An older couple clapped and smiled at me; several others looked blankly at me and then went back to their books or tablets or screens. A man with an English accent joked, “Buy me a beer and I won’t complain,” and so Kyle did, and the man toasted our handsome new son, to long life for him and much happiness.

From her seat, across the aisle, Danielle just watched me. Then gave me a slight smile, like everything was normal.

I tried to curl the crying Grant into my arms, get him comfortable. I didn’t look at the screen in the back of the seat in front of me. But Kyle had his on and instead of a movie or a TV show like a normal person, he was watching our flight path.

He was watching to see when we left Russian airspace.

Grant settled down slightly against my shoulder; I patted his back and he eased down, letting me comfort him. Danielle got out a novel to read, losing herself in a Harlan Coben paperback. She’d canceled her longer stay; it seemed prudent to leave when we did. I couldn’t imagine she’d ever come back to Russia.

I stared at the flight path on Kyle’s screen, forgetting to breathe, holding Kyle’s hand, feeling my son shift into sleep on my shoulder, and waited and watched until we were clear of Russian airspace.

I just had to hope that we weren’t met by police while changing planes in London.

We landed at the same terminal we came through the first time in London. No police waiting for us.

I went to the same bathroom where the warning woman spoke to me. I washed my hands in the same sink. Looked again in the same mirror.

The warning woman. What did she know? Did Anya send her? What did Anya know?

A quarter million dollars for our child. Who would offer such a thing, and what would they do when they found out Anya was dead?

And another question pricked at me: How did Anya know Danielle’s name? She called her by name. I hadn’t thought of it at the time, but there it was.

Danielle told us what to do, but not why it had happened. We were two people so frightened of losing our son, we stayed quiet. We did as we were told.

Danielle came into the restroom; she’d stopped to make a phone call. Kyle was out in the terminal with Grant. Our gazes met in the mirror. We had a thousand things to discuss and hardly anything to say.

“How did Anya know your name?”

Danielle washed her hands thoroughly, and I thought of Lady Macbeth lathering up. “Never ask me. I’m stealing your line, Iris.”

But there was no smile on her face.