The check-in kiosk at JFK beeped an angry red tone.
ERROR. CONTACT AIRLINE REPRESENTATIVE.
Anjanette sighed and picked up her bag. She walked to the counter. The line was long, and her arm was throbbing again.
When she finally reached the agent, she handed over her passport.
I'm sorry, Ms. Horton, the agent said, typing furiously. Your ticket has been cancelled.
Cancelled? By whom?
The payment method was declined retroactively. The cardholder reported it as unauthorized use.
Anjanette's jaw tightened. Adam.
Fine, she said, pulling out her wallet. I'll pay for a new ticket. Economy. One way to Zurich.
She handed over her debit card. It was a joint account card.
The agent swiped it.
Declined.
Anjanette felt the heat rising in her cheeks. Try it again.
Declined, ma'am. The bank says the account is frozen.
Two Port Authority Police officers were walking toward the counter. Anjanette's stomach dropped.
Mrs. Horton? one of them asked.
Yes?
We've been contacted by Horton Industries. They've filed a report concerning the theft of proprietary technology. They claim you are in possession of stolen company property. Specifically, a corporate mobile device containing sensitive trade secrets.
Anjanette stared at them. This is my phone.
Is it registered to the company?
Technically, yes. Adam paid for everything through the business. It was a tax write-off.
I need you to hand it over, ma'am. Or we will have to detain you pending an investigation.
People were staring. A woman in line behind her tutted impatiently.
Anjanette handed over the phone. Her hands were shaking, not with fear, but with fury.
Without a phone, she couldn't call an Uber. She couldn't access her mobile banking app to transfer funds from her small personal savings-if Adam hadn't frozen that too.
She had fifty dollars in cash in her wallet.
She turned away from the counter, leaving the airport.
She walked to the AirTrain. She took it to Jamaica Station. She transferred to the E train.
The subway car was crowded and smelled of stale urine and wet wool. Anjanette stood in the corner, clutching her suitcase. The grinding pain in her bandaged foot was a sharp, steady rhythm against the clatter of the train, a brutal reminder of every step she took away from her old life. She was wearing designer jeans and a cashmere sweater, surrounded by tired commuters.
She closed her eyes and let the rhythm of the train soothe her.
Adam thought he had won. He thought stripping her of resources would break her.
He forgot one thing.
Before she was Anjanette Horton, she was nobody. She knew how to survive on nothing.
And she had left something in her office. In the bottom drawer of her desk, inside a small, biometrically sealed case that only her thumbprint could open. Her original birth certificate. Her social security card. And her old passport-the one with her maiden name.
She needed those to leave the country.
The train rattled into Manhattan. Anjanette got off at 53rd Street.
She walked two blocks to Horton Tower. The glass monolith pierced the sky, arrogant and imposing.
She walked into the lobby. Her hair was frizzy from the humidity, her eyes dark with exhaustion.
She walked to the turnstiles. She reached for her badge, then remembered she didn't have it.
She walked to the security desk.
I need to go up to the 40th floor, she said to the guard, a man named Mike she had brought coffee to a hundred times.
Mike looked down at his clipboard. I can't let you up, Mrs. Horton. Your access is revoked.
I need my personal effects, Mike. My legal identification is in my desk.
Mike looked pained. I'm sorry. Mr. Horton's orders. No entry.
Anjanette leaned on the desk. Call HR. Tell Jason I'm here. Tell him if he doesn't let me up to get my legal identification, I will stand in this lobby and scream until TMZ shows up.
Mike hesitated, then picked up the phone.
He spoke in hushed tones, then nodded.
You can go up, he said. But security has to escort you.
Fine, Anjanette said.
Two guards flanked her. They marched her to the elevator like a criminal.
