Unseen Messages Read online

  “Yes.” Nerves quivered in my belly. “I’m one of those people who has to check a bazillion times. I even woke up three times last night to make sure I read the time as a.m. and not p.m. I’m very sure.”

  He looked up. “You don’t have a reservation, I’m afraid.”

  “What?”

  He pointed at the screen I couldn’t see. “It says here your ticket was cancelled.”

  “No.” I squashed down the panic. So close. I’m so close to home. This couldn’t happen. I wouldn’t let it happen. “That can’t be true.” Fossicking in my handbag for my cell-phone, I trembled as I tried to find the email of my itinerary. “I have proof. I’ll find what my travel agent sent through.”

  Damn Madeline. If she’d somehow done this, she was in huge trouble.

  I was idiotic to blame a friend I would never see again.

  I should’ve listened.

  This was the first message.

  Mark returned to checking the screen while I scrolled through my emails. Stupid Gmail had archived the file and I couldn’t find it.

  “Did you have a delay coming here? Did you miss your flight?”

  “Ah, yes!” Relief flooded. “My connecting flight was late. I missed the leg to New York and had to wait twenty-four hours before the next service.” I moved closer to the desk, trying to refrain from seeming desperate. “But that was the airline’s fault, not mine. They assured me the rest of my ticket was unaffected.”

  “That’s fine.” Mark pursed his lips. “And that’s true, normally. I just can’t find a ticket number.” Chewing the inside of his cheek, he mumbled, “Don’t worry. Give me five minutes and I’ll build you a new booking then reissue your ticket.”

  I sighed, wanting to puddle to the floor and magically teleport myself home. I didn’t have the strength to go through the highs and lows of travel. I was done. Empty.

  My shoulders rolled. “Okay.”

  There was nothing I could do.

  I stood there and waited as Mark fixed Message Number One.

  I should’ve paid attention.

  I should’ve walked right out the doors and hailed the nearest cab back to downtown Hollywood.

  But I didn’t.

  .............................

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  A male’s hand shot out, preventing me from moving forward.

  I blanched, slamming to a halt. “Excuse me?”

  Now, what have I done?

  His eyes narrowed in reproof. “The body scanner picked up metal objects on your person. You’ll be required to undergo a pat-down in a private room with a female officer. Do you consent?”

  All around me, other passengers shoved and bumped, grabbing items from the X-ray belt and rushing to their chosen destinations.

  I envied them.

  “But...I don’t have anything to declare.”

  The dark-haired officer cocked his head at the screen showing a few large splodges on a stick figure that I assumed was me. “The scanner has highlighted a few areas of concern.”

  A furl of unease nudged its way into being.

  First, the missing booking and now, security.

  Can’t I just get on the plane without talking to anyone else?

  I’d hoped once Mark handed over my reissued boarding pass and wished me a pleasant flight that my problems were over.

  Desperate to just be left alone, I lifted up my pink jumper, revealing a black tank with glittering diamantes on the chest. “I should’ve thought before dressing in this to travel. I think those set it off.”

  The officer cleared his throat, doing his best not to look at my boobs. “That may be the case, but there are multiple points to check.”

  I glanced at the image. More black spots on my ankles and wrists.

  “Ah, it’s my jewellery and the zips in my jeans.” Shoving back my sleeves, I revealed three bracelets on each wrist. All gold on my left and all silver on my right. Then pointed at the zippers in my skinny jeans at my ankles. “See?”

  “I’m sorry. We’ll still need to do a pat down.”

  “Are you sure—”

  “Are you refusing to undergo the requirement to travel?” The agent crossed his arms, his biceps straining against the dark material of his uniform.

  There was nothing I could do.

  “No.” My voice turned weary. “I consent.”

  A female officer came forward, waving me to follow her. “Come with me. We’ll get you sorted.”

  Message Number Two went unheeded.

  .............................

  NOT PERMITTED TO TRAVEL.

  “Oh, my God. Now, what?”

