He stared at his shoes. "I'm going to talk to Dorothy." "Heather, I really don't think-" But Heather was already gone. She pushed through to the service area and found Dorothy Adams, the purser. 50s.
Gray streaked hair pulled into a neat bun. 28 years with Sky Nation. Dorothy had seen every kind of problem that could happen at 30,000 ft. "Dorothy, I need you to check 2A." Dorothy looked up from her tablet.
"What about her?" Dorothy asked.
"Something's not right. She doesn't match the booking profile."
"What does that mean, doesn't match?"
Heather paused. She chose her next words carefully, the way someone pours poison slowly so nobody sees the bottle. "I just want to make sure there hasn't been a system error, that's all. For the safety of our premium passengers."
Dorothy tapped the screen, pulled up the manifest, and scrolled to seat 2A: Ingram, Briana, confirmed, paid in full, frequent flyer, platinum status. She looked up.
"She's one of our highest-tier passengers, Heather. She flies this route regularly. She's confirmed. Leave it." Dorothy went back to her tablet. Conversation over.
Heather stood there for a moment. Her nostrils flared. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. Then she uncurled them, straightened her badge, and walked back through the curtain.
She went straight to the beverage cart, picked up a glass, but not a champagne flute, a plain plastic cup. She filled it with tap water. Not sparkling, not still from a bottle. Tap water from the galley sink.
She walked to 2A, set the cup down on Briana's armrest without a word. Didn't look at her, didn't slow down, just dropped it and kept walking, like tossing scraps to a dog. Briana looked at the cup. Plastic.
Tap water. Around her, 11 other passengers sat with crystal champagne flutes. Mr. Henderson was already on his second glass. Mrs. Crawford held hers with two fingers, pinky raised.