Oh, I know how you lived.

I know where you began,

and how you crawled your way up

into the pockets of the rich,

the powerful, and the perverse.

I know how you lured your prey

the vulnerable young

into your den of debauchery,

forced yourself and others upon them

and threw them out on the streets

like used, broken dolls -

casualties

of your greed and lust.

They were going to school.

They were going to go to college.

They were someone's daughter.

They were someone's sister.

They could have had normal, happy lives.

But now, they won't

and never will.

And when they came back to haunt you,

to demand justice

for the unspeakable acts of evil,

you pulled the black strings you tied

around the necks of your corrupted puppets,

and got away with it,

time after time and time again.

But this time, you’re going down.

All the people you know,

your so-called “friends”,

or should I say

your fellow paedophiles in power,

will not come to your rescue.

Oh, on the contrary,

they cannot drop you fast enough

or denounce you with stronger words

and feign ignorance of your beastly ways.

I can’t tell you what’s coming

but all I can say is this:

You’re going to pay,

and so will the others,

for all that you’ve done,

and I will be there,

yes, that’s right, personally,

to look after you

for all eternity.

The worst man is still a man, and one can flip the gender for Nannie Doss or Lucrezia Borgia. The reckoning makes that truth clear. Consider Adolf Hitler in his bunker, when he knew the Reich was truly gone. He died in terror, in pride of his achievements, in love with Eva Braun. Half rabid with fear, he still possessed shreds of that charisma that could have moved and aided millions, had he not chosen to burn millions instead. I heard it all in his voice. He was, to be clear, evil. Thoroughly so. Still, if one read his thoughts as he aimed the gun at himself (and I did), a little part of him imagined another life, painting landscapes along the Rhine. I’d ballpark that part at four percent of him.

I collect them: reckonings. Someone needs to.

That, of course, is why I sat on a 727 about to touch down in New Jersey on July 6, 2019: Jeffrey Epstein’s “Lolita Express.” He took me for a journalist profiling his philanthropic endeavors. They always explain me to themselves somehow; running from the Moscow mob, Rasputin believed me a woman he had “purified” a few nights before.

“You can’t pigeonhole the future,” Epstein said, clinking the ice in his tumbler. “It doesn’t belong to science, or architecture, or art, or technology – no matter what the Google crew would tell you. It’s the nexus.” He pointed his finger for emphasis, then noted the paltry level of liquid in his glass. He raised the finger upward, and the stewardess approached with more pomegranate juice. He never drank; he’d seen too often what drink would do, growing up near Coney Island.

“The future is in the nexus,” he said. “That’s why I’ve given so much to the MIT Media Lab. You have to believe in something. I believe in the future.” The stewardess dropped in more ice cubes. Epstein said, “Thank you, Stacey,” as she walked away.

“You’ve given elsewhere, too,” I prompted.

“I have. I have…” He watched the ice cubes swirl in the deep red. “I made my first donation to Harvard nearly thirty years ago. For Rosovsky Hall, the new Hillel building. My name’s on the plaque there.”

“Does that matter to you? The name on the plaque.”

“No. Sort of…” Another sip, another moment watching the cubes. “Everyone dies, you know. Someday I’ll die. Stacey there. The pilot. You.” Three out of four, I thought. “A man wants to leave something. Something that will last. Matter.”

Buildings rushed by quickly outside the window, but I waited. Questions channel thinking. To truly know a person, one must silently wait.

“We all need to balance the scales,” he said.

He turned to find me when the feds and the NYPD accosted him, but I was already gone, and already he had mostly forgotten me. I’d collected his reckoning; I knew who he was.

There was fear, as always, and anger. A little bit of regret, even on the flight. The question of legacy truly mattered to him; I felt it as he talked of the future. If one listened to his words very closely—and many people had—one could hear that genuine concern and zeal; so loudly that one might not realize how much Stacey’s backside preoccupied him, or recognize how viciously part of him wished to own her.

I’d ballpark that part at 88 percent of him.

You know the end is coming, what would be called a ‘happily never after’. So you need some questions answered. They’ll sound prying, forcing a withered rose to open its petals, but they won’t give it away, if you tread carefully.

