And they took Richard Voss off the jetway in handcuffs before he could disappear into the crowd, two agents at his elbows.

They walked him past the forward galley, where I was standing, and he stopped.

He looked at me for a long moment, and something crossed his face that I can only call recognition — worse than recognition, a kind of grim satisfaction, as if a very old bet had finally paid out.

“Laura Novak,” he said, soft, almost amused.

“Of all the people to be asleep in 8A.”

Everything in me went cold and still.