Beside it was an embossed warrant authorization card signed by the United States Attorney for the Northern District of Georgia.
The hallway went dead silent.
The mocking smirk on Brittany Miller's face didn't merely fade; it disintegrated. The blood drained from her cheeks with such sudden violence that she reached out an involuntary hand to steady herself against the fuselage frame. Her mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out.
Trooper Walsh let out a long, slow breath through his teeth. He looked at the badge, looked at the federal seal, and then looked at me.
"Agent Davis?" Walsh asked quietly.
"Yes, Trooper," I said. "Now, if you wouldn't mind taking these cuffs off, we have an active investigation to execute. Gate B14 is an official crime scene."
CHAPTER 3: The Corridors They Locked Down
The double-toothed key turned in the heavy brass cylinder with a clean, oily snap.
Trooper Walsh did not yank the metal cuffs away; he released the ratchet one tooth at a time, watching my shoulders drop as circulation surged back into my thumbs. The indentation of the watch casing remained pressed deep into the skin of my left forearm, a crimson square bordered by white pressure lines.
"Keep both hands flat against your sides while we walk down this gangway, Agent Davis," Walsh said. His tone had lost its sharp, combative snap, replaced by the grim cadence of an officer who realized his uniform was ten seconds away from being entered into an inspector general’s log. "My cruiser is parked in the lower apron lane. We are clearing this corridor before the station manager turns that jet bridge into a circus."
Behind us, the forward door of Flight 2208 was already rattling against its rubber stops as passengers surged into the narrow aisle.
Brittany Miller stood anchored against the inner bulkhead of the galley. Her fingers were still dug into the blue trim, her knuckles drained of color, her eyes fixed on the open leather credential case that Walsh still held between his thumb and forefinger. She didn't shout. She didn't invoke the captain’s authority. The small, manufactured smirk that had carried her through six weeks of fabricated incident reports had dissolved into a slack, hollow stare.
"Brittany," I said, pausing at the threshold of the jet bridge.
She flinched.
"Do not alter the local flight log," I said. "Do not power down the station tablet. Section 1519 of Title 18 makes intentional spoliation of electronic evidence punishable by twenty years. Every sync packet your tablet transmitted after 7:14 this morning is already archived on a federal mirror server in Atlanta."
Her mouth opened slightly, but no breath moved across her lips.
Beside her, Ashley Brown took a step forward from the shadows of the galley corridor. Her face was streaked with damp mascara, but her spine had straightened. She looked at me, then down at the blue company tablet clutched against her apron.
"Agent Davis," Ashley said, her voice shaking but entirely clear. "I have the predeparture log. She told me to skip your seat before we pushed back from Gate B22. She told me to write down that you were belligerent before you ever took off your coat."
"Ashley, shut your mouth!" Brittany hissed, her voice cracking as she lunged toward the girl.
"Step back, ma'am," Walsh commanded, his hand dropping toward the baton ring on his utility belt. "Touch that flight attendant and I will cuff you to the emergency slide rail. Move toward the forward lavatory and stay there."
Arthur Vance stepped past the galley frame, his overcoat folded neatly over his arm, his silver hair catching the fluorescent glare of the gate corridor. He didn't look at Brittany. He looked directly at Trooper Walsh.
"Trooper, my vehicle is in short-term parking," Arthur stated. "My direct office line is on that envelope in your breast pocket. I am walking to the district supervisor’s desk right now to ensure the gate security recordings from Atlanta and Boston are preserved under legal hold."
"We already have the hold issued, Mr. Vance," I said. "Thank you for holding the line."