Without Proof

by Janet Sketchley

  A tap came at her door. The handle turned and a crack of light appeared. “Amy?” Aunt Bay.

  Amy pulled a steadying breath. “Yes?”

  The door pushed wide and Michael’s aunt entered, closing it behind her. She carried a tall glass on a tray. “Michael made you a smoothie. There’s a sandwich here as well.”

  Amy hitched herself toward the headboard and propped her pillows behind her back. “Thank you.”

  Aunt Bay set the tray beside Amy on the bed. “Michael told me about Luc’s call. Between that and thinking about how Honore treated you, it’s no wonder you have a headache. Rest now, and we’ll talk later. I can tell you God loves you, but you’ll never be sure if you don’t experience it for yourself.”

  Throat suddenly tight, Amy swallowed hard and shook her head. She reached for the glass.

  Aunt Bay studied her for a long moment, then left the room.

  The icy feel of the glass and the straw’s vertical position in the red-purple mixture said Michael had used plenty of frozen fruit. Amy drew in a mouthful and held it briefly before swallowing. She set the glass back on the tray and swung her legs over the side of the bed. A little background music would help her relax better than lying here brooding. Amy flipped open her laptop and cued the mellow jazz playlist.

  Might as well use this private time to ask Troy’s opinion about the anonymous texter. How could they know if the messages were legitimate? Amy slid back onto the bed with the laptop and turned on her bedside lamp.

  After she sent the email, she laid the machine aside and lingered over her lunch. This afternoon would be about framing those prints and answering messages. That should be enough to postpone Aunt Bay’s heart-to-heart.

  When the worst of the tension had faded, Amy carried the tray downstairs. Music still seeped from Michael’s studio. Aunt Bay was nowhere in sight, and Amy breathed a little easier.

  The prints were gone from the kitchen table, but Amy found them stacked on the counter near the workshop door. She collected them and headed for the basement.

  It didn’t take long to pop them into empty frames. Amy wound bubble wrap around each one and nestled them in a box big enough to hold the rest of the order. She carried it upstairs and through to the office.

  The desk lay as cluttered as they’d left it, so likely this morning’s visitor hadn’t needed any paperwork beyond a simple receipt. If they bought anything at all. Often tourists only wanted to look around.

  Amy filled the box and set it against the back wall, where it wouldn’t trip anyone. Michael’s gallery didn’t do a lot of business, but it gave him a showroom when needed. Increasing the portion of his home used for business helped at tax time, too. She settled behind the desk and whipped through the follow-up Michael had given for his messages.

  Snatches of the soothing water-themed music drifted from the gallery. Here in the quiet was a good chance to draft a reply to her father.

  Instead, Amy stood and pulled the duster from on top of the filing cabinet. She drifted into the gallery, humming along to fragments of the music. A place like this needed cleaning before it looked dirty. When she finished dusting, she checked email for the gallery and for herself. Nothing. Troy may have been warned off, but would it kill him to acknowledge her message?

  Who was this mysterious texter? Was he — or she — genuine? Or just trying to make Amy and Troy stop raising a cloud of suspicion? It could even be a local person who bought a cheap phone and set up a Winnipeg number.

  Amy sighed and opened a new document to start a letter to her father. She had to write this now, before he phoned. What would he say if Aunt Bay or Michael answered?

  They’d been so caring while she healed, but this was different. They’d know Amy could never fully belong in their world. Could she face their pity?

  She glared at the blank screen. The man’s story made sense, and if Amy were someone else’s child she’d sympathize with him — with her mother — with his wife. People made choices, which sometimes backfired to hurt others.

  He hadn’t asked Amy’s neighbours to whisper about her mother and her. Definitely hadn’t suggested her classmates taunt her. Those words all reflected on him as well. Except he hadn’t been there to hear them.

  Give him a break, Amy. He didn’t know you existed.

  That was the problem

  Amy left the desk and grabbed the broom. She swept the little office, raising dust until the grit stung her eyes. Her mother had explained her reasons in the letter she’d left for the lawyer to send when Amy came of age. And her father’s reaction when she did contact him proved the original decision wise. The knowledge did nothing to soothe the child’s wistful yearning that still lived in Amy’s heart.