The first one you ask is the most obvious. It’s multifaceted, smashed into the confines of a few one syllable words.

“Why do you do this?”

His lip curls into a smirk. As if you should see the answer already, like you’re stumbling around blindfolded.

The plane is humming, purring, like a sleeping cat. The plane is preparing to descend, descend into an undoing.

Your palms are sweaty. That’s always been a problem of yours, but now, it’s impossible not to notice. You grip the leather armrests, hoping they’ll hold your sanity down.

You nearly expect him not to respond, to laugh it off and shove it away, but he speaks, keeping his head turned away, shielding it from your judgement.

“What drives humanity is the want of what you can’t have. But I have it all. So, I find joy, motivation, in the next best thing. I want what is wrong.”

This makes sense. It’s slimy, disgusting, like a bucket of toads, but it makes sense.

This will be painful. Well, on to the next question.

“Do you regret what you’ve done?”

This time he actually laughs. Explosive chuckles that bounce around the plane’s cabin.

“No. I never will. The world is meant to be exploited. I’ve been taking, taking, taking, and it’s been giving, giving, giving. Sometimes it throws things at me, sometimes I have to put in a little effort. But I always get what I want. I’ll suck this world dry, if it’s going to let me.”

There’s more, but the plane is swooping down now. On to the final question, the one you can ask now because you’re so close to reality.

“What if you get caught?”

A sigh. A breathy, exhausted one. A twinkle in his eyes.

“I won’t. I have money. I know they say ‘money can’t buy everything’. That’s true. But you know what?”

He pauses.

“It can buy enough. Money can’t buy love, but it can buy compliance. It can’t buy happiness, but it can buy distraction. It can’t buy back the past, but it can buy silence in the future. Money is everyone’s undoing. Throw enough at a problem and you can get it to disappear. I can’t fall, because I can rebuild my pedestal in an instant.”

And then he’s done.

These questions had caused a big bang, of sorts. Your loathing had been miniscule, nearly invisible. Now, everything had expanded into infinity, making a giant, bubbling mess.

He deserves this.

The plane lands, coasts down the runway. You’re excited now. Justice will be served. This man considered the world to be his playground, and someone set fire to it while he wasn’t looking.

It will burn.

The flight attendant at the gate looked at my face, looked at my ticket, looked back at my face and then down at my carry on bag, abruptly putting her arm, and as back up, a foot attached to a leg straight out in front of me, blocking my entry onto the jetwalk.

“Your carry on bag is oversized.” She said to me, with the deadpan look of a serial killer, quickly printing out an insta label for my bag to be checked and crudely taken away from me by a uniformed guy that magically appeared out of some cloud, slapping on the black printed label with swift demonic fingers, in my opinion exercising a complete disregard for humanity.

“What do you mean it’s oversized? I use this bag as a carry on all the time.” I retorted in a tone unbecoming of any proud mother’s daughter. I was tired, it was hot, the guy in front of me had either just cut one or he hadn’t showered, neither of which I cared to assume but I had no other option. The thought of spending even an extra minute at baggage claim after the flight felt like a death sentence. Yes. I was being dramatic but so was Miss Megalomania with the airplane silver pin, tight white tie and even tighter bun. My bag was not oversized.

A sweet young lady behind me with very white teeth that winked gave me a gentle tap on the shoulder and offered a considerate definitive warning. “Don’t mess with one of them or they will throw you off the flight.” She could tell I was in fighting mode by my tone and my snorting and if it wasn’t for her reminder, I don’t think I would have been able to comply by keeping quiet and moving forward in line with the other sheep.

When I got inside the cabin, Mr. Stinky Pants sat down in a single digit seat, and my seat, 19B was a comfortable distance away, so there was that, but then again I had not yet had the pleasure or so be it the displeasure of meeting my seatmate for the flight, 19A. Before I looked at his face, intentionally avoiding any eye contact, on auto pilot I reached for my invisible bag realizing; Damn it. My kindle was in there. So much for reading. I hope this guy doesn’t try to chat me up. His hands were securely on either side of his knees as if there was a valuable between them he was hoping to protect and he kept his eyes on his knuckles like they were his classroom pupils. It was then that I looked at his gray stubbled face. I sorta had to as I was climbing over his lap.

