The Last Flight(38)
Gabe found her in the kitchen, giving directions to the cook for a vegetarian order. He was in his midforties, balding, with a shirt that always seemed to be straining at the edges. He was a fair boss who seemed gruff and impatient with his employees, but always gave them time off when they needed it. “Eva,” he said. “When are you going to let me schedule you for more shifts? I need you more than twice a week.”
“No thanks,” she said. “It’s too hard to pursue my hobbies otherwise.”
“Hobbies?” Gabe said, perplexed. “What hobbies?”
Eva leaned against the kitchen wall, grateful for the short break, and ticked them off on her fingers. “Knitting. Ceramics. Roller derby.”
One of the dishwashers snorted, and she winked at him.
Gabe shook his head, muttering under his breath about how no one appreciated him.
Someone called from across the kitchen. “Eva, table four looks ready to order.”
She headed back into the dining room, emptier now that it was nearing nine o’clock. When she arrived at table four, she pulled up short. There sat one of her best clients, Jeremy, flanked on either side by what had to be his parents.
Jeremy was a third-year communications major whose father demanded straight A’s in order to continue funding Jeremy’s tuition and lavish lifestyle, which included a BMW, a loft apartment in downtown Berkeley, and the drugs Eva made. And unlike Brett, Jeremy always paid in full. Cash on delivery. It was