Gwendolyn pulled a folded slip of paper from her uniform pocket and smoothed it on the table between us. It was a baggage claim receipt, but not for luggage I recognized. “Your son handed this to a man at the gate before boarding,” she said quietly. “I saw the exchange. Then I overheard why.” She had been restocking the forward galley when Patricia’s voice drifted through the curtain, low and certain, talking about a policy that paid double for accidental death abroad and a claim that would be simple once the trip was behind them.

My hands went cold, but forty years of teaching had trained me to stay calm when the truth arrived. “There’s more,” Gwendolyn whispered, glancing again at the door. “The man he gave this to isn’t traveling. He stayed behind. And the receipt is for a package already sitting in your home.” I stared at the slip. My own address was printed at the bottom, and beside it, a delivery time scheduled for the exact hour we were meant to land in San Diego.