m there. But I'm getting on that plane.”

I can’t stand this. Drama isn’t for me. I prefer predictability. I hate anything that isn’t planned down to the minute.

But I also don’t do well with cleaning up Maggie’s disasters from a distance.

The woman studies me. I know what she sees: tailored trousers, dark blouse, hair pulled back into a style that was neat three hours ago and now isn’t. Someone who looks like she should've booked a better flight, arrived earlier, with a contingency plan.

She’s not wrong.

But Maggie doesn’t do contingency plans.

“Wait here,” she says finally, already turning away.

I don’t thank her, or move. If I move, this becomes uncertain again, and I haven’t got the bandwidth for uncertainty right now.

Everything is already slipping.

My phone buzzes in my hand. Another voicemail. I ignore it. I already know what it is. Tom getting back to me with more no news.

“Ma’am.”