….Jeffrey Epstein? Seriously? Isn’t he currently under investigation for sex trafficking? My first impulse was to call security, but obviously, security already checked him in. I wondered if his carry on bag was overstuffed and I wondered if he would remember me from that party ten years ago. When he heard I was a psychic and clairvoyant, he had asked me to leave his home immediately using a lame excuse, politely but ever so swiftly avoiding any eye contact, offering me a limo driver and a gift card to a high end spa, leading me to the front door with a firm but gentle touch on my arm. The same scenario had happened to me before. I know the type. It’s always intentional and suspicious when a person refuses to be in my company to avoid one of my reads. What were you trying to hide from me that night Mr. Epstein, huh? Are you guilty of the charges against you? Now you’ve got nowhere to hide other than in the crapper so we’ve got the time. Two hours and forty six minutes to be precise. How bout a read?

For a second I thought he might be trying to read my thoughts, but that could have been just a pinch of leftover paranoia kicking in after my near miss with the check in attendant. 19A didn’t say hello and neither did I (friendly skies is a long forgotten slogan) and he seemed to have no clue he had met me before at one of his parties. Why would he remember me? I’m sure I was no more important to him than the determined fly singling out his right middle finger ignoring the other nine. Jeffrey kept bending his finger, lifting his middle knobby knuckle rhythmically, and each time he did the fly circled up towards his mouth. Continually taking control with a puckered lip exhale forcing out a puff, he emphasized the “p” which landed in my ear as annoyingly as the fly repeating his landing right back on that finger relentlessly, coming at him like Mohammad Ali, so many times I lost count. I’ve never gotten a read on a fly, but there is a first time for everything.

It was then that I decided to speak, not understanding why I even bothered. At this point we were already into the flight an hour. Perhaps it was because something unknown was blocking me from his thoughts, and I never back down from a challenge. Maybe it was the fly blocking me or some type of double teaming going on against me between the two of them….Could have been. Then again, maybe I was stuck in a delusion of persecution.

“Why don’t you just swat at it already.” I said to him in the same exact tone I used towards the flight attendant.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Our eyes locked. It was then that I connected with his memory. I saw it all. Everything. Flashing at me like a fast forwarded movie, including the sequel which was gonna happen when he got off the plane. For obvious reasons, when I have not been asked to read someone, I keep what I know close to the vest, between my lips alone, and well hidden behind my eyeballs, letting the vision of what I can’t unsee hang to cure like raw meat. Horrified, but unafraid knowing there was going to be a set of handcuffs slapped on him in the not too distant future, I said,

“Why don’t you let me take care of that for you.” And before he could protest, I swatted fast and I swatted hard, harder than Ali, and did not miss; I never do. Swatting. Another one of my unusual talents.

“Hey! Ouch! What do you think you are doing?”

“Just killing a pesky fly. Helping you out. You do know that fly was disgusting, he was dirty and he deserved to die, right?”

He turned his head away from me but not before he flicked the dead fly off his middle finger. A drop of red pigment from its seeing eyes was left behind. And as we sat the rest of the flight in silence, I was not worried. I knew his fate and as it turns out so did that fly.

As we glided through the dark clouds to a private island, my mind became restless. I tried to hide my distaste behind a smirking smile. I pretended to enjoy all the conversations, the crystal champagne, and expensive caviar.

Life seemed lavish flying under the sun.

But inside my chest, my heart was screaming loudly as if it wanted to break my bones and fall down from the sky without a parachute.

Mr. Jeffrey Epstein, arched his hands on the expensive leather chair and pulled back his seat and signed effortlessly, nibbling into a delicious grape and cheese loaded on the big tray. The catered food could feed a room full of hungry people.

He smiled at me and whispered slowly into my ears while tapping on the pictures on the big screen. 

“When we land, you’ll be a member of the high circle,” he said confidently.

“You get to meet big celebrities, royalties as well as the most powerful men on earth. Just like them, you’ll enjoy the companion of younger girls. It’ll be like heaven on earth,” he said sipping his champagne from the crystal glass.

I wanted to vomit looking at the photos of those underage girls. It was heart-wrenching. They couldn’t have been more than 14 or 15 years of age. Some of them even looked way younger than 10.

