our row.
It was the businessman in the gray suit.
His expression was completely different.
His tie was loosened, and his eyes were red.
“Sir,” he said quietly. “Could I speak to you?”
I wanted to send him away.
But Dad nodded.
The man crouched beside our seats.
“My name is Grant Whitaker. And I owe you an apology.”
He struggled to continue.
“My mother is Carol Whitaker. In January 1977, she was seven months pregnant. She was on Flight 417.”
Dad froze.
“She was sitting in seat 6C,” Grant
