"Who did you manipulate to get up here? Or did you steal someone else's ticket?"
"I paid for this seat."
"Paid? Please. People like you can barely afford the bus. What was it, some kind of scam?"
"Watch your mouth."
"Oh, she talks back now. You know what you look like sitting here? Like someone who doesn't belong."
"I'm not moving."
"People like you don't get to tell me—"
"Call me that again."
"Trash." The slap cracked through first class like a gunshot. Dead silence. 12 passengers. Not one breath.
She didn't scream, didn't cry, just turned her head back slowly, cheek burning red, and stared. Heather had no idea she'd just destroyed her own career, her airline, and everything she thought made her untouchable. 3 hours earlier, Detroit, Michigan. The sun was going down over the east side.
Orange light cut through the windows of a brand new community center on Gratiot Avenue. The paint on the walls was still wet. The floors still smelled like fresh varnish. Briana Ingram was on her knees.