Chapter Thirty-Two
SYLVIE
One weekend. It is only one weekend. This is what I tell myself over and over as I board Holt’s private jet at the Westchester County airport.
But as I walk down the aisle, I realize I have only ever been on five planes in my life. The plane from Jamaica to Connecticut. The plane back to Jamaica when Lydia died. The plane to Mexico. The plane from Mexico to here. And now, I am on the first leg of a roundtrip flight to Little Rock, Arkansas, the state where Cal-Mart has its official headquarters. This mean by the time this weekend is over, half of my flights will have been on board a private jet.
Look at the poor Jamaican girl now, I think with a wry chuckle as I sit in one of the plane’s sumptuous leather seats. It’s the same one I sat in for the flight from M
