Anya can’t just whisk Grant onto a plane. And she thinks of Gordon, flown here faster on a private jet that Mike said he arranged through a friend.

Could Anya force Mike to help her that way? Using Grant as leverage? She can’t race up to the terminal and just tear through it looking for her son. The private jets, though…

She floors the car, weaving like a madwoman in and out of the Highway 71 traffic, roaring toward Austin-Bergstrom International Airport.

Iris makes a noise deep in her throat. She can feel her family, the reality of her loved ones, slipping away from her. Forever.

69

Grant

The car stops near one of the private jets. “Your mom’s on my plane.”

“Have her come out to the car and talk to me,” Grant says.

Mike turns around in the seat. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for the people around here to see her. Remember her. The police are looking for her right now.” He fixes his gaze on Grant. “I need you to be a brave kiddo, the one I know you are, and come with me. I need you to trust me. Just stick close to Peter, all right?”

“I don’t have my passport.”

“Your mom kept it just in case she needed it.”

“I don’t have clothes.”

“We can get all that in Canada,” Peter says.

Grant gets out of the car. Mike wouldn’t lie to him. Mike will never lie to him. Mike has been there for him all those times. Grant, Peter, and Mike walk to the stepladder going up into the private jet. Normally he’d be all excited about boarding a private plane, snapping selfies and texting his friends about how awesome it would be, but now he just wants to see his mother.

He climbs into the passenger section, Mike behind him. Two columns of plush leather seats, on either side of the plane; halfway down, a large table.

He sees a woman step out from the back of the plane. Long hair, pretty, soft eyes, nice smile. Dressed nicely. It’s not Mom.

“Where is she?” Grant says.

“Back there is a really small bedroom. She’s resting back there.”

The woman tries to say something to Grant, but he ignores her. He pushes past her and hurries into the bedroom. It’s empty.

He turns back and Peter has followed him into the small room.

Mike fills the door, tears in his eyes, gesturing gently with his big hands.

“Where is my mother?” Grant asks.

“I need you to listen to me, Sasha.”

For a moment the name, unexpected, freezes him. “That’s not my name.”

“It has always been your name. Your true name.”

“Sasha,” Peter says, as though testing the word.

“Mike, where is my mother?” Now his voice is quavering.

“Her name was Anya. Once I loved her very much,” Mike says.

“What? Mike?”