  She moved into the gallery, not caring that the broom undid her earlier work, jabbing it into corners, under display fixtures.

  “Hey, don’t tear the place apart.” Michael’s voice came from behind her.

  Amy squealed and dropped the broom. She picked it up and turned to face him. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I can tell.” He tipped his head to the side, studying her. “Aren’t you worried about bringing your headache back?”

  “Stress cleaning. To keep it away.” With the tip of the bristles, she herded a dust bunny toward the other sweepings.

  Michael stepped nearer. “You’ve had a rough day, and the weekend was packed. Not what you needed after a road trip, and with our open house coming up. Why don’t you take the rest of today and tomorrow off? Lie low and recover?”

  And write to her father. Avoid Aunt Bay. Poke around in a few more online flying forums. Amy spread her hands, still holding the broom. “My mind’s a whirlwind right now. If my body stops, the thoughts will only speed up.”

  “Then should I see if we can book a plane for tomorrow, or would that stir things more? We could deliver that consignment order and prowl for some more water images instead.”

  “If the weather’s good, I’d like to fly. Maybe you’re right, and it’ll settle things a bit. But it needs to be a calm day, and dry. I don’t want to freak out.”

  Michael’s eyebrows twitched. “I’m sure the pilot thanks you for that. I’ll go phone. For now, do you need to do something as intensive as cleaning, or might we go over the plans for the open house?”

  Amy leaned on the broom, trying to remember details. “I think everything’s in place, but let’s double-check. I’ll finish here and pull up the files.”

  “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. With some strawberry tea.”

  Her favourite. “You are the best boss ever. And the smoothie was great.”

  “I sneaked in some chia seeds. That’s where your energy burst came from.”

  Amy hefted the broom. “I’m pretty sure it was stress. But thanks.” She swept the dust and fluff into a pile and moved to attack the last corner.

  Behind her, Michael’s footsteps faded toward the kitchen. Such a caring man, and a good friend. How could he be so sensitive to her needs and yet utterly obtuse about her — and Emilie’s — feelings toward him?

  How could Amy point him in the right direction, without frightening him away?

  Chapter 13

  Amy’s pulse kicked into double-time when Michael turned the van into the flight club parking lot the next morning. The hangar buildings, the office, the runway on the far side of the fence… nothing had changed. Except her.

  Her body knew that light aircraft could crash. Amy tried to work enough moisture into her mouth to swallow.

  Beside her, Michael turned off the engine. “You okay?”

  She nodded.

  “We don’t have to fly today. Want to just look around a bit? Maybe sit in the plane?”

  Amy cleared her throat. “I want to do this.” Her hand shook as she opened her door.

  When they walked into the office, a middle-aged man in a stained blue shirt nodded at them and held up his index finger, his attention on the phone pressed to his ear. Amy glanced around the ro
om while he finished his conversation, taking in the bright posters and overflowing message board, the faint sound of a machine shop coming from another part of the building.

  The sharp tang of oil brought bile to her throat. She swallowed hard, eyes casting wildly for the bathroom. If she threw up before they even reached the plane, Michael would never let her fly.

  Amy’s chest burned. She gulped a cooling breath, then another. Michael’s eyes seemed to read her fear.

  For Gilles. She had to do this, for Gilles. Defy the physical reactions. Get into the plane. Remember a clue, anything she could use as proof.

  Her smile felt wobbly. “I’ll be okay once we’re moving.”

  Brow creased, gaze searching, Michael reached for her hand. “Amy—”

  The man behind the counter put down the phone. “Sorry about that. What can I do for you?”

  Michael’s mouth firmed. He was going to back out. Amy’s eyes welled. “Please.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, then released a half-heard sigh. He turned to the flight club worker. “We’re here to meet Rafe Bisson for a sightseeing flight. I spoke with him yesterday.”

