The Last Flight(25)
“Come on, it’ll be fun. I’ll buy you Diet Cokes all night long. You need to get out more.”
She studied the way his stubble was beginning to turn gray near his jawline. The way the ends of his hair curled up near his collar. She sometimes had to remind herself that Dex was her handler, not her friend. This was his attempt to keep an eye on her, not give her a fun night out. “I get out plenty,” she said.
“Really?” he pressed. “When? With who?”
“Whom,” she corrected.
Dex gave a soft chuckle. “Don’t distract me with a grammar lesson, Professor.” He nudged her arm. “You need a social life. You’ve been doing this long enough to know that you don’t have to hide from the world. You’re allowed to have friends.”
Eva watched a mother sitting under a tree with her son, reading a book. “I’d spend all my time trying to hide things from them. Trust me. This is easier.”
But it was also what she preferred. She never had to explain anything, or answer the get-to-know-you questions that people always asked. Where did you grow up? Where did you go to college? What do you do now?
“Is it easier, though?” Dex didn’t look convinced. “What’s that saying about work?”
“I never met a dollar I didn’t like?”
Dex grinned. “No, the one about all work and no play.”
“All work and no play makes Eva a rich girl,” she finished. When he didn’t laugh, she said, “Thanks for worrying about me. But really, I’m fine.” She pulled her coat tighter. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m meeting that new client in a half hour, and then I’m working a shift at the restaurant.”
For years, Eva had worked two shifts a week at DuPree’s, an upscale steak and seafood restaurant in downtown Berkeley. The tips were great, and it allowed Eva to pay taxes, which kept her off the IRS’s radar.
“I don’t know why you bother with the charade,” Dex said. “You don’t need the money.”
“The devil is in the details.” Eva rose from the bench. “Have fun tonight. Don’t do any drugs.”
As she walked away, Eva glanced again at the playground. A small girl was standing at the top of the slide, frozen, fear plastered across her face. As tears began to fall, her cry grew into a loud wail that sent her mother running to help her. Eva watched the woman lift the little girl from the slide and carry her back to the bench where she’d been sitting, kissing the top of her daughter’s head as she walked.
The girl’s cries echoed in Eva’s mind long after she closed her car door and drove away.
Claire
Wednesday, February 23
I wake early and let my body and mind adjust to my new surroundings. My first full day of freedom. My head feels foggy, desperate for caffeine. But when I rummage around in Eva’s kitchen, I can’t find a coffee maker or coffee of any kind, and Diet Coke is not going to cut it. My stomach gurgles, reminding me I also need more than just crackers to eat, so I go upstairs to use the bathroom and grab Eva’s purse, again tucking my hair under the NYU baseball cap.
Back downstairs, I stand in front of the mirror that hangs on the living room wall, my reflection staring back at me, blotched from a restless night of sleep. I’m still too much myself, recognizable to anyone who might be looking for me. But no one is looking. The thought slices through me, a brilliant flash of opportunity, impossible to ignore.
The street is dark and silent, the sound of my steps bouncing against the dark houses and echoing back to me, until I hit the edge of campus. On the corner is a coffee shop, lights on, a young woman moving behind the counter, making coffee and setting pastries into the display case. I watch her from the safety of the shadowed sidewalk, weighing my need for caffeine and food against the risk of someone recognizing my face from the news.
But my stomach growls again, pushing me through the doors. Eclectic music swirls around the space, something Eastern and meditative. The smell of roasted coffee travels straight through me, and I inhale, savoring it.
“Morning,” the barista says. Her long dreadlocks are held back with a colorful scarf, and her smile is bright. “What can I get you?”
“Large drip coffee, room for cream, and a ham and cheese croissant if you have one. To go please.”
“You got it.”
As she begins making my drink, I look around. Outlets dot the walls, and I imagine the place later in the morning, crowded with students studying and professors grading. As the barista finishes up my order, my eyes are drawn toward a stack of newspapers. San Francisco Chronicle and Oakland Tribune. The headlines are hard to avoid.
“The Fate of Flight 477” reads the Tribune.
“Crash of Flight 477 Leaves No Survivors and a Lot of Heartache” reads the Chronicle. Luckily, the editors have decided to go with action shots of the wreckage and not human-interest stories that would surely put my face on the front page. I hesitate for a split second, before sliding them both on the counter along with a twenty-dollar bill.
The barista sets my drink and a bag with my croissant next to them and hands me my change. “Sad, isn’t it?”
I nod, unable to meet her eyes from under the brim of my cap, and shove the change in my pocket. Tucking the papers beneath my arm, I push out onto the dark street again.