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the screen on her cell:

    PAC CASCADE SKYWYS

    It was the airline dispatcher. She realized she was late checking in for her next flight. They were probably wondering where she was. It went to her voice mail.
    â€œScott, I’ve got to go,” she said, gathering up her meager dinner.
    â€œYou’re mad, you’re upset.”
    â€œThe airline’s trying to get ahold of me. And yes, I’m upset, but more confused than anything else. I’ll call you tomorrow morning, okay?”
    â€œAll right, but listen, I want you to think about something—”
    â€œScott, I really have to go.”
    â€œI get it. But I’m just saying I want you to come stay with us at Christmas—if you can get the time off. Will you think about it? I want you to meet Halle. And besides, if today proved anything, it’s that we need you here to help us through the next major holiday.”
    Stephanie smiled. “I’ll think about it. Talk to you tomorrow, okay?”
    â€œHappy Thanksgiving, Steffi.”
    She stuffed the remnants of her dinner into a trash can. “Happy Thanksgiving, Scott.”
    Stephanie heard him hang up on the other end of the line as she hurried toward her departing gate. She would have to wait until later to think about Rebecca’s cryptic message on the mirror.
    Right now, she had to navigate through a storm.

C HAPTER T HREE
    Salt Lake City
    Â 
    T he screen panel in front of Stephanie showed her heart rate was 109. In the last three minutes she’d been going nowhere for 0.22 miles at 66 RPM. After spending most of her day in a cockpit staring at a panel of lights, numbers, and buttons, she unwound on an elliptical machine, staring at a panel of lights, numbers, and buttons. It was one of two elliptical machines in the Holiday Inn’s mini-gym.
    Stephanie was the only one in the place at 9:20 on that Thanksgiving night.
    As one of three female pilots with the airline, Stephanie was sort of a loner. She always felt like she had to set an example. She didn’t want to be seen in the hotel bar, not even with a Coke in her hand, because someone might think there was rum in it. The flight attendants didn’t associate with her, because she wasn’t quite one of them. Whenever they had a layover, and the flight attendants partied in one of the hotel rooms, Stephanie wasn’t invited. So she always took to the hotel gym. It beat sitting alone in her room in front of the Food Network.
    She hadn’t quite worked up a sweat yet. Her brown hair was swept back in a ponytail, and she wore black sweatpants and a Pacific Cascade Skyways T-shirt. With her iPhone headset, she listened to her “workout” compilation of 1980s hits. The same lineup of familiar favorite songs was a comfort while on the road in various hotels. Right now, Corey Hart was singing “Sunglasses at Night.” He drowned out the low-volume chatter from the TV on the wall. The E! Channel was having some “Celebrity Train Wreck” countdown, with comments from a bunch of comedians she’d never heard of.
    Outside the window to her left, a light snow gently fell. Two big windows in front of her looked at the indoor pool and Jacuzzi—both deserted. The lights were dimmed in there, and the rippling shadows from the illuminated pool made the place look eerie.
    As she toiled away on the apparatus, Stephanie tried to focus on the numbers flashing across the panel in front of her. But she couldn’t stop thinking about Scott’s revelation earlier today. Before slashing her own throat, Rebecca had left a note telling Scott that she hated him. Why? What had he done to her?
    Scott had been right: at the first sign of a crisis, Rebecca and she were on the phone with each other. Why hadn’t her sister called her that day? Had suicide been Rebecca’s only option?
    Stephanie wished she could discuss it with someone. But the only person she could talk to wouldn’t