  The unease grew to unrest, prickling my spine.

  “Come on.” I stabbed the screen, removing and inserting my passport a few times into the do-it-yourself e-reader. Where were the good old days of customer service and officers who personally asked if you had explosives in your carry-on? Why had machines replaced a friendly face?

  I didn’t want to have to deal with robots, all lined up in military precision, unable to empathize or wish me a pleasant journey—extending my misery that much more.

  NOT PERMITTED TO TRAVEL. PLEASE REMOVE PASSPORT AND SEE OFFICER.

  I growled under my breath. “Fine.”

  Stealing my passport and deleting the half-finished clearance, I looked around for a saviour to help.

  No one.

  Brilliant.

  Not one single person to help guide me through this frustrating dilemma.

  Slinging my handbag further up my arm, I hugged my jacket and wheeled my heavy carry-on to the glass booths guarding the gate lounge.

  Other disgruntled people rolled their eyes, obviously victims of the same masquerade of machines.

  The line took a few moments.

  I wasted each minute by willing it away when I should’ve been holding each tightly, refusing to let time move forward.

  Finally, a dark-skinned youngish man waved me over.

  Trooping toward him, I smiled and handed over my ticket, clearance card, and passport. “The machine won’t accept me.”

  He scowled. “It’s because only US and Canadian citizens are allowed to use the e-gates.”

  I pointed at the sign above the hated machines. “It says anyone with an e-reader passport.”

  He huffed as if I’d read it wrong. “It’s not for Australians.”

  His attitude pissed me off, but I fought my rising annoyance. “Great. Well, I’m glad I’m in your care.”

  He didn’t reply.

  Frowning, he passed my passport through his computer and did whatever he needed to do. “I require your fingerprints for identification.”

  I placed my first four fingers on the sticky scanner and held them until he told me to flip to my thumb. Rubbing the tacky residue, I resisted the urge to pull out my hand sanitizer and disinfect whatever germs had just contaminated me.

  The officer looked up, his forehead furrowing. “Um, that’s odd.”

  The unease grew again, a bubble glistening with fear, puffing fresh breath with every issue. “What’s odd?”

  “Your fingerprints correspond to a different name in the system.” He glowered as if I were a super spy or wanted villain.

  My heart raced. “Look, I am who I say I am—Estelle Evermore.”

  “Place your fingers on the scanner again.”

  Cringing at the thought of touching the unsanitary device, I did as he asked.

  A few seconds later and more keyboard tapping, the computer chimed happily.

  My shoulders slouched in relief.

  The officer handed back my documents. Suspicion didn’t leave his gaze as he looked me up and down. “Have a pleasant day.”

  Hasn’t been very pleasant so far.

  I didn’t reply.

  Wait...

  The nerves dancing on my spine switched from waltz to hip-hop, picking up in strength and number.

  There was something wrong with this...surely?
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  Don’t people say things happen in threes?

  Well, three things had just tried to prevent me from getting on the plane.

  The thought of home battled against the fear of idiotic superstitions. I couldn’t stand another night in a foreign bed. I wanted my apartment. I wanted to shoo away the house sitter and cuddle my cat, Shovel-Face (named for his flat little nose and saucerish eyes), while catching up on the latest TV shows.

  No. There’s nothing wrong.

  I was just tired and overly sensitive.

  Ignoring my paranoia and ridiculous excuses, I made my way through duty-free and found my gate.

  I’m here.

  Sitting in an uncomfortable chair, I turned on my e-book and prepared to relax.

  I’m going home.

  This entire mess would be forgotten.

  How stupid of me to ignore yet another message.

  .............................

  The fourth and final message trying to prevent my imminent demise happened an hour later.

  “Flight FJ811 to Nadi is now boarding all remaining passengers.”

  I’d patiently waited for most people to board. I didn’t do well standing in the air-bridge, squashed like hamsters in a toilet roll, waiting to enter an overcrowded airplane. I preferred to get on last, regardless if I didn’t get convenient overhead storage.

