rain.

chapter one.

The rain patters against the window of the spacious apartment. Thirty-five-year-old Thomas Wood sits in a plush armchair, staring out of the large bay window as the strong winds blow the dancing gray clouds this way and that way. The rain lashes at the window, creating smears and making the world outside appear to be melting.

He lets out a long sigh and begins to drum his fingers on the arm of the chair. His heart is racing -- as it has been for the last hour or two. A little drop of sweat teases its way through his brown hair. He takes a rough hand and wipes it across his face, blinking his wide, brown eyes a few times to clear them. Unfortunately for him, it doesn't clear his thoughts.

Thomas Wood worries every time his wife, Irina, and daughter, Renee, fly on a plane or travel anywhere in any way, for that matter. He can't help it. He'd rather not have them travel anywhere alone, but someone had to stay home and hold down the fort while they visited his wife's dying mother. She had never particularly liked Thomas, saying that he would never earn enough to support her daughter and granddaughter on the salary of an author. Nevertheless, even if maybe it was to prove her wrong, Thomas published his first book and made enough money on the sales to buy a large apartment in uptown New York City; they were extremely happy. Then Irina's mother became sick -- terminal liver cancer -- and Irina had to fly to Tampa, deciding to take Renee with her to say goodbye one last time to her grandmother.

And now Thomas Wood sits in an armchair, constantly worrying about his beloved wife and daughter. Were they okay? Had they made their flight? Were there any crazies on the flight that wanted to harm them? He takes another shaky breath to try and calm his nerves. He has to keep reminding himself that the security at airports is severe, the pilots know exactly what they're doing, and that his family is safe.

He keeps the television on in the other room, fixed on the most popular news channel. He doesn't stay in the same room as the television though, because the stress would be overwhelming. Instead, he stays a room away where he can just barely hear the television, wringing his hands and popping his knuckles over and over. He isn't sure why he is so worried; he just has bad feelings about Flight 49's trip.

His eyes land on a framed photograph on the coffee table. It's a picture of all three of them in front of the Statue of Liberty; they had gone there for Renee's tenth birthday. It's one of the few pictures where all three of them are together. Usually, it's Thomas who takes them, and that means he's excluded from most of them. In this picture, Renee is looking away from the camera, her smooth face shining and the sun reflecting off of her reddish-blonde hair. Her bright green eyes are sparkling and her braces twinkle on her white teeth.

Irina. Beautiful Irina. Her parents are Russian, but she had been born in small-town Oregon. Golden blonde -- she had never dyed her hair. Dark green, hazel eyes. Beautiful. Beautiful on the inside, too. She was the most loving, kind, beautiful person Thomas had ever met.

He leans back in his chair and takes another deep breath. The rain continues outside, unfazed by Thomas's thoughts. Pitter, patter, pitter, patter. A clap of thunder. A voice on the television giving urgent news.

Thomas springs from his seat as he hears the anchor say the dreaded words: plane crash. Tripping on the rug, Thomas struggles to make his way to the next room. Jaw unhinged, a low moaning sound coming from within, he listens to the sickening news. Flight 49, Irina and Renee's flight, had crashed. It had crashed. No survivors. Beautiful Irina. Sparkling Renee. Dead. Pulverized in a tangle of metal and roaring flames. The plane had to fly through a thunderstorm around Georgia and had been struck by a massive bolt of lightning. It had crashed in a cotton field.

No survivors.

Irina and Renee are dead.

Never to return.