The skies over the English Channel were gray with a thick overcast as Isla’s private jet pierced through the clouds. Inside, she sat rigid, arms folded, sunglasses shielding her eyes from the cabin lights though the sun had long disappeared behind the brooding sky. Her designer luggage was secured beside her, her phone turned off, her silence deafening even to the crew.

She didn’t speak to anyone—not the pilot, not the flight attendant who had offered her a drink, not even the voice in her head that screamed at her for running away. Her nails dug into the soft leather armrest of the seat, betraying the fear she tried so...