“He won’t be waking up to help you.”

I saw Malachi’s shoulders tighten.

The boy was trying not to cry.

The cockpit was hot.

The smell of ozone and spilled coffee hung in the air.

I looked at the overhead panel, trying to remember the layout.

The communications controls were just above the throttle quadrant.

If I could get to the VHF radio, I could broadcast our position.

But Thorne was blocking the pedestal.

“You won’t get away with this,” I said, fallback words when nothing else came.

“There are flight data recorders.”

“Which will show a tragic, catastrophic failure of the environmental control system,” Thorne said.

“The company will settle out of court, change their name, and continue operating.”

“The safety files are already sent,” I lied.

Thorne smiled.

It was a thin, dry stretch of his lips.

“No, Grace,” he said. “Owen kept them on a physical drive in his flight bag.”

“He didn’t trust the cloud.”

“And I have already secured that bag.”

My chest tightened.

He had the drive.

He had the plane.

He had us.

The phone chimed again, a persistent, shrill sound.