“My ticket says that’s my seat,” Zara said.
Richard finally lowered the newspaper enough to see her. His gaze moved from her face to the charcoal sweater she wore, then to her dark trousers, black sneakers, and burgundy travel bag.
“Then somebody made a mistake.” “Could I see your boarding pass?”
That seemed to surprise him. Richard’s eyebrows lifted.
“You’re asking to see my boarding pass?” “I’m asking because mine says 2A.” “I heard you.” “Then please check yours.”
Several passengers nearby had begun paying attention. A man across the aisle stopped fastening his seat belt. A woman in Row 3 glanced over the top of her tablet.
Zara hated that part. She didn’t like becoming the center of a room. Her father had taught her something about situations like this: Never raise your voice simply because someone else wants you to lose control. People remembered the loudest person. Evidence remembered the truth.
Zara kept her voice even. “You may have 2B,” she said. “Could you please check your pass?”
Richard stared at her for another moment. Then he gave a small, humorless laugh. “You don’t belong in First Class.”
Heat rose behind Zara’s ears. She could feel it spreading down her neck. Not because she doubted herself, but because she understood exactly what he meant.