I could feel my rib cages cracking in soaring pain. Imagining the heartaches, shattered lives and broken families were unbearable. But mostly, the loss of innocence in those beautiful girls’ eyes was nerve-wracking.

My daughter is a year older than them, and if Anybody ever hurts her like the devil sitting next to me, I couldn’t even imagine what I’d do to him. I’d just cut off all of his limbs, and snap his neck like a stick. 

“Are you alright,” he says, staring into my eyes as if he read what was nagging me inside.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I replied, trying to disguise my disgust.

I lied.

I had to obviously, say something that’s not suspicious.

“Sometimes, when I get excited in the air, I tend to get airplane sick,” I concluded.

I wish I told him he was the one making me nauseous. But all I kept thinking was the end of the road for this man with such a dark heart was coming up soon, and I should bear his company for just a little while.

The truth was, I wanted to shove him off the airplane, as we were flying 30,000 feet above the ground.

As we climbed down, the pilot announced that we were about to land.

When we descended over the green pastures and clear blue water, I let out the toxin poisoning me during the long flight and inhaled a breath of relief, and danced with this thought until we touched down. 

No, I won’t, you repulsive monster. Besides, when we land, you won’t ever see a light of a day again. You will instead be sleeping in a small block cell until you die. If it was up to me, you deserve more than a cold concrete; I’d badly tortured you and let your soul rotten in hell for eternity, you evil and wicked son-of-a-bitch.

midnightink 8-5-2020

I take my seat in first class, and as if on cue, a bright, vivacious flight attendant appears in the aisle. “Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Epstein?”, she purrs to the man next to me, batting her eyes in such obvious way, that I have to stifle a laugh.

“How about a whiskey on the rocks?”, he coyly plays along, adding a quick wink, almost imperceptible unless you were watching closely.

She replies bashfully, “Of course, Mr. Epstein. It’s always a pleasure to have you flying with us.” She turns to me as if an afterthought, “Ma’am? Something to drink for you?”

“You know what? What the hell. Whiskey on the rocks sounds great. I’ll have what he’s having,” I beam my toothiest grin at her.

“Of course, I’ll be right back.”

I quickly glance at her name tag before I reply, “thank you, Delilah.”

I note that Delilah’s vibrancy seems to wane almost instantly when she engages with me. Perhaps Delilah is friendly with Epstein because she’s waited on him before, perhaps on many flights. A more probable reason is that the airline considers him a VIP and therefore always provides him with this level of attention and service. After all this time I’ve spent chasing Epstein, it wouldn’t surprise me if it came to light that the pilot or even the airline executives owed Epstein a favor or two, guaranteeing him exceptional service from the youngest, most doe-eyed flight attendants. After considering this for a moment, I’ve resolved that of course, there are likely many flight attendants that serve Epstein, all carbon copies of Delilah, all strikingly beautiful in that young, naïveté kind of way. I realize I’m unintentionally staring at the young woman’s backside as she walks away because I can feel Epstein glance at me and his ensuing gaze follow mine. I shudder internally as my face settles into a light scowl. Stealing a furtive glance at his expression, I can see that his eyes are now hungrily fixed on her hips in her pencil skirt, sashaying and bending to take orders from the rest of the first class elite.

“What a pleasant woman,” Epstein says as he turns to me, snapping me out of my trance. His cool, blue-grey eyes scan me up and down, assessing in that way that’s characteristic of sociopaths—somehow reserved while also feeling as if they’re boring holes through you. Despite all of the intel I have on him, I get why young women fall into his web. His aura of confidence and importance is so wholly unbreakable that even if every internal alarm bell were to cry out in protest, I can guarantee you’d question your ability to assess whether to trust this person, rather than why your body tells you that you shouldn’t.

I knew we were assigned seats next to each other on the flight back from France, but I’m still taken aback by how quickly he’s decided to talk to me. The years I’ve spent training for this moment evade me, as I find it nearly impossible to erase the smugness from my face. I give a thoughtful pause by clearing my throat, the same way you might pause to consider whether you really need that second cup of coffee when offered a refill at brunch. He might have thought I was considering whether perhaps this flight attendant really was pleasant or not, but it was merely so I could suppress the last decade of my work from my expression before I replied.

