"Mr. Fenton," [clears throat] "I want you to know that we are fully prepared to facilitate a smooth..."
"Tomorrow," Marshall said. "2:00 p.m. company headquarters. Every employee, no exceptions."
"May I ask what this is?"
"They'll find out when I walk in." He hung up.
Nolan leaned back in his chair. "The board is recommending a quiet transition. Press release Monday. Town hall next week. The usual onboarding."
"No." Marshall picked up the cracked book from the table. He ran his thumb along the broken spine one more time. "There's nothing quiet about what happened on that plane. And there's nothing quiet about what happens next."
At the same hour, 7 miles away in a Queens apartment, Gretchen Harlo was pouring herself a glass of white wine. She was telling her husband about the difficult passenger on flight 714, the one who clearly didn't belong. She laughed about it, clinked her glass against his, took a long, satisfied sip. Her phone buzzed on the counter. A message from her supervisor. "All Skyane crew, mandatory in-person meeting at HQ tomorrow, 2 p.m. sharp. No exceptions. Do not be late." Gretchen read the message, shrugged, and set the phone down. She had no idea what was coming.
Skyane Airways headquarters, a glass and steel tower in Long Island City, Queens, with the airline's blue logo spinning slowly on the roof like a lighthouse no one trusted anymore. 1:47 p.m. The main auditorium was full. 216 employees packed into rows of padded chairs. Pilots, gate agents, ground crew, mechanics, flight attendants, administrative staff. The room hummed with confused whispers. Mandatory all-hands meetings didn't happen at Skyane. Not like this. Not with 13 hours notice and a text that read, "No exceptions."
In the front row, Gretchen Harlo sat with her legs crossed and her hands folded over her knee. She'd come in full uniform, pressed, polished, name tag gleaming. She looked annoyed more than anything. She had a pedicure at 4 and she didn't appreciate having her day rearranged for what was probably another corporate restructuring speech. Next to her, Amy Torres sat with her hands in her lap, picking at her cuticles. She hadn't slept well. She kept seeing Marshall Fenton's face, not angry, not pleading, just still as he walked through the curtain into economy.