Excerpt of The Baby Twins by Laura Marie Altom, Laura Altom

"…In preparation for takeoff, the captain has requested
that all seat backs and trays be returned to…"

Clutching the armrests of seat 24C, Stephanie Olm-stead
forced a deep breath. Heart racing, mouth dry, she told
herself she was being ridiculous for worrying about the
flight. She'd flown dozens of times. Had friends who
were pilots. Her husband had been a navy pilot. After
leaving the military, he'd worked for TransGlobal
Airlines. He'd joined the Air National Guard. Went to
Iraq. Never came home. Michael had told her that
statistically, she was much safer on a plane than in her
minivan. But if that were true, why was he dead?

"First time flyer?" the middle-aged man seated
beside her asked while frenetically tapping away on his
BlackBerry. He wore a rumpled gray suit that matched his
equally rumpled hair. His musky cologne churned the
blueberry bagel and OJ she'd hastily downed for breakfast.

"No," she managed. Though the September temperature
in Little Rock had been in the uncharacteristic blustery
fifties, the plane's interior had grown stiflingly warm
as they'd sat waiting in Memphis to begin the second leg
of their journey. Thank goodness she'd left her twins in
the capable hands of friends, Olivia and Tag O'Malley.
Her girls were prone to heat rash.

"We'll be fine," he assured her, ignoring a
flight attendant's request to turn off cellular devices.
"I'm a bag dragger. Do this all the time. Where you
headed?"

"Miami." Why wouldn't he leave her alone? At
least the row's middle seat was empty. If she'd had
to be crushed up against the guy, she'd probably be even
more uneasy. Her twin sister wanted to be with her, but she
hadn't been able to leave work when Michael's friend
Austin had made his request, leaving Stephanie to go on a
solo mission.

"Duh," the guy said with a snort. "Every danged
one of us is gonna end up in Miami. I mean, after that.
Convention? Vacation? Work?"

"Tying loose ends," she said, hoping her curt tone
conveyed that she wasn't in the mood for chitchat.
"Concerning my dead husband."

"Oh." After finally turning off his phone, he said,
"I was just at a cousin's wake. Damnedest thing you
ever did see. He was a huge Dallas Cowboys fan, and right
there on his casket was—"

"If you don't mind," Stephanie said over the
MD-90's engine's roar, "I—I'd like to try
getting some rest."

"Good luck." From the seat pocket in front of him,
he withdrew a detective novel and a yellow bag of Peanut
M&M's. "I never can sleep a wink on these tin cans.
I like the big boys. Used to be when a man flew—"

"Please," Stephanie implored, the force of takeoff
pressing her back in her seat, "if you could just be
quiet, I'd appreciate it."

The man shot her a put-out glare before launching a
conversation with the grandmotherly sort sitting across the
aisle.

Blessedly alone in her private hell, Stephanie tried working
through the steps her doctor had suggested for fending off a
full-blown panic attack. Ever since Michael's unexpected
death, she'd been plagued by the "buggers" as
longtime friend and physician, Naomi, had dubbed the
frightening incidents.

No one has ever died from a panic attack, Stephanie chanted three times in her head. The coping statement was supposed to make the stressful time easier, but in this case, the higher the plane climbed, the worse she felt.

Tugging at the collar of the white T-shirt she wore beneath
a black velour jogging suit, she told herself the cabin
wasn't abnormally hot. Even so, she wrangled free of her
long-sleeved jacket.

Her throat felt closed off, and it was growing increasingly
hard to breathe.

Naomi had prescribed medication for just this sort of thing,
but being a single mom of nine-month-old twin girls, the
last thing Stephanie wanted to do was not be alert when her
babies needed her.

Twenty minutes into their journey, a flight attendant
stopped the drink cart at the end of the row. "Would
either of you care for a complimentary beverage or—"

"Gimme a gin and tonic and one of those cans of
chips." Stephanie's seatmate handed the blonde a
ten. "Keep the change, cutie."

The woman thanked him for the offer, but returned his
change. "Ma'am?" she asked Stephanie. "May I
get anything for you?"

A new body?

Stephanie shook her head.

Eyes stinging, she followed Naomi's advice to breathe slowly through her nose. When that didn't help, she tried more coping statements. I can be anxious and still deal with this situation. All I have to do is close my eyes and wait for this to pass.

Yeah, right.

Now clawing at her T-shirt, Stephanie knew she was on the edge of a dangerous place. Hot, so hot. If she could just get fresh air—away from the musky cologne—then maybe she could breathe.

She tried standing, but her seat belt blocked the way.