  Sharp black eyes scanned them both and checked the schedule in front of him. “Stratton? Rafe’s doing his aircraft pre-flight. He’ll be right in. I’m Grady.”

  “Michael Stratton and Amy Silver.”

  The black eyes narrowed, looking daggers at Amy. “You’ve been told to mind your own business.”

  Michael raised his hand like a traffic cop. “My friend and I wanted a safe flight, to help her let go of the crash memories. I would think that is her business.”

  Matching Grady’s glare, Amy gritted her teeth against the words boiling on her tongue. Her chin lifted and steel replaced the trembling in her core.

  His glare intensified. Could he tell from her smile that he’d helped conquer her panic?

  Behind Amy and Michael, the door banged. “Mr. Stratton?”

  Michael turned, stepping between Amy and her accuser. “Rafe?”

  “That’s me.” Rafe was on the short side, stocky, with a ruddy complexion and deep laugh lines. He strode toward them, hand out to shake. “You two ready to go?”

  Michael jerked his head toward the counter. “That’s up to your boss, here. He doesn’t think my friend deserves another chance at flying.” He gestured to Amy. “Amy Silver, survivor of the crash two years ago that killed Gilles Renaud.”

  Rafe’s eyes widened, and he held out his hand to Amy. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Her hand felt small in his. He barely squeezed, as if Amy might still be fragile. She smiled. “Thank you. Will you take us up?”

  He shook Michael’s hand next. “This guy’s not my boss, and I’ll fly who I like. Grady, you oughta be waiving her fees, a young woman brave enough to take another flight after that last one.”

  Grady spat a curse. “This Silver chick is nothing but trouble.”

  Michael stiffened, but Amy silenced him with an elbow and a look. She took a slow, deep breath, eyes locked on the man behind the counter, watching his face darken. Her lungs held the air, and when she released it, her words flew like arrows. “Would you like some trouble? Or would you rather apologize?”

  The man’s Adam’s apple twitched. Finally he shrugged. “I was out of line. But so is stirring up rumours and gossip. The investigators’ report clearly marked that crash as an accident. We run on a shoestring budget, lady. If people start thinking our planes aren’t safe, that could put us under.”

  Amy shook her head. “I never said your equipment was unsafe. I just want to know what happened. What if someone did sabotage that plane? Wouldn’t you want to stop them doing it again?”

  “The investigators—”

  “Might have missed something. That’s what the case in the US says.”

  Michael put a hand on her shoulder. “But that’s not why we’re here today. This is about healing. Moving on.” His eyes warned her to let it drop.

  “Right. And we’re wasting flight time.” Amy turned to Rafe. “You’ve done your walk-around, but could you show me again, just so I’ll feel safe?”

  “Of course.” He led them to the aircraft, a white Cessna single engine plane with red accent paint. “I filed a basic sightseeing flight plan. Was there something specific you wanted to see, or an area you wanted to avoid?”

  Like flying over the crash site. Amy shivered. How easy was it to change a flight plan? “I didn’t think about that. Let’s go with what you have.”

  Watching Rafe’s inspection felt surreal, as if he were re-enacting Gilles’ final flight. Saliva flooded Amy’s mouth and she choked it down. Focus on the details. Detach. Pretend it’s not real. Remember any clues.

  She mustered a smile for Michael. “It’s okay.”

  Caution shadowed his eyes, but he nodded.

  Rafe swung open the passenger door. “Who’s my co-pilot?”

  Amy glanced at Michael. “Could we both sit in the back? In case I need some moral support?”

  Rafe chuckled. “I won’t take it personally.” He helped them climb into the craft, and shut the door.

  The sharp click of the latch made Amy flinch. She tried to cover it by adjusting her seat belt while she brought her body back under control. She could do this. For Gilles.

  While Rafe settled into the pilot seat and prepared for takeoff, he ran through a safety briefing. Then he spoke into the radio and waited for clearance.

  Michael pulled an airsickness bag from the seat pocket ahead of him and offered it to Amy. “Gilles told me when you’re nervous, just holding one of these helps. Plus, if you need it, there’s no time to dig it out. Not that I think you’ll need it.”

