He listened to another siren blast from Clayton, which was followed by a long wail and then . . . was he crying? The kid was better than August expected.

He searched around the floor for the trapdoor that led to the storage compartment below. It wasn’t hard to find. He lifted a thin utility mat and found the two latches he needed to open it. He was starting to twist the first latch when he heard the restroom door open. What if it was a flight attendant in the restroom? And what if the flight attendant was about to throw open the curtain and catch him in the middle of a federal offense?

He heard the restroom door snap shut. The prior occupant brushed against the curtain, and August flinched. His pulse doubled. He quickly tried to formulate an excuse in his mind: his dog was in the storage area and he needed to walk him? He would need to do better than that!

But he didn’t need the excuse. The person walked away, and August realized he’d been holding his breath.

Not wasting another moment, August quickly twisted the latches of the trapdoor and pulled on the handles. It didn’t budge. He pulled harder. Nothing.

Through the curtain he heard a muffled verbal battle going on between Clayton and a few other people. The kid wouldn’t be able to stall for much longer. Once they figured out the old man was very much alive, the jig would be up.

August grabbed at the trapdoor once more and discovered the explanation for his failure to open it: set in the bottom of each handle was a tiny keyhole. But where was the key?

The flight attendants!

August put his palms against his temples and rubbed hard.

Think. Think. Think!

He glanced around the small room for anywhere there might be a spare key. He started fumbling through the cabinets, the drawers, the drink cart; he was finding nothing. August was about to give up when he saw something sticking out of a small seat folded into the wall. He reached over and yanked the seat down, revealing a yellow purse.

Clayton hadn’t cried out in over a minute, and at any moment the flight attendants would be returning. August unzipped the purse and rifled through it. Lipstick, lipstick, lipstick—how many colors did one person need?—a pink wallet, vanilla-mint breath spray, a New York subway pass, an old rabbit’s foot keychain, keys!

August closed the purse back into the folded seat and dropped to the floor. There were at least ten keys on the chain, but only three or four looked small enough for the trapdoor locks.

He tried the first.

The second.

The third.

He heard voices from the other side of the curtain. Clayton must have run out of steam.