The Last Flight(17)

I shake him off and push through the crowd, unable to reconcile what I’m seeing on the television screen with the memory of Eva still sharp in my mind—whose voice I can still hear, whose smile I can still see as the bathroom stall door closed behind me.

With my head down, I make my way through the concourse, suddenly aware of how many television screens there are, all of them broadcasting what’s happened. I swallow the bile creeping up the back of my throat and locate a pay phone next to the restrooms.

With trembling fingers, I pull out the receipt where I’d jotted down Petra’s number and dial. A voice directs me to insert one dollar and twenty-five cents. I dig around in Eva’s wallet until I’ve counted out five quarters and slip them into the slot, one at a time, my heart racing.

But instead of ringing, I hear three tones and an automated voice saying, We’re sorry, this number is no longer in service.

In my haste to reach her, I must have misdialed, double-entered a digit by accident, so I take a deep breath, willing my hands to stop shaking. I collect the quarters from the change receptacle and dial again, slower this time.

Again I’m told the number is no longer in service.

I replace the receiver, feeling as if I’ve separated from reality, lifting straight out of my body. Wandering over to a deserted bank of chairs, I collapse, staring across the concourse. People move in and out of my field of vision, pulling suitcases, corralling children, speaking into cell phones.

I must have copied the number wrong. I think back to the bathroom stall, scribbling Petra’s number, adrenaline causing my attention to spread thin like scattershot.

And now, I’m completely cut off.

Across the way the television screens change again, pulling my attention back.

The names of the passengers have not been released yet, but NTSB officials say they will be holding a press conference later this evening.

I realize how vulnerable I’m about to become, how things like this take hold, grabbing the heartstrings of the nation. First, the grisly details, the speculation about what went wrong. Then the human interest. The victims. Their lives, their hopes. Their faces, smiling, laughing, unaware of how it will end. Because of who Rory is, my story will be amplified, my minutes of anonymity slipping away at an alarming rate. My image will soon be splashed across the media, recognizable to anyone looking. I’m about to become as infamous as Maggie Moretti. Yet another tragedy Rory will have to bravely endure. And I’ll be stuck, with very little money, no identification, and nowhere to hide.

My eyes land on Eva’s purse, and I reach into it and pull out a ring of keys and her wallet. I pocket the keys and open the wallet, memorizing the address on her license. 543 Le Roy. I don’t hesitate. I walk out of the airport, into the bright California sun, and hail a cab.

*

We speed along a freeway, the San Francisco skyline peeking between industrial buildings on the east side of the bay, but it barely registers. Instead, I’m remembering Eva’s final moments in the bathroom stall with me, determined to carve out a second chance for herself, not imagining that she never would. I rest my head against the window and try to focus on the cold glass pressing against my skin. Just a little bit longer. I can’t let myself fall apart until I’m behind closed doors.

Soon, we’ve exited onto streets crowded with college kids, colorful and upbeat. I try to imagine what Rory might be doing right now. Most likely, he’s on his way back to New York, having canceled the event in Detroit. Quietly depositing the forty thousand dollars back into the bank and hiding everything else in his secret drawer.

I stare out the window as we pass the university, students crossing the street in a haphazard way, oblivious the way only college students can be. We skirt around the eastern edge of campus and into a residential neighborhood on the north side with hills and winding streets. Houses, duplexes, and apartments sit side by side among tall redwood trees, and I think about what I’ll find when I unlock Eva’s front door. An intruder stepping into the home she shared with her husband, forever frozen exactly as she left it. Looking at their photographs. Using their bathroom. Sleeping in their bed. I shudder and try not to think that far ahead.

The driver leaves me in front of a white, two-story duplex with a long front porch and two identical doors anchoring each end. The right side is curtained, closed off from prying eyes. A large pine tree casts part of the porch in shadow, the soil beneath it looking dark and fresh. The left side is vacant, the windows bare, revealing empty rooms with crown molding, a red accent wall, and hardwood floors. I’m relieved I won’t have to answer any questions from a neighbor, asking who I am or where Eva went.

I fumble with the keys, finally finding the right one, and push the door open. Too late, I realize there might be an alarm, and I freeze. But all is silent. The air smells of closed rooms and a faint trace of something hovering between floral and chemical—there and then gone.

I close and lock the door, stepping carefully past a pair of shoes that look as if someone kicked them off a few minutes ago, straining my ears for any kind of noise, any sound of another person. Yet despite the clutter, the house feels utterly still.

I set my bag down by the front door in case I need to leave quickly, and creep over to peek into the kitchen. Empty, though there’s an open can of Diet Coke on the counter and some dishes in the sink. A door leads to the backyard, but it’s locked with a chain across it.