  Amy took it without protest. The last thing she wanted was to spew all over the inside of the plane, and she’d die if she were sick on Michael.

  The engine revs increased, the roar vibrating through her body like a rising current. The little plane trundled onto the runway, bucking at every seam in the tarmac.

  Heart pounding almost loud enough to deaden the sounds around her, Amy clenched her teeth and reached for Michael’s hand.

  Outside, the ground rushed past. Then they were airborne. The plane lost its awkward motion and lifted, as if drawn upward by a thread.

  The band around Amy’s lungs loosened enough to let her breathe. She pulled in as much air as she could. Fainting now, or hyperventilating, would ruin everything. She closed her eyes and concentrated on Michael’s gentle touch. Her lifeline.

  When Amy felt the plane level out, she opened her eyes. The bright sky made her blink. Still gripping Michael’s hand, she peered out the side window at the ground below.

  So far, so good.

  Rafe glanced back at her. “Doing okay?”

  “I’m fine.” It felt like they were floating over the earth.

  Rafe flashed her a thumbs-up and turned back to the controls.

  Amy smiled at Michael. “I’d forgotten how much fun this is.”

  He squeezed her hand and let it go. “Remember this. This is what Gilles wanted to give you.”

  The plane followed the shoreline, high enough that the ocean waves were lines of white skimming dark blue water to the shore. Outside of the city, houses became sparse, bordering the narrow road that snaked the coast. A few cars inched along the grey strip.

  Visibility was perfect, with a high cloud cover that protected their eyes. Over the engine noise, Rafe called, “I’ll take us over Peggy’s Cove next. It’s a whole different view from up here.”

  Gilles had done the same, not because he cared about Nova Scotia’s most-photographed lighthouse, but to show Amy more of the province where they’d live until he convinced his father to reassign him to the Montreal dealership. He’d looked at the Halifax position as a proving ground. If his performance pleased his father, Luc might give him the assistant-manager spot in Montreal, until Luc retired and let Gilles run the show.

  The thought of impulsive, unrestrained Gille
s in an expensive suit, directing the high-end car sales establishment always made Amy smile. He’d done it, and his charisma brought results, but she preferred the side of him that she’d known so briefly.

  She stared out the window. Below, the enormous rocks of Peggy’s Cove looked like slabs of grey-brown modelling clay pushing out into the ocean. The red and white lighthouse looked like a toy.

  Michael pointed past her. “The gallery’s that way.”

  Amy craned her neck without any hope of seeing the house. Rafe turned inland and soon they flew over dark evergreen forest mixed with the lighter greens of different leaves. From this height, Amy couldn’t see the occasional traitorous leaf that had already turned yellow, orange, or red. She’d seen them from the ground, though.

  The plane jolted downward. Amy screamed. Cold swept her skin, iced her heart. Frosted her sight.

  “Sorry about that.” Rafe sounded perfectly calm. “Air pocket. We’re safe.”

  Safe. Amy pulled a shuddering breath through clenched teeth and fought memories of the crash. See the sky. They were still airborne. Smell the cockpit scents. No burnt wires. No blood or fluids. Hear the roar of a healthy engine. The propeller whine and assorted rattles. Feel the vibration of the little craft pushing through the sky.

  They were not falling.

  Her mind believed it, but her body shook. Her throat felt ready to explode. Or erupt.

  Michael stroked the back of her hand — when had she grabbed his leg? The fingers of her other hand clutched the armrest.

  “Amy, it’s okay. Just keep breathing. Nice and slow. See outside… everything’s fine.” He spoke in her ear, soothing, coaching. “You can do this.”

  Rafe looked over his shoulder. “I can’t guarantee we won’t drop like that again. Are you good to finish, or should I radio for clearance to head back early?”

  “I want to keep going.” Amy bent to retrieve the paper bag from the floor. She stared at it for a minute before pulling the water bottle from the pocket in front of her and twisting open the cap. Her throat muscles were too tight to let much pass, but a trickle of liquid went down. She took another sip.