“Yes, this airline does tend to have the best flight attendants, in my opinion,” I warmly reply, making eye contact with him for the first time. Seeing my face from the front seems to spark something in him, his brows furrowing slightly.

“You look familiar. Have we met before?” He asks.

For a moment, I begin to internally panic, thinking I’ve gone and blown my whole cover. This is the last leg of this mission, and though it is nearly over, his recognizing me as the person who has been following him for the last 10 years could be a detriment to our case and therefore, would be catastrophic. In that moment, the realization that we’ve finally got him washes over me, calming me like the falling ocean tide. I’m reminded that my partner and the rest of our investigative team will be waiting at the gate to arrest him as soon as we touch down at the Teterboro airport.

“I just have one of those faces. I get that all of the time,” I shrug.

If his eyes were lasers, they’d have already burned through me. He must be skeptical of my response because he’s still sizing me up and down. Thankfully, the bouncy Delilah flits her way over, breaking his concentration.

“Here are your drinks! If there is anything that we can do to make your flight more enjoyable, please don’t hesitate to call me over.” Although this is directed at both of us, she’s staring at Epstein. When their eyes meet, I notice her cheeks redden slightly, and she lets out a soft giggle. I blink my eyes a couple times, so as to keep them from rolling into the back of my head. This interaction seems to have cut the tension between us because Epstein turns towards me and lifts his glass as if to cheers. I mimic his gesture and ask, “so what are we cheers-ing to then?”

He throws his head back in a carefree fashion and replies, “how about to a long, prosperous life, full of adventure?” The irony is not lost on me and because of this, I’m able to smile genuinely in return.

I nod my head slightly, lift my glass, and agree, “yes, to a long, prosperous life, full of adventure.” I clink my glass with his and take a sip of the brown liquor, its sweet, warmth sliding down my throat and spreading through my chest.

This interaction seems to satisfy Epstein’s curiosity about me because he doesn’t pry again. He continues to sip his whiskey and instead returns to his work on his laptop. Little does he know, he won’t need that anymore when this flight is over.

Although I’ve been following Epstein and investigating him for the last decade, this is the first time I’ve actually been up close to him. In the past, it was too risky. But now, the thrill of knowing he will be behind bars at the end of this flight leaves me intoxicated with the exhilaration. At the same time, there’s a strange bittersweet-ness about it all. It’s been a long, arduous process to catch him, and his case has been the one that has consumed me the most since I started working with the FBI. At the same time, I’ve found it to be somewhat interesting, even enjoyable at times, to be Epstein’s shadow, well, besides of course all of the child trafficking and sexual abuse. It’s hard to describe what it’s like to chase an enigma like Epstein for so long. To have finally succeeded in catching him feels like the biggest reward of all and yet, I am also anticipating the purposelessness that will come once he’s caught. How could any FBI mission ever top this one? In reality, they can’t.

The rest of the flight is without incidence, and despite my exhaustion, sleep evades me. I occasionally find myself staring at Epstein’s relaxed, sleeping face, and I wonder if he knows his entire life is about to change. He must have known this day was coming at some point, right? Although probably not, as all of the evidence I’ve collected against Epstein would suggest. He’s just that kind of man.

As the plane begins its final descent, my heart starts palpitating. I’ve been waiting for this day for so long, and I will finally see this man in handcuffs for the atrocities he’s committed. My emotions, a strong mixture of pride, excitement, anticipation, anxiety, overwhelm me as we taxi up to the gate.

The plane parks and Epstein immediately jumps out of his seat to grab his carry-on from the overhead compartment. I stay seated for a moment longer, saving this moment of suspension, while at the same time knowing that we’ll meet again on the other side of the gateway. This time I won’t be another passenger on the flight but his arresting officer.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Jeff,” I say, peering up at him from my window seat.

Epstein looks at me perplexed, his mouth ever so slightly agape. Before he can get out of the aisle, the passengers behind him start pushing him towards the exit, hastily attempting to exit the plane. Even as he gives in to their pushing and begins moving, he turns back to look at me and calls out, “I didn’t get your name, but you too.”

