Page 33 of Aviatrix

Blink.

Blink.

Meet me in the sky? Meet me in hell? Cancun? What is this?

I think back. Has Eli ever said something like that?

I repeat the runway words aloud.

"Maybe I needed to make sure you were okay."

"Are you okay, Quay?"

Twice.

He said it twice.

Not an accident.

My heart skips as realization dawns.

“Okay,” I whisper.

OK.

Oklahoma.

Eli was born in a little town northeast of Tulsa.

I suck in a breath and type: Oklahoma.

A beat of silence. Then, a small folder appears on the screen. I double-click it.

There are at least a hundred photos. I glance over my shoulder paranoid, maybe, but I can’t risk Lark catching me. The room is still empty. Good.

I click on the first image.

The White House. Pristine. Framed from a distance. Odd, but not alarming. Yet.

The next photo shows a motorcade weaving through downtown D.C. My brow furrows. Is this some kind of breadcrumb trail? A game?

But then, I freeze on the third image. A woman caught through the glare of a window.

Not just any window.

I scroll back to the first image. Zoom in. Same window. Same woman.

My breath stutters.

Dark hair. Sharp cheekbones. Confident tilt of the head.

Gina Douglas.

Lark’s secretary.

There’s no timestamp, no metadata I can find. I click forward.

And there is Julian Rourke. The Vice President of the United States. Charming. Sleazy. Known for his affairs. Always wearing that smug grin like it’s policy.