On the first day of the Spring Festival travel rush, the airport gate was packed with men and women, young and old, all heading home for the New Year.
But I was throwing a tantrum at the gate, rolling around on the ground, and I'd even tossed my luggage all over the floor, refusing to make way no matter what.
The passengers behind me pointed at my nose and cursed me out as a lunatic, saying I was delaying them from getting home for the New Year.
I smiled, sat down cross-legged on the floor, and unhurriedly started scrolling short videos.
Only when security forcibly hauled me away did the crowd swarm onto the plane.
An hour later, the plane broke apart midair and burst into flames.
More than two hundred passengers—none survived.
As the "troublemaker" who'd been left behind, the cops took me in for questioning.
Facing their interrogation, I kept repeating two sentences.
"This accident has nothing to do with me."
"But everyone who boarded over me has to die."
…
"SAVANNAH PRUITT! Are you going to admit you were wrong or not?"
In the interrogation room, the fluorescent light stabbed at people's eyes until they hurt.
Joel Lambert, the officer in charge of this Spring Festival air-crash case, slammed a thick stack of photos onto the table.
In the photos were the plane's wreckage, charred limbs, and scattered luggage.
His eyes were bloodshot as he pointed at those photos, trembling. "Two hundred lives! Doesn't your conscience hurt?"
Sitting in the interrogation chair, I blew at the bangs on my forehead. "Officer, this isn't my fault."
Lambert was so furious that he trembled, pointing at me, unable to get the words out.
"Not your fault?"
"Because of your tantrum and rolling around, you delayed this flight by fifteen minutes!"
"If the flight had taken off normally, the plane would've avoided the air currents, and there wouldn't have been an accident like this!"
"You killed them! You!"
I curled my lip and snorted.
"Officer Lambert, your logic is hilarious."
"Then why don't you blame the ticket counter that sold the tickets? Why don't you blame the manufacturer that built the plane?"
"I just sat at the gate for a while. What, I used magic to shoot the plane down?"
Joel Lambert was so angry he snapped the pencil in his hand.
"Enough!" An older detective, Harper, stepped in from the doorway and steadied him.
Her gaze was sharp. "Savannah Pruitt, twenty-four years old, freelancer. Usually well-behaved and sensible—you don't even have a record of running a red light."
"But today at the gate you were like a different person? Explain."
I shrugged, neither confirming nor denying.
"My persona collapsed, that's all. Doesn't everyone love that kind of contrast?"
Detective Harper was so mad she laughed, pulling a written statement from the folder.
"According to witnesses at the gate, you were shouting the whole time—anyone who boarded over you had to die."
"How did you know the plane would have an accident?"
"I guessed. Just happened to guess right."
The atmosphere in the interrogation room dropped several degrees.
Joel Lambert was livid:
"Savannah Pruitt! Don't think you can muddle through by playing dumb and acting crazy!"
Just then, the interrogation room door was shoved open.
A young officer ran in holding an evidence bag.
"Captain! Part of the black box data has been restored!"
Lambert snatched the bag, opened it, took one look—and his face turned deathly pale.
"This… this is impossible…"
I impatiently urged them, "Can you hurry up? If you don't have evidence, let me go."
Lambert took a deep breath. "The recording shows… five minutes before takeoff, the captain had already received a warning!"
"Someone anonymously reported that the plane's landing gear had been tampered with, and the oxygen system had been cut off!"
"Because the caller's voice was mocking, the captain thought it was a prank, so he didn't report it to the control tower."