"Helps if you unbuckle it first," her neighbor said
with a gin-laced chuckle.

"I have to get out of here," she said, yanking at
her seat-belt buckle, and finally freeing herself only to
encounter her seatmate's tray table. In her haste, she
crashed into it, sending his drink flying all over his lap
and the floor. "I have to get out of here."

"What the hell?" he complained, stowing his tray
table before getting up to brush himself off.

She was going to be sick, and not caring if she caused the
man further inconvenience, she ran to the back of the plane,
aiming for the lavatory. The flight attendant's cart
blocked her way. "I—I have to get off this plane,"
she said in a rush. "Michael died in the air and his
body was never found and I know he burned in the explosion
and I can't stand the thought of him that way and—"
She was crying so hard, so hysterically, that her words
stopped coming out.

She closed her eyes, willing herself back to her safe home,
away from the horrific images that'd haunted her ever
since her husband's death.

"Let's get this stowed," an attendant said,
already moving backward.

"I have to get off this plane!" Stephanie screamed.

Running down the aisle, toward the front exit door, Stephanie tripped, but then was back on her feet. She wouldn't—couldn't—die this way. She'd been entrusted with raising Michael's daughters and she refused to let him down.

A man lunged for her, but Stephanie dodged him.

"I don't want to die! I don't want to burn."
Present merged with the past—Michael's past. Her lungs
felt raw from a lack of air. If she could only get
outside—into the sun.

She'd just reached the front exit, and had her hand on
the latch, when the cockpit door opened and out came a
uniformed pilot.

"Michael?" she asked, having difficulty seeing
through tears. "Please, you have to help get this open!"

"Zip tie her hands!" someone shouted.
"She'll kill us all."

Everywhere people stared and pointed and talked all at once.
Why wouldn't they stop? Or at least help her get away?

"Michael, please," she cried, "if you'd just
help me go outside, then I could be with the girls and
everything would be—"

"Steph?" After shaking off a bewildered expression,
he slipped into professional mode. "I'm sorry,"
Michael said in a warm, yet firm tone, taking her hands,
leading her away from the exit. "Hercules himself
couldn't open this door midflight, but for your safety,
as well as that of everyone else on board, I can't have
you running wild."

"Are you taking me to another door?" she asked, her
tear-filled eyes seeing him silhouetted in a golden glow.
"I love you, Michael. Thank you for saving me. If I
could just get a breath, I'll be okay."

"I know," he said, wrapping a cold plastic tie
around her wrists and pulling it tight. "It won't be
much longer and you'll have all the outside air you
need. But up here, I'm afraid you're out of luck."

"You don't understand," she implored, crying all
the harder now that he was leading her away from the light.
"I can't die up here. I have to get home to my
babies."

"No one's dying today," he said, urging her into
a plush leather first-class seat.

"Oh, that's great," a disgruntled voice said.
"All you have to do for an upgrade is threaten to kill
everyone on board?"

"She did no such thing," said another voice.
"She's clearly in a lot of pain, and—"

"Hush it with the touchy-feely garbage," said a more
familiar tone, "she owes me a new drink. I knew she was
a fruitcake from the second she sat down."

"If the pilot's out here," yet another voice
asked, "who's flying?"

"These people hate me," Stephanie said. "See?
They want me to get off the plane."

"Tie her legs!" a shrill woman shouted.

The pilot barked to a flight attendant, "Get them in
their seats. I want no one within three rows."

"Yes, Captain."

An angry male said, "I paid for a first-class seat, and
by God, no one's telling me, I—"

"Move," the pilot commanded, "or the second we
land, I'll have you arrested." He sat in the seat
beside Stephanie and fastened her safety belt. In a gentler
tone, he asked, "Don't you know who I am?"

"You…You're Michael." As if in a dream,
Stephanie tried cupping his dear cheek, but with her hands
restrained, she couldn't quite reach. "I've
missed you so much."

"I'm sorry," he said, "but, honey, I'm
Brady. Remember? Brady McGuire. Clarissa's husband. When
you and Michael lived in Dallas, we used to all hang out
together?"

With a sniffle, she nodded. Dawning had been slow to come,
but once it had, she wished for a rock to crawl under.

"Remember those crappy apartments by Burger Palace?"
Chuckling, he shook his head. "While you and Clarissa
gossiped, Michael and I shot hoops on that weed-choked
court."

She still found it hard to breathe, but she nodded in hopes
of making her old friend go away. "He hated losing."

