Chapter 3 - THE SEAT THAT WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO BE HERS
Vincent caught Sophia beside the elevators.
“Why did you change seats?”
She turned, visibly startled.
“What?”
“On the plane. Twelve minutes before the emergency. Why did you move Anna into your seat?”
Sophia looked toward the guests gathering near the elevators.
“Not here.”
“Then answer me somewhere private.”
She followed him into an empty conference room.
The moment the door closed, Vincent placed Anna's bracelet on the table.
“Seat 14B.”
Sophia stared at the engraving.
“Where did you get that?”
“Anna.”
“Vincent, listen to me—”
“No. I've spent three years listening to people tell me what happened. Tonight, I want the truth.”
Sophia sat down slowly.
“Anna offered to change seats.”
“Why?”
“Because I was feeling sick. I wanted to sit closer to the front.”
Vincent remembered Sophia complaining about nausea.
He also remembered Anna offering her water.
But something bothered him.
“Anna was seven months pregnant. Why would you make her move?”
“I didn't make her.”
“You knew she wasn't comfortable.”
Sophia's eyes filled.
“I know how it sounds.”
“Then explain it.”
Sophia rubbed her forehead.
“There was an argument earlier. The flight attendant said one of the rear seat belts wasn't locking properly. I didn't want to sit there.”
Vincent looked at the bracelet again.
“Then why didn't you tell me?”
“Because you were already irritated with Anna. I didn't want another fight.”
He stared at her.
For years, Sophia had insisted the crash had been a terrible accident.
Now he was learning she had concealed a safety concern.
“Did you tell the investigators?”
Sophia looked away.
“That seat-belt problem wasn't related to the explosion.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“I don't remember everything from that day.”
“Convenient.”
Her eyes flashed.
“You think I enjoyed surviving while Anna died?”
Vincent said nothing.
Sophia stood.
“I lost someone too. You were destroyed afterward. I spent years trying to keep you functioning.”
“And I thanked you.”
“You did.”
“I trusted you.”
She stepped closer.
“Vincent, please don't let one night destroy everything we've rebuilt.”
He recoiled.
“We?”
Sophia went silent.
“There is no we,” he said. “There never should have been.”
He took the bracelet and left.
At midnight, Vincent returned to his penthouse.
The apartment had remained almost unchanged since Anna's death.
Her books still occupied one shelf.
Her favorite blue coat hung in a cedar-lined closet.
He had never found the courage to remove it.
He opened the closet and touched the sleeve.
Anna had worn that coat when they learned she was pregnant.
He remembered her emerging from the doctor's office, laughing and crying.
“Vincent, you're going to be a father.”
He had lifted her into his arms.
Now somewhere in Chicago, a little boy who might be his son was falling asleep in another home.
Vincent sat on the bedroom floor.
For the first time in three years, he didn't drink to silence the memories.
He called the one person who might have access to the original aviation investigation.
Martin Ellis, his longtime security director.
Martin arrived early the following morning.
He had worked for Vincent for sixteen years and rarely showed surprise.
But when Vincent told him Anna was alive, he sat down without speaking.
“That's impossible,” Martin finally said.
“Apparently not.”
“And the child?”
“I believe he's mine.”
Martin removed his glasses.
“Then we have a serious problem.”
Vincent frowned.
“What problem?”
“Your private aircraft investigation was closed using records that may no longer be reliable.”
“Explain.”
Martin hesitated.
“After the crash, your legal department received a request from the insurance company to preserve the flight records.”
“And?”
“Someone ordered those records transferred to a private archive.”
“Who?”
Martin looked uncomfortable.
“The authorization came from your executive office.”
Vincent stared.
“I never authorized that.”
“I know.”
“Who signed it?”
“Your signature appears on the order.”
Vincent felt his stomach tighten.
“Show me.”
An hour later, Martin returned with copies of the archived records.
Vincent immediately recognized the signature.
It resembled his.
But it wasn't his handwriting.
The final stroke was wrong.
Anna used to tease him about that stroke, saying he signed contracts like a man trying to outrun his own name.
Whoever forged the signature hadn't known.
“Who had access to my executive seal?” Vincent asked.
Martin hesitated.
“Your chief financial officer. Your former assistant. And Sophia, during the weeks you were hospitalized after the crash.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
For days after the explosion, he had barely been conscious.
He had suffered smoke inhalation, burns, and a concussion.
Sophia had handled his visitors and communications.
“Get everything,” he said. “Every record. Every payment. Every flight-related expense.”
Martin nodded.
“And Vincent?”
“What?”
“There's something else.”
He opened a second folder.
“Rebecca Hayes, the flight attendant Anna mentioned, filed a safety complaint eleven days before the crash.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“Against whom?”
“Moretti Aviation Services.”
His own company.
The complaint described irregular maintenance entries and unexplained alterations to the aircraft's emergency equipment inventory.
Vincent read the page twice.
“Why wasn't I told?”
“The complaint was withdrawn.”
“By Rebecca?”
“Her signature appears on the withdrawal.”
Vincent looked up.
“Another signature?”
Martin nodded.
“Possibly.”
That afternoon, Vincent went to the community arts center where Anna was scheduled to speak at a children's charity event.
He didn't enter.
He waited outside until the event ended.
Anna emerged carrying a canvas bag.
She stopped when she saw him.
“I told you not to follow us.”
“I came alone. Ethan isn't here.”
“That doesn't make this better.”
“I found Rebecca's complaint.”
Anna's expression changed.
“You found it?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know.”
“Know what?”
Anna studied him.
“Rebecca told me the aircraft had been serviced without proper authorization. She thought someone was cutting corners.”
Vincent shook his head.
“My company wouldn't—”
“Your company did.”
He stopped.
Anna looked exhausted.
“I didn't survive so I could spend the rest of my life arguing about your reputation.”
“Then why come back to Chicago?”
“Because Rebecca's daughter contacted me with something her mother left behind.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“What was it?”
Anna pulled a folded photograph from her bag.
It showed the private jet parked inside a maintenance hangar two days before the explosion.
Three people stood beside the aircraft.
One was Rebecca.
One was the maintenance supervisor.
The third was a man Vincent knew intimately.
His younger brother.
Daniel Moretti.
Vincent stared at the picture.
“Daniel was in Miami that week.”
Anna shook her head.
“No, Vincent.”
She turned the photograph over.
May you like
Written on the back were six words.
Ask Daniel about the missing fuel valve.
