Fletcher Aeronautics, named after a man who never sat in first class, never wore a suit to work, and never flew as a passenger on any aircraft in his life.
Eighteen years later, the company operated 43 aircraft across twelve states: private charters, corporate contracts, two military logistics deals with the Department of Defense, revenue north of 400 million. And every single plane in the fleet carried a tail number that meant something—a date, a name, a memory that only Simone understood. November 715 Echo Foxtrot, the plane she was sitting in right now: her mother's birthday, November 15th.
Ruth had retired three years ago. Simone bought her a house in Savannah with a garden and a porch and a view of the marsh. Ruth still kept a pair of cleaning gloves in the kitchen drawer. Old habits.
Now Simone sat in row 22 of her own aircraft, the bruise darkening on her arm, notebook open in her lap, listening to a pilot with a gut and a god complex tell a stranger that her company was probably run by a trust fund baby. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathed, and felt the hum of the engines—her engines—vibrate through the seat.
Then she opened her eyes, picked up her pen, and kept writing.
James Fletcher never got justice. Not from the airline, not from the supervisors who overlooked him, not from the system that ground him down for thirty years and then let him die on the concrete. But his daughter was on this plane, and she had a notebook, and she had her name on every document that mattered.
And she was just getting started.
The seatbelt sign chimed on at 7:52 a.m.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We've begun our descent into Hartsfield-Jackson, Atlanta. Current weather is clear skies, 68 degrees. We'll be on the ground in approximately fourteen minutes." Greer paused, then added with the warmth of a man who saves his best voice for his best audience: "I'd like to extend a special thank you to our distinguished guest, Mr. Victor Ashland, for flying with us today. It's been an absolute privilege, sir."
No mention of any other passenger. Not one.
Ashland unbuckled his seatbelt even though the sign was on; nobody corrected him. Linda Marsh collected his champagne glass with a smile that could have been on a billboard.
"I hope the flight was to your satisfaction, Mr. Ashland."
"Couldn't have been better. First-class service, first-class crew." He winked at her; she blushed.
Greer came out of the cockpit one more time. He stopped at row four, then row ten, working the cabin like a politician on election night. When he reached the back, he paused at the edge of coach and looked at the rows of passengers the way a farmer looks at livestock. His eyes landed on Simone.