"Me, too." Sobering, he added, "Michael was a
good guy. He had a lot of friends at TransGlobal. You need
to know that…"

Gaze darting, she saw the carpeted orange, blue and brown
design on the bulkhead. The leather seats. Earth 33,000 feet
below. Her pulse had slowed, but her stomach still churned.

"Stephanie? Do you know where you are?"

"Of course." Toying with the dangling end of the
plastic around her wrists, she asked in a quiet tone,
"Could you please cut these off? They hurt."

"Sorry." His smile was sincere. "You caused
quite a stir, and even though we go back a long way, I'm
afraid you're under house arrest."

Her mind's eye flashed to herself trying to open the
cabin door. Humiliation didn't begin to cover the
emotions coursing through her. Though physically painful,
she brought her hands to her face, crying again, but for
different reasons now. She was no longer frightened, but
exhausted to a degree she'd never dreamed possible.

"Hey…" Brady awkwardly patted her shoulder.
"Relax. Crisis averted. Stay put until we get to Miami,
answer a few questions for the nice TSA gentleman, and
you'll be on your way."

"A-am I going to jail?"

"I don't think so," he said, "but the
air-travel climate these days is tricky."

"I'm a mess," she said.

"Understandable. I'll do everything I can to diffuse
the situation."

"Th-thank you." As much as her husband had despised
losing to the man in basketball, Michael had thought highly
of Brady. He'd always said he was a great pilot and even
better friend. Luck was shining down on her for him to be on
board.

After a sharp exhale, he said, "Well, I should get back
to the controls. You going to be all right if I leave you
with Amanda? She's the flight attendant assigned to your
seat."

"I'm good," Stephanie lied.

"Glad to see you in one piece." Craig, Brady's
copilot, made a notation on the flight log.

"Me, too. We don't get paid enough for this kind of
stuff."

"Panic attack?"

"A doozy." Since 9/11, they'd been more common.
"And you won't believe who it was."

"Lay it on me."

"Michael Olmstead's widow."

"No shit? " Whistling, he said, "Small world. He
was a good guy."

"I know."

Brady had seen a lot of things during his fifteen-year
tenure as a pilot, but something about the sadness in
Stephanie's blue eyes had struck a nerve. When she'd
looked at him, calling him by her husband's name, his
heart had gone out to her. He'd wanted to go all manly
man and charge to her rescue, but that was kind of hard when
he was in charge of one hundred and thirty-six souls in
addition to hers.

By the book, he shouldn't have left the cockpit. But
he'd already been out of his seat and on the way to the
forward head when Amanda had called, officially informing
him of the situation. Since the flight attendant had added
that she thought the woman wasn't so much a threat to
others as she was to herself, Brady had figured why not kill
two birds with one stone and lend his crew a hand.

"You all right?" Craig asked.

"Sure. Steph couldn't weigh much over a hundred
pounds soaking wet."

"I meant, in your head. You look like you've seen a
ghost."

Shrugging off his friend's comment, Brady immersed
himself in flight duties. Truth was, seeing Stephanie
Olmstead again had been a shock. One that disturbed him
until they landed.

Stephanie woke slowly, finding herself covered with a thin,
navy blue airline blanket. Beneath the cover, her hands were
still zip tied, but thankfully, a quick look around showed
her to be on her own in the cabin. Heavy footsteps sounded
on what she assumed was the jet bridge. Salty-smelling air
flared her nostrils. Miami's humidity level was as
abrupt of a change from Little Rock as was the rise in
temperature.

Her stomach felt as if she'd swallowed a boulder. Dread
hanging heavy over the implications of what she'd done.

"This her?" asked a uniformed police officer.

Brady nodded.

"Ma'am," the officer said, "I'm going to
have to take you to an airport holding area for questions."

Fat, silent tears slid down her cheeks. "I understand."

Wearing a grim expression, looking as if he wanted to step
in, but legally, ethically couldn't, Brady averted his
stare.

To him the officer said, "I've taken statements from
your crew and the rest of my team is speaking with
passengers. Now that she's awake, I'll place Ms.
Olmstead in a holding cell and return to the aircraft to
debrief you. Ma'am, I'll need you to come with me."

Silently complying, she stood.

Before she could catch it with her restrained hands, the
blanket someone had thoughtfully placed over her fell to the
floor.

As much as she wished to be rescued, Stephanie knew
she'd gotten herself into this mess, and had no one to
turn to in escaping the situation but herself. Heart
pounding even worse now than it had during her panic attack,
she fought for air.

"Ma'am," the officer prompted, motioning her out
of her row and into the center aisle.

"W-what about my purse and carry-on?"

"Both are now evidence."

This brought on a fresh wave of nausea.