PART 2
Missing a flight is negligence. Leaving a spouse after an argument is impulsive rage.
Canceling an international return ticket twelve hours ahead of time is calculated malice.
I sat in the heavy silence of the hotel room, staring at the two vicious notes until the sheer absurdity of it all cracked my paralysis. I’m a senior corporate auditor. My whole career is built on anticipating disaster, containing liability, and tracking down fraud. I’d spent a decade teaching executives how to survive supply-chain collapses and data breaches.
Suddenly, an old, seemingly useless scrap of information surfaced in my mind. A seven-digit sequence.
Years earlier, my former director, Martin Shaw, had instituted a mandatory safety drill. He’d made every senior consultant memorize one international emergency contact number. I had mocked him relentlessly for it. No one memorizes numbers in the digital age, Martin, I had teased. Exactly, he had replied, utterly humorless.
I still remembered his Cincinnati area code.
I threw on linen trousers and practically ran back to the lobby. The receptionist looked up, eyes wide.
“May I borrow a house phone for an outgoing international line?” I asked, my voice finally steady.
She slid a sleek black handset across the granite. I dialed. The line clicked and hissed across the oceanic cables.
Martin picked up on the fourth ring, his voice thick with sleep. “Hello?”
“Martin. It’s Nora Vance.”
A beat of heavy silence. “Nora.”
I looked down at the two damning pieces of stationery crumpled in my fist. Then I said the phrase I had prayed I’d never need. “Blue Lantern.”
The tone of the call shifted instantly. The grogginess drained out of Martin’s voice, replaced by the icy precision of a military tactician. “Nora. Don’t explain the story yet. First, give me your exact coordinates.”
