The Last Flight(35)
When I’m done, I dress and stand in front of the mirror in Eva’s room, the unfamiliar rose scent of Eva’s soap and lotion hanging in the air around me. A stranger looks back at me with her cropped blond hair and sharp cheekbones. I step over to the dresser, where Eva’s wallet sits, and pull out her license, comparing my face to hers, a flutter of optimism growing inside of me.
I recognize this feeling, the excitement of being on the cusp of a new life. I felt it when I met Rory, when everything seemed to glitter with possibility, standing on the edge between who I was and who I wanted to become.
A cover story starts to form, an explanation I can give to anyone who asks. Eva and I grew up together in the group home. I can speak with authority about Sister Bernadette and Sister Catherine. And if they ask where Eva went and why I’m here, I’ll tell them I’m getting a divorce, and Eva is letting me stay here while she travels.
Where did she go?
I stare at my reflection in the mirror—not quite Eva, not quite Claire—and try out my answer. “New York.”
*
Back in Eva’s office, I begin to tidy up, sorting Eva’s papers into stacks, unsure of what to do next, when text pops up on my computer screen. First, a single sentence, typed by Rory. The Detroit trip. Then, on the right-hand side of the computer, Rory adds a comment.
Rory Cook:
What did you do with the FedEx package?
A reply comes almost immediately.
Bruce Corcoran:
Money in the drawer. The ID, passport, and the rest of it have been shredded.
Rory Cook:
The letter?
Bruce Corcoran:
Scanned, then shredded.
Rory Cook:
How the fuck did she get her hands on a fake passport and ID?
Three dots show Bruce responding, and I hold my breath.
Bruce Corcoran:
No idea. Homeland security has cracked down on forgers, but what Claire had looked real. I checked her cell activity in the few days leading up to the trip. There was a number she called that morning that we can’t match to anyone she knew. We’re still looking into it.
I wait for them to continue, but nothing new appears. Then the comments disappear, one by one, and the text in the Doc itself also vanishes. In the upper right-hand corner, Bruce’s icon disappears, leaving only Rory’s behind. I need to be careful. There’s no way to differentiate my presence in the Doc from Rory’s, and if I start clicking things, that activity will show up on his computer with his name attached. So I’m stuck, a silent observer, unable to follow up or have my questions answered. All I can do is watch this play out on the screen in front of me.
*
Out of tasks, with still hours to fill until I can go to sleep, I open a new tab and navigate to CNN’s home page and search for news coverage of the crash. There’s a small item reporting that they’ve planned my funeral, scheduled for a Saturday three weeks from now. Plenty of time for Rory to plan something grand, probably in the city, a guest list thick with dignitaries.
Then I click on Kate Lane’s picture. Her most recent television segments are there for me to rewatch. I scroll down and click on the news conference from last night so I can listen to the NTSB director answer reporters’ questions.
After rehashing the details of what had already been released, he closes the press conference. We are still in the search and recovery phase. More information will emerge in the coming days. I ask for your patience in this matter. Vista Airlines has been cooperative and is complying with all federal requests.
It’s as I expected—more questions than answers. But right before the camera cuts back to Kate in the studio, my eye catches on something in the crowd. I back it up and watch the end of the news conference again, hitting pause when I see it. In the lower left-hand corner is a familiar flash of color tucked in among the typical black and brown parkas and navy windbreakers. The blurred image of a platinum-blond woman wearing a bright-pink sweater decidedly out of place for a frigid February evening in New York.
Eva
Berkeley, California
August
Six Months before the Crash
The man’s name was Agent Castro, and over the next few days, Eva began to see him everywhere. She’d thrown away the business card he’d dropped through her mail slot, and tried to pretend he hadn’t followed her to her house, walked up her walkway, and knocked on her door. But he kept cropping up. In the parking lot at the supermarket. Driving down Bancroft Avenue as she exited a coffee shop. He even showed up at DuPree’s, taking a table in a different section and causing Eva to mess up several orders while he slowly ate a prime-rib dinner and drank a Guinness.
It worried her, how unconcerned he was about being seen. And it made her wonder how long he’d been watching her before deciding to make his presence known.
When Dex finally called her back, she demanded they meet immediately. “How did you get that Brittany referral?” she asked him. They were at a sports bar on Telegraph Avenue, sitting across from each other at a beer-sticky table in the basement dining room next to a pool table while semidrunk students around them watched a preseason football game on the big-screen TV.
“This guy I grew up with moved to Los Angeles. He knows her from down there. When she moved up here, he gave her my name. He told me she’d be a steady client. Why?”
Eva studied his face, looking for any signs of a lie, tension, or a flash of guilt. “I saw her talking to a federal agent after she tried to buy from me. Now he’s following me. I see him everywhere.”