I don’t even bother to yell back at him, as he’s already at the front of the plane, saying his goodbyes to the effervescent Delilah, whose adoration for Epstein is so eminent, I have to look away.

“You’ll know my name soon, Epstein. Real soon,” I whisper to myself, as I collect my bag and make my way off the plane.

What kind of luck do I have on a plane with a smirk I can’t erase,

with an abusive underage child trafficker smiling in my face?

Looking at me as if I could be a potential client.

Money talks, bullshit walks is the defiance.

He’s telling me how he has his own island.

If I had the right price, he could give me a challenge.

He says “Nothing but beauty surrounds me each day.”

If I joined a club on his island, I could have it that way.

Maxwell interrupts and offers some advice.

She says “It is very prestige, we don’t invite you twice.”

You see, Maxwell screens all the potential victims they use.

Epstein tests them out before he decides to choose.

He leans back in and says “It all can be trusted.”

But as soon as the plane landed, His nasty ass was Busted!!!!

   “Are you relaxed?” I ask.

     Jeffrey Epstein looks up at me. His eyes are hungry.

     I’m going to let them starve.

     “Hell yeah,” he says. He spreads his legs and loosens his tie. I feel a pang of panic. What if it doesn’t work? What will he do?

     “I’m ready for you, sweet cheeks,” he says, and I put on my fakest smile. I reach into the pocket of my dress, searching for the one object that will save me from him.

     I find it, and it rolls into my fingers on its own.

     “Close your eyes,” I say. He does.

     “Now imagine me naked,” I say. He shudders with pleasure. “Easier done than said,” he says. I want to slap him, hurt him, but I need him to be relaxed. Otherwise, the hypnotism won’t work.

     “Can you see me?” I ask. Epstein nods his head, his eyes still closed. “Ohh yeah.”

     “Three. Two.”

     “What?”

     “One.” I snap my fingers. Epstein’s face becomes as blank as paper. He has an erection; I shudder, disgusted.

     “You will stop. And think,” I say. I hold up the object from my pocket: a little ball of amethyst crystals. With most hypnotisms, you cannot make a person do anything they don’t want to do. With these enchanted crystals, however, I can make them do anything I want.

     “You will think about all of the girls you violated. Every. Single. One.” 

     For a second, Epstein has that hungry look again. But that’s about to change.

     I squeeze the ball of amethyst, and I see his expression darken. He flails in his seat, but he doesn’t leave it. I won’t let him leave it. He’s caught like a fly.

     “Do you see them?” I growl. “Do you see what you’ve done to them?”

      “M-make it stop,” says Epstein. “I don’t want to be—no, stop—”

     “Do you understand what you did?”

       “Please, make it stop!” he cries. He flails again, jolting left and right from a phantom abuser.

     I drop the ball back into my pocket. Epstein slumps as if nothing had happened.

     I say one more thing before I loosen my hold on him.

     “Die,” I say, tracing the shape of a noose on his arm with my fingernail. He nods, as if in agreement.

     The private jet comes to a stop.

     I let go of my grip on him. He snaps out of it, his legs again splayed, and he looks at me like a cheetah would look at a helpless gazelle.

     “So are we doing this or not?” he says impatiently. I smile that phony smile again. “We’ve landed,” I say. Epstein peeks out of the window, then sighs in disappointment. “Maybe we’ll do this later, then,” he purrs.

     But I know about the police outside. I know where he’s going next. And I know that Epstein’s going to hell, regardless of who he pays off.

As I blend in with the group of girls, a gaggle of stunning young ladies from around the world, I know for a fact that to the casual observers I have practically morphed into a state of invisibility. No one will know who I am.

A snap judgement will be made the minute they lay eyes on me and no one will perceive a threat. They will see the mass of dyed hair; the fake tan, the jewellery dripping off me like baubles, the mini skirt, the long legs and they will see me as just one of the girls, as if we are a symbiotic part of a collective mass operating with a hive mind, distinguishable only by varying shades of lipstick.

It's what's known in my business as a legend.

It goes beyond a disguise, it's who I am for this mission.

