Page 37 of The Trap by Catherine
“Well,” Chris said, handing Lucy the remote. “I’m wrecked. I’m going to bed.” He stood up. “Luce, tonight, please, can you just—”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “I promise.”
And that was the truth.
“Glad to hear it.” He smiled a little, reached out to squeeze her shoulder. “Goodnight, then.”
The tenderness of this gesture took Lucy aback and her breath caught in her throat, forcing a splutter that she tried to cover with a cough.
“Ah, yeah,” she said, her eyes watering a little. “Goodnight.”
She watched him go into the hall, then switched the TV to a channel number she knew by heart.
An episode was just starting.
British Airways 5390, June 1990. Window in the cockpit blows out at 17,000 feet and sucks the captain out with it. A flight attendant manages to grab the man by his belt and they descend with him outside the aircraft, incredibly landing safely and with him suffering only minor injuries. Cause: the window hadn’t been fitted correctly.
She really should’ve told Chris about Jack and about the meeting. Why hadn’t she? There was more to it than her just feeling too tired to: she knew he’d try to talk her out of what she was planning to do tomorrow.
Her Plan B.
And maybe she should let him.
She poured more wine as a second episode began.
Aloha Airlines 243, April 1988. Another explosive decompression, only this one took an eighteen-foot section of the roof from the cockpit to the wing and a flight attendant whose body was never found. Sixty-five other people were injured, eight seriously. Cause: metal fatigue.
Or maybe, before she did anything, she should call Denise. Just be honest.Tell her everything. Ask for her advice.
But then, Denise wasn’t being honest with them, was she? She’d held back that detail about the nightdress and the pink house.
As a third episode started, Lucy drained what was left in the bottle into her glass.
Air France 447, June 2009. An Airbus A330 stalls over the Atlantic and then plunges into it, killing all 228 souls on board. By the time the three men in shirtsleeves were gesticulating theatrically at their whiteboard, Lucy was struggling to keep her eyes open.
She finished her wine and lay down on the couch, intending to close her eyes just for a moment.
* * *
When she opened them again, it was completely dark.
Lucy felt woozy and disorientated, and it took her a beat to remember where she was and how she’d got there: an exceptionally shite day, a whole bottle of wine on an empty stomach, and at least three episodes ofAir Crash Investigation. She’d fallen asleep on the couch, but how long ago? The TV had turned itself off—she didn’t know it even did that; it hadn’t before—and it was deathly quiet, and she was a little cold, and everything just felt...
Different, somehow.
She sat up and patted the surface of the coffee table for her phone. Its screen lit the room with an eerie blue glow, telling her it was 2:03 a.m.
She’d been asleep for a couple of hours, three at the most.
Jack Keane had sent her a text at 12:23 a.m.Only saw your message now. Can’t promise anything but I’ll run it by my boss. Call me first thing and we’ll discuss.Caroline had sent her one just before ten.Sorry about today. Saw MG on the news. I shouldn’t be shocked but... JFC. You OK? What’s your plan now?Let me know if I can help.She swiped the notifications away, making a mental note to respond to them in the morning.
Lucy stood up, waited a beat for the room to stop spinning, and then went to the wall to switch on the ceiling light. Its bright glow turned off the dark, instantly vaporizing the shadows, but still, even now, there was something that just wasn’t right, something that had caught on her subconscious...
But what?
She scanned the room, picturing it from earlier, from before she’d fallen asleep, and compared the two. A real-life game of Spot the Difference.
And then it came to her: the light.
