“Sir,” Jessica said, her voice tight with barely contained fury. “You need to come with me, now.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Derek mumbled, still not looking up. “She was in my seat. I tried to get past her, and she got in the way. Not my fault. She’s clumsy.”
The lie was so casual, so practiced, that Amara almost admired its audacity. Almost.
She had spent the last eight months listening to men like Derek lie—about their beliefs, actions, and intentions. She knew every variation, every tell.
“I have it on camera,” a voice from row four called out. A teenager with purple-streaked hair held up her phone, facing Derek. “You kicked her on purpose. I got the whole thing.”
Derek’s face flushed crimson, the anger creeping up from his collar like a rising tide. “You little—”
Amara’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and controlled, despite the pain surging through her body. She had 15 years in federal law enforcement, and her words carried that weight. She reached into her carry-on, pulling out her credentials with shaky hands, flipping them open.
“Derek Crawford, I’m Special Agent Amara Jackson, FBI. You just assaulted a federal officer and endangered the life of her unborn child. You’re under arrest.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and final. Derek stared at the badge, then at Amara, and back at the badge again. His mouth opened and closed twice before any sound came out.
“You’re lying. You’re just trying to—”
