Page 12 of You Know Why

“Thank you.” I don’t have much choice here. I blow the kids a kiss and step back to the scrum of disapproving and questioning stares.

“Please explain to us what’s happening, Mrs. Locke.”

“My husband went to the bathroom just before the flight started boarding. I texted him, and he said to get on the plane and that he was right behind us. I haven’t heard from him since.”

“Did you see him enter the bathroom, ma’am?”

“No. He went back toward the escalators. Could someone please just check the bathroom and make sure he’s okay? I assume he’s gotten sick. We had a rough flight down, and we were in a hurry. He could be ill, or dehydrated, or, God forbid, had a heart attack. I don’t know. Please. I’m very worried. Can’t we just go look?” The words are tumbling out now, my voice getting more and more shrill. Get it together. Do not fall apart. The kids need you.

I need him.

“I got it,” the second policeman says and peels off. The gate splits the difference between the two bathrooms in this corridor. The one toward the escalators was slightly closer. The other cop sticks by my side, introduces himself as Officer West, tells me everything is going to be okay, he just needs to chat, then starts rapid firing at me, asking a dizzying array of increasingly intrusive questions, to which I answer honestly, repeatedly, in the negative.

“Did you have a disagreement? Are you having trouble? Fighting? Are you sure he planned to travel with you? Has he talked about leaving your marriage? Does he have any mental disorders? Where are your suitcases? Are there any weapons in them? Is there any way your husband might hurt himself? Someone else? Has he left you before? Does he have any problems with alcohol gambling pornography drugs? Could there be another woman? Have you been fighting about money lately? Are you sure you aren’t having money issues? Are you sure there isn’t someone else?”

West continues on and on. The officer who went to the bathroom returns, shaking his head.

“Not there.”

I’m having a hard time grasping the reality of this situation. Trey was with us, and then he disappeared. Why would he do that? Where could he be? He has to be hurt, or kidnapped, or murdered in a bathroom somewhere. Oh, God, now the tears are coming, I can’t, I can’t—

“Stop!” Arms wrapped around my waist, I take a step back, dragging in a shaky breath, and swipe at my eyes. “Please. You’re scaring me.”

West winces but doesn’t let up on the interrogation. “We have to determine if your husband is a security risk, ma’am. Are there any weapons in your baggage? Explosives of any sort? Does he intend to harm anyone? Has he been making threats?”

The overhead page: “Mr. Locke. Mr. Andrew Locke. Please come to gate E7. Mr. Locke. Mr. Andrew Locke. Please come to gate E7.”

“I’ll ask you again . . . Has he been making threats?”

“Threats? Oh my God, no. We weren’t even supposed to be on this flight. Our original flight from Nashville to Milan went through London, but we got bumped. They rebooked us, and we barely made the departure. It’s a fluke that we’re here at all.”

The gate agent has drifted to another kiosk, and the airplane employees there are all looking back and whispering. Airport security has now been joined by a few more TSA agents and another group of cops in slightly different dark-blue uniforms. A handsome man in a well-fitting gray suit who introduces himself as the federal security director, Chief Matheson, appears, and the next thing I know, the airline gate door is being opened and people start pouring out: The airline—or the airport, who knows—has pulled the flight because of the security risk. I hear them explaining to the pissed-off passengers that all the baggage must be rescreened, the plane gone over with a fine-tooth comb, the works. A K-9 officer with a German shepherd straining at the lead appears, walking through the disembarking passengers. TSA agents begin herding people to a holding area, and everyone in the terminal seems to be watching the show. Something is happening. Phones are out; people are filming. You know this is going to blow up on the socials.

Chief Matheson glances at the rising tide of interest and suggests we all move to a quieter location.

A few people in first class disembark. When they see me, their derision is palpable. I have ruined everything for everyone with my disruption. My irrational insistence on not flying off to a foreign country without my husband.

To hell with them.

Matheson is back now, hands in the pockets of his suit pants. He is supposed to be less threatening that way, I think, but it has the opposite effect. Unrestrained power courses through him. He can do whatever he wants to me right now, and we both know it.

“Mrs. Locke. You’re going to need to come with me.”

His face is granite. I watch him for a moment, waiting for a sign. Nothing.

“Yes, sir.”

I grab the kids and thank the lovely lady who was sitting with them, who says, “No problem.”

Then a familiar voice. “May I help? You’re going to need an extra set of hands.”

The woman from the plane, Eden Barrow, is standing behind the kids.

“Where did you come from?” I blurt.

“I work for the airline. I dropped off some files in my office and, on my way back, saw the commotion. I feel terrible about before. If something’s happened to Andrew—”

“Trey. His name is Trey.”