Page 12 of He Knows When You're Awake

The private jet gleams in the early morning light, its sleek silhouette a stark contrast to the utilitarian JFK terminals surrounding it.

The itinerary hadn’t listed an airline. I guess I should have known that meant private. Dear lord.

I grip my portfolio tighter, frozen at the base of the airstairs. Everything about this feels surreal—from the white-gloved flight attendant waiting to escort me aboard to the way my boots leave prints in the light dusting of snow on the tarmac.

“Welcome aboard, Ms. Whitmore.” The attendant’s smile is practiced perfection. “May I take your coat?”

“I... no. I mean... yes, I... sure.”

Real eloquent, Sloane. Way to act like you’ve done this before. Though when exactly would I have done this before? My biggest splurge on transportation was upgrading to Economy Plus on a flight to Chicago.

The interior stops my breath. Honey-colored wood panels gleam against cream leather seats wide enough to curl up in. Crystal glasses catching sunlight through oval windows send prisms dancing across the ceiling. I take a hesitant step forward, terrified I’ll somehow break something that I couldn’t possibly afford to replace.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.” The attendant gestures to what looks less like an airplane seat and more like a throne. “We’ll be taking off shortly.”

I sink into the leather, immediately panicking that my slacks—while my nicest pair—might somehow damage it. Do rich people even wear slacks on private jets? Should I have worn a ball gown? Do I own a ball gown?

My phone buzzes—Chloe, keeping her promise to text until takeoff:Don’t forget the pepper spray! And if he turns out to be serial killer, at least get his Wi-Fi password first so you can live-stream your last moments.

I snort, then quickly try to turn it into a cough when the attendant looks my way.If I die, be sure to empty my bedside drawer. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT let my mother open that drawer.

The flight attendant appears with a steaming cup that fills the cabin with a familiar scent. My fingers close around the delicate porcelain, and I freeze. It’s peppermint tea with a hint of vanilla—the exact blend I’ve been obsessed with this week. The one I just switched to after two weeks of chamomile, which followed my green tea phase. I can never stick with one type for long, but somehow they’ve managed to catch my current favorite.

“Everything all right, Ms. Whitmore?”

“Fine!” My voice comes out an octave too high. “Just... admiring the cup. Very... cuppy.” Oh god, please stop talking.

The coincidences are starting to feel less coincidental, and my brain helpfully starts playing every true crime podcast I’ve ever listened to. Though surely serial killers don’t waste this much money on their victims?

Hours later, Switzerland unfolds beneath us like a living Christmas card. I press my face against the window like a kid, probably leaving nose prints on the crystal-clear plexiglass. I can’t bring myself to care. The view is too spectacular.

Snowcapped Alps pierce through cotton-wisp clouds, their jagged peaks catching the late afternoon sun. As we descend into Zurich, tiny villages appear, their church steeples and red-roofed houses dusted with fresh powder. The landscape seems to hold its breath, pristine and untouched.

“We’re beginning our descent,” the attendant announces, probably judging how I’m practically climbing into the window. “Please return to your seat, Ms. Whitmore.”

Right. Dignity. I have that somewhere.

A sleek black car waits on the tarmac, its driver holding a sign with my name in elegant script. I nearly trip down the airstairs, catching myself at the last moment. The driver doesn’t even blink, which makes me wonder what kind of training they go through. “How to Maintain Stoic Professionalism While Escorting Disaster-Prone Americans” must be a required course.

The drive to Gstaad winds through valleys that make my artist’s soul ache. Pine forests march up impossibly steep slopes, their branches heavy with snow. Wooden chalets straight out of fairy tales cling to mountainsides, warm lights glowing in their windows against the gathering dusk.

“Is this real?” I whisper, mostly to myself. “Like, actually real?”

The driver—whose name is Stefan, and who finally cracked a smile when I nearly face-planted getting into the car—actually answers. “Very real, Ms. Whitmore. Though many find Gstaad rather like a dream.”

We pass through villages that look frozen in time—ancient stone churches, window boxes still bright with winter flowers, boutiques displaying watches worth more than my student loans.

The road climbs higher, each switchback revealing new vistas that have me pressing closer to the window. My phone has zero bars up here, which means Chloe is probably already planning myfuneral. “Died in the Swiss Alps,” I mutter. “Hopefully not buried in an avalanche.”

The Alpina emerges as we round the final bend—a massive yet elegant structure of wood and stone that seems to grow from the mountain itself. Most windows are dark against the twilight, except for a few that glow softly, suggesting occupied rooms within. Old brass lanterns line the curved drive, their light catching the billowing snow as we approach. The building commands the mountainside, its steep roofs and weathered timbers standing against the elements. Wooden balconies extend from the facade, their railings now thick with fresh snow.

“Holy shit,” I breathe, then immediately clap a hand over my mouth. Pretty sure you’re not supposed to swear at fancy Swiss hotels. But Stefan just chuckles as he opens my door.

“Wait until you see inside, Ms. Whitmore.”

The lobby steals what’s left of my breath. Soaring timber beams frame walls of windows that showcase the valley below. A massive stone fireplace with flames that cast flickering shadows across plush seating areas done in cream and chocolate leather. The scent of pine mingles with something spicy—mulled wine, I realize, spotting crystal glasses being served to guests who look like they’ve stepped from the pages ofVogue.

I glance down at my travel outfit, suddenly very aware of my sensible boots. The woman nearest to me is wearing what appears to be actual diamonds in her hair. Who wears diamonds in their hair? To a hotel lobby?