For this mission I am just one of girls: one of Jeffrey's girls, whom he somehow managed to summon to his private jet, for God knows what, with the full knowledge and blessing of corrupt members of law enforcement. Who else would be on his way to incarceration in a private jet, drinking champagne with a bevy of women and Harvard-educated attorneys at his side?

The mood is all rather festive as I climb aboard and the plane takes off, literally flying above the law in brazen luxury , metaphorically raising a middle finger to all the principled people below and all their self-righteous moral judgments.

Unfortunately for Jeffrey, I work for one of those principled people: a very rich and powerful woman, who knowing the corruption that plagues this country, sometimes takes the law into her own hands.

And I help her do it.

Jeffrey oozes charisma as he regales his coterie of friends and advisors with inflight tales of recent court appearances and interviews with police, as one would relate anecdotes for a stand-up comedy skit. No mention of his victims, not an inkling of remorse, no acknowledgement of his crimes- I know this job won't weigh on my conscience like some of the others.

"How about a drink my dear?" He calls to me as I'm standing nearest to the bar area. (Yes this plane has a bar). I smile at the irony, as unbeknownst to him, he just requested his own death.

I flick my fake hair , flash my pearly white veneers as if competing with all the cats of Cheshire and pour him a glass of bourbon. Thanks to some deft slight-of-hand skills, no one notices when I add a prepared vial of synthetic poison; a bespoke blend of lab- concocted toxins, which apparently tastes like limes and take the glass of death on the rocks over to him.

My hand doesn't even waiver as I pass him the lethal liquid.

"You have beautiful eyes." He says, taking the bourbon and drinking it .

"Thank you." I reply with a fake southern accent but with genuine sincerity, as I've always been a little insecure about my eyes ... I also feel it's a polite courtesy to acknowledge someone's final words.

I watch as he sips.

His eyes linger on me and my eyes linger on his lips.

Suddenly his face contorts. He grabs his chest in agony, eyes wide, struggling to breathe .In just a few seconds, he suffers a massive heart attack, keels over and dies.

My work here is complete, so I scream and without a complete understanding of events, the rest of Jeffrey's girls scream too.

An emergency landing later , with much ado, much panic, more screaming and even more crying we all disembark and I slip off into the night, throwing off my high heels and fake hair as I run.

When the FBI start their investigation ,they don't have much to go on. A false name. An abandoned wig. No distinguishing details....

Just a general description of a girl.

We rarely fly first class. We simply don’t have the funds to splurge on such luxuries. My husband flies so much for work though, that he ends up with lots of miles so occasionally we get bumped up because of his status or miles.

That’s not what happened last July.

We were in Paris for a trade show – my husband designs the most beautiful, hand-woven carpets you’ve ever seen (not just a wife’s bias, he’s actually won the equivalent of the Academy Award of Carpet designing at least 10 times over the last 12 years) and his new line was on display for a week for designers, rug and furniture store owners…and some individuals with money to burn. One such individual was Jeffrey Epstein.

We had no idea who he was at the time. He was just a guy who clearly had money to spend. He was apparently buying rugs for a chalet he had bought in Andorra. (Note: I discovered later that Andorra has no extradition treaty with the US. Can’t help but wonder if he was planning…and if he’s really dead or holed up in a chalet in Andorra.)

While he was discussing possibilities with my husband, my cell phone rang. It was my mother’s neighbor, Cindy. Never good when someone who never calls you, calls. My blood pressure immediately skyrocketed as I answered.

“Cindy! What a surprise! How are you?”

“Hey, Danny girl. Bad news. Your mom was out mowing the lawn this morning and keeled over. I happened to be coming home from the night shift. I was just waving hello when I saw her go down.”

“Oh my God!”

“Don’t worry. I called 911 and I went to the hospital with her. She’s in the ICU for now, but she’ll be fine.”

“Oh my God.”

“She’s fine, baby girl. When can you get here?”

“I’m in Paris!”

“Texas?”

“France!”

“Oh. Well…”

“I will get on the next flight out of here. Oh my God. Please kiss Mommy for me. Tell her I love her and I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

“Call me when you know what time you’re going to land. I’ll have Max pick you up.”

“Thank you so much, Cindy. Oh my God. Thank you! I’ll call you as soon as I know.”

I disconnected and immediately started looking for flights out of Paris for that day.

Nothing. Not one damn flight. None for the next day either.

I ran to my husband in tears and mildly frantic.

“HoneyMommyhadaheartattackshesinthehospitalIhavetogohomeandalltheflightsarebookedtodayandtommorow.”

“Say that more slowly, my love. What’s wrong? What happened?”

“I’m sorry. Excuse me,” I said, to the potential customer. Turning to my husband, “Mommy had a heart attack. I have to go home and every flight is booked today and tomorrow.”

“Oh no! Is she okay?”

“She’s in the ICU but Cindy thinks she’ll be fine. She’s a nurse. She would know. Unless she’s trying to be nice in which case I don’t know.” I burst into tears again.

“I’m sorry to eavesdrop,” said the gentleman with whom my husband had been speaking.

“Perhaps I can help. I was leaving for New York this afternoon anyway. I have a private jet. I would be happy to give you a lift. With the time difference, you’ll be at your mother’s bedside this evening.

“Really? Really?? Oh I cannot thank you enough!” I said hugging the stranger. He stiffened slightly and I jumped back. “I’m sorry. My name is Danny. And you are?”

“Call me Jeff.”

“Thank you so much, Jeff! What time do we leave?”

“As soon as I finish up with your husband? Can you leave with me from here or do you need to go back to your hotel?”

“I’m ready.”

By 5 pm, we were taking off.

Unfortunately, I was a little too upset to appreciate the luxurious surroundings. Though being in what amounts to a living room in the sky made being worried less miserable than if I had been squished in coach with my knees in my chin and someone else’s knees in my back.

“Jeff” was seated next to me on his computer. His staff had fed us as soon as we hit altitude. We had chatted a bit about politics, world affairs and some of the philanthropic work he did. He also gushed about my husband’s rugs and how he couldn’t wait to see them in his new home. He even suggested we might visit him to see them on display. He threw in that we should bring my husband’s partner and her daughters, too. (They, along with our son, were working the show with us in Paris. Eighteen and nineteen, though, because of their very slight builds, they appeared younger. Beautiful, innocent-looking…you get the picture.) Ignorant to the man’s predilections, I smiled and said that would be lovely, thinking who would have thought we’d be invited to chalet in Andorra by someone with their own private jet?

I’d had a glass of wine to calm my nerves with dinner and was feeling drowsy despite my nerves. I was dozing though not asleep. “Jeff” apparently thought I was sleeping because what he pulled up on his computer made me jolt awake, but then continue a fake sleep.

I was suddenly terrified of this stranger that had offered me a ride home on his private jet.

And then I was just disgusted because it was clear from what he was scrolling through, that I was not his type in any way shape or form. But Bella and Brianna, the eighteen and nineteen year olds? They were a red cape to this bull. I was sick.

I made some noise and stretched so he would turn off the crap before I could catch him in flagrante. My head was exploding and I am not sure I would not have stabbed him with my dinner knife if I had known what kind of sick bastard was dining with me.

“Can’t sleep?” he said, having closed the computer when I stretched.

“No. I always find it difficult to sleep on planes. Now, worrying about my mom. Impossible.”

“I understand. I rarely sleep, either. I’m usually working, preparing for the next deal or the next trip.”

“Mhmm,” I responded.

“I rarely travel alone, though,” he said.

“Really?” I said.

“People have party buses? I usually have a party plane,” he smiled with a dirty old man grin (It may have been a normal, every day grin. At this point, my opinion was definitely colored by what he had been perusing just minutes before.)

“Not today, though,” I said.

“No,” he said, looking out the window, “not today.”

“Did I throw a wrench in your plans?” I asked hopeful that I had saved some girls from being sullied by his touch.

“No,” he said, still looking out the window. “The trip was last minute. I have some business to take care of in the states before I set up house in Andorra.”

“Oh,” I said. “Staying long?”

“Not if I can help it,” he said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes for the rest of the trip.

I was met at Teterboro by Max. Jeff was met by the FBI. I have never been so happy in my life…except when I got to the hospital and my mom was already out of the ICU, sitting up in bed.

“Danny girl!” she said, smiling. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Paris for another week? What happened?”

“Have I got a story to tell you,” I said, hugging her tightly.