Cassidy Michaels-Harrington: Oldest child, snob, interior designer, mother of two hellions I loved dearly, and married to an attorney who, if possible, was an even bigger snob.
Tyson Michaels: The baby, snob, finishing the last year of his plastic surgery residency and apparently re-engaged to an orthopedic surgeon who was not a snob, but in a lot of ways, he was by association because he put up with, and often encouraged, my brother’s behavior.
And then there was me, Bowen Michaels: blissfully normal accountant, stuck in the middle, wondering how in the hell my cool-ass parents had given birth to me and the co-mayors of Snobville.
They weren’t all bad though. Surprisingly, despite our differences, I was close with my siblings. I wasn’t sure I would have survived losing Sally if it hadn’t been for Cassidy dropping everything to move in with me for the first month. And then there was Tyson, who had spent countless nights sitting on the bathroom floor beside me as gut-wrenching sobs tore from my soul.
Nevertheless, we were different people. But we were family, and I was more grateful than words could ever express that I still had them.
Just not today.
I shot to my feet. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Cassidy curled her lip. “Good to see you too, little brother.”
“Is that Cassie?” Mom asked brightly. “Tell her she’s late.”
Fantastic. They were plotting against me. I really shouldn’t have been shocked anymore, but somehow, I still was.
The base of the phone slid across the desk behind me, knocking off a cup of pens as I prowled toward her. “Tell her yourself. She’s headed to your house now.”
Cassidy scoffed. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You are not coming with me today. I already told all of you—repeatedly—I want to do this on my own.”
She lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Well, we disagree.”
“It’s not up for debate,” I snapped. “Jesus Christ. What is wrong with you people? I haven’t been able to breathe since I woke up this morning. You think I want an audience for this? I want to go, get it over with, go home, and fucking forget.”
With a flick of her wrist, she swept her rich chestnut hair off her shoulder. It was one hundred percent my father’s color, which he had passed down to all of us, but hair aside, she was an exact replica of my mom. Tall and lean. Green eyes. High cheekbones. A bitchy attitude that she reserved just for me. And sometimes Tyson.
“I’m not here to be your audience, Bowen. You’re my brother, and I love you. I don’t even have to go inside. I’ll sit in the car. Whatever.” She rested her hand on my arm. “And before you start pounding your chest like a caveman, think about this. She wouldn’t want you to be alone, either.”
I winced. No. She wouldn’t have wanted any of this. But the minute that plane hit the runway, we all lost our choices in the matter.
She gave my bicep a squeeze. “Get your shit together. Let me take you to lunch, and then let’s go fight for justice for all one hundred and fifty-two people who died on that flight. But most of all, for Sally.”
My stomach sank. God, what a damn clusterfuck.
I didn’t want justice. I wanted her back.
Instead, I had to go to the courthouse and listen to an attorney for Sky High Airways claim that the crash of flight 672—which killed over three-quarters of the passengers as it skidded off the runway, broke in half, and then flipped before an engine exploded—wasn’t their fault.
Mechanical records said otherwise.
The aviation accident investigators said otherwise.
And the fact that I crawled into bed alone every night said otherwise too.
But, as much as I was going to hate being present at the hearing, Cassidy was right. With only twenty-seven survivors, something had to be done. A multimillion-dollar class action lawsuit wasn’t exactly what I would call justice. The alternative was allowing a billion-dollar company to walk away from the death of one hundred and fifty-two souls with little more than a six-figure fine from the Federal Aviation Administration.
The majority of the victims’ families settled out of court, but the survivors had banded together in multi-district litigation that was ultimately consolidated into one court. Short of signing my name on the paperwork, I’d avoided everything to do with the damn lawsuit. But today, Sky High had rushed a settlement to finally get their name out of the press, and for the first time since this nightmare had started, we were all asked to be in attendance.
I’d spent every day of the last week dreading it, talking myself out of it, and ultimately resigning myself to a world of pain.
I didn’t need reminders of that day. I’d never forget it.
Not rousing to consciousness, confused and panic-stricken in the middle of fiery wreckage.
