The Last Flight(12)
“Where are you staying?”
I give her the details, and I can hear her digging around in a drawer for a pen.
“Okay. Someone will contact you there. Be ready to go as soon as you hear from us.”
A tremor of fear passes through me as I wonder if Nico will be able to help me. And whether I want him to.
But Petra’s still giving directions. “Find an ATM and take out as much cash as possible…just in case.”
I’ve reached the front of the line, and people are waiting for me to end my call and put everything onto the conveyor belt. “I have to go,” I tell her.
“Try to stay calm,” she says. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”
And then I end the call, doubt tumbling around inside of me, feeling as if I have just slipped into a nightmare—spinning, turning, three hundred sixty degrees of danger.
Eva
John F. Kennedy Airport, New York
Tuesday, February 22
The Day of the Crash
The desperation in the woman’s voice was unmistakable. It’s me. Claire. The way the words cracked when she said them, as if she were fighting back tears. Eva stood, riveted, as she listened to the hysterical unraveling of a woman in danger. A woman on the run. A woman like herself.
Eva glanced around at the travelers that surrounded them, pressing in on all sides as they wound their way through security. The family with several large suitcases that surely would have to be gate-checked. The couple behind her, whisper-arguing about not leaving for the airport on time. Eva looked to see if anyone else was paying attention. If anyone might remember the distressed woman on the phone and the quiet stranger in front of her, listening.
Claire. Her name, a single syllable, seemed to echo in Eva’s mind. Eva shuffled closer, pretending to be absorbed in her phone, the prepaid one she’d bought less than twenty-four hours earlier in a different airport, and took in the details of the woman. The expensive Birkin bag. Trendy sneakers paired with tailored slacks and a bright pink cashmere sweater draped elegantly over her narrow frame. Dark hair neatly brushing her shoulders.
“I think my chances of disappearing are better in Puerto Rico,” Claire said. Eva leaned closer, so as not to miss anything. “So much is still off the grid. People will be more receptive to cash and won’t ask a lot of questions.”
Eva felt her pulse quicken at the phrase off the grid, because that’s exactly what Eva needed. Puerto Rico was the answer, and Claire would be how she got there.
When they reached the front of the line, a TSA agent directed Eva to an X-ray machine on the left, while pointing Claire several rows over to the right. Eva tried to follow, but the TSA agent blocked her from hopping lines. She kept her eye on Claire, tracking the bright pink sweater as she passed through the X-ray machine, gathered her things on the other side, and disappeared into the crowd.
Eva fought the urge to push her way through. She hadn’t waited all morning just to lose Claire now. But she was stuck behind an old man who needed several passes through the scanner. Each time the red light flashed, Eva felt pressure building inside of her, anxious to get to the other side.
Finally, the man removed a handful of change from his pocket, counting it carefully before dropping it into a tray, and successfully passed through.
Eva shoved her coat and shoes into a tray and tossed her bag onto the conveyor belt, holding her breath as she took her turn. On the other side, she scurried to put everything back together again and grabbed her phone and duffel bag, searching the concourse for the pink sweater. But Claire had vanished.
Eva felt the loss like a swift kick. Anything else she might try—buy another plane ticket, a bus ticket, a rental car—could be traced. It would lead the people tracking her straight to wherever she went.
Eva scanned the crowds, slowing down in front of every restaurant, looking into every corner of every newsstand. Up ahead was a bank of monitors. She’d find the departing flight to San Juan and locate Claire at her gate. She couldn’t have gone far.
But as Eva passed a bar, she saw the pink sweater, sharp against the gray window behind her. Claire, seated alone, nursing a drink, her eyes scanning the crowded terminal, alert, the way an animal scans the horizon for predators.
Eva let her eyes slide past and kept walking. Claire wasn’t going to open up to a stranger asking if she could help. Eva planned to come at this sideways. She wandered into a bookstore and grabbed a magazine, flipping through it until Claire had time to settle.
Across the way, she saw Claire lift the drink to her lips.
Eva replaced the magazine, exited the shop, and walked toward the large plate glass windows overlooking the tarmac before veering left and heading toward Claire. When she was close enough, she lifted her silent phone to her ear and infused her voice with a touch of panic and fear, making sure to let her duffel bump against Claire’s stool as she sat.
“Why do they want to talk to me?” Eva asked, lowering herself next to Claire, who shifted sideways, irritation rolling off her in waves.
“But I only did what he asked me to,” Eva continued. “As soon as we learned it was terminal, we discussed it.” Eva covered her eyes with her hand and allowed the last six months to come crashing back. How much she’d risked. How much she’d lost. She needed all of that emotion now, to craft her story and pass it off as the truth. “He was my husband and I loved him,” she said, grabbing a napkin across the bar and pressing it against her eyes before Claire could notice there were no tears. “He was suffering, and I did what anyone would have done.” Eva paused, as if someone on the other end was talking, before finally saying, “Tell them I have nothing to say.” She yanked the phone away from her ear and stabbed at it, disconnecting her fake call and taking a deep, shuddering breath.