  Ever since I’d said goodbye to Madeline, I’d been tired. But it was nothing compared to the sudden lethargy as I handed over my boarding pass.

  The air-bridge beckoned, and beyond that, the airplane that would take me home.

  Home.

  Yes, please.

  “Afternoon.” The lady took my pass, inserting it into the reader.

  Instantly a siren sounded; red codes popped up on the screen.

  Oh, my God. Now what?

  “Is everything okay?” My tiredness evaporated, drowned out by escalating unease.

  I’m not meant to get on this plane.

  The lady frowned. “It says you’re not permitted to board. There’s an issue with your visa.”

  My heart stopped beating.

  Why is this happening?

  Anxiousness lodged in my throat. I wanted to grab my carry-on and back away from the boarding gate. I wanted to listen. To finally give into premonition and paranoia and stay in America until fate stopped playing roulette with my life.

  “Look, I don’t know what’s going on but I’ve changed my mind—”

  “Wait.” The woman silenced the blinking lights and alarm. “You don’t need a visa. You’re flying to Australia and have an Australian passport. Stupid machine. You’re returning to your own country.”

  I swallowed hard. “It’s okay. If you could just offload my luggage—”

  She waved away my concerns. “Don’t be absurd, dear. Just a glitch. We’ll get it sorted in a sec.”

  “What seems to be the problem?” A supervisor came over, wiping his hands importantly on black slacks.

  The blonde haired woman shrugged. “I’m not sure. The machine has gone crazy.”

  I’m not meant to get on the plane.

  Do. Not. Get. On. That. Plane.

  Goosebumps darted down my arms, my eyes dancing between the two agents. “I’m okay to wait. If it says I don’t have a visa, I’ll stay here until it’s sorted out.” My feet itched to bolt. My eyes landed on the plane, the air-bridge linking to its fuselage like an artery to a heart. “If someone could help with my belongings, I’ll happily wait for the next service.”

  “No, don’t be silly.” The supervisor pulled wire-rimmed glasses from his pocket and took over from the blonde agent. “It’s just a malfunction. That’s all.” His fingers flew over the keyboard, inputting code and hitting commands.

  The same message popped up. DO NOT BOARD. NO VISA.

  “If you could stand to the side, ma’am.” The supervisor waved to the glass windows away from foot traffic. “Once the final stragglers are on board, I’ll be sure to fix it.”

  I didn’t move. I couldn’t move.

  My heart flew, pounding against rib after rib. My body turned into stone.

  Stop being ridiculous, Stel.

  Overtiredness had finally caught up with me and I was reading into things. There was no earthly reason why I shouldn’t get on the plane.

  I’d always loved flying. In fact, when I left school, I’d been an air-hostess for two years before I realised dealing with humans in a claustrophobic tube wasn’t the best condition for my personality.

  However, the travel had been incredible. The aeronautical calling breathed in my blood. I knew how airports ran. I knew the codes. I knew the lingo. I knew what pilots and air-hostesses got up to on overnight flights away.

  What I didn’t know was why—when I’d spent the past seven weeks flying every other day with no problems—every issue appeared all at once.

  Another warning went off. I wrenched my head up.

  The supervisor glanced at a new crowd. “Ah, Mr and Mrs Evermore. Are you related to Ms. Estelle Evermore by any chance?”

  A family I’d never seen before with two children looked at me. Their plaid jumpers and matching backpacks would’ve been comical if they didn’t share my last name. What were the odds? Were we related and I never knew?

  Mr. Evermore shook his head. “Not that I’m aware.”

  We made eye contact. Mr. Evermore was the postcard-perfect American with a bushy beard, floppy hair, and kind eyes. His wife smiled, hugging the child closest to her. The boy couldn’t have been older than thirteen, but he took after his father. The youngest, a rosy-cheeked girl, yawned, holding the arm of a stuffed kitten.

  Shovel-Face.

  An image of my ugly but gorgeously affectionate cat hit me hard.

  A lick of terror erupted down my spine.

  I couldn’t explain it. I had no words to describe it.

  But I’d never been so afraid of something I couldn’t see, hear, or touch.

  I had the strangest sensation that I’d never see my favourite companion again.

  Don’t be so stupid, Stel!

  The supervisor cleared his throat, shattering my fear, returning to my problematic booking. “No worries. It’s just a bit strange that there’s more than one Evermore party on this flight and you’re not related.”

  Yet another strange message.

  Another unknown issue.

  I don’t want to get on the plane.

  I didn’t speak as the Evermores laughed, took their passes, and drifted down the air-bridge.

  Another gust of fear darted down my back.

  Get it together.

  They didn’t seem anxious. They had children to protect. Instincts behaving themselves. Nothing was going to happen.

  Pinching my wrist, I grounded myself firmly in reality and shoved away scepticism of flying.

  Looking up, my gaze fell on a man with sexy dark hair and the most insanely bright blue eyes I’d ever seen.

  He jogged toward the counter, handing over his boarding pass in a rush of crumpled clothing and messily packed messenger bag.

  The blonde agent blinked, eyeing his clean-shaven jaw, his height, and well-formed biceps. He wore hard work like an aftershave while the provocative black rims of his glasses firmly placed him as intellectually mysterious.

  My songwriter’s brain went into overdrive, penning him a song of outdoorsy carpenter or wildlife patroller. Sunshine existed in his gaze, wildness wept from his flawless skin. I’d never seen a man so tamed by scruffy jeans, grey t-shirt, and glasses but somehow still look so recklessly undomesticated.

  His boarding pass went through without complaint.

  His eyes met mine.

  He paused, lips twitching into a small smile. A bolt of interested attraction sparked from me to him. My mouth responded against my will, parting beneath his attention.

  Who is he?

  Sunlight reflected off his glasses, blinding me for a moment.

  “Have a nice flight, Mr. Oak.”
The blonde agent returned his pass.

  The connection between us vanished as he pinched it from her fingers and hoisted the bag strap up his shoulder. “Cheers.”

  An accent. English, by the sounds of it. Before I could conjure more tales of fancy, he disappeared down the air-bridge.

  A moment later, the supervisor clapped his hands. “Hurrah. All done.” Giving me a new boarding pass, he grinned. “All sorted, Ms. Evermore. You’re free to board. Sorry for the delay.”

  Taking the documentation, I put one foot in front of the other.

  I ignored every warning bell in my blood.

  I followed the Evermore family, the enticing Mr. Oak, and willingly gave my life to fate.

  I put my previous fear down to overwork and stress.

  I convinced myself I was reading into things, that disasters happened to other people; that life didn’t send messages to those about to die.

  I didn’t listen.

  I ignored the signs.

  I got on the plane.

  Chapter Two

  ...............................................

  G A L L O W A Y

  ......

  I HATED FLYING.

  The only reason I agreed to fly halfway across the bloody world was to complete my apprenticeship under one of the best builders in the style of architecture I wanted to specialise in.

  For the past six months, I’d lived on his estate. I’d listened to my mentor by night. I’d worked beside him by day. He taught me how little I knew and how much I needed to learn if I wanted to excel in the profession I’d chosen (not to mention reminding me how close I was to throwing it all away).

  To work with wood, to build and create with a natural resource—first, you had to understand how it worked. My teacher had come from a long line of craftsmen from furniture makers to sky-scraper designers.

  The fact he had Inuit blood and could trace his family tree back to the natives on his mother’s side was a plus for learning, not just about how to hammer a nail or finesse a dovetail joint, but how to nurture the trees we used. How to take a wooden plank and turn it into a home.

  I’d learned more living with his wife and two sons, absorbing every lesson, than I ever did at university (or at my more recent abode). Then again, that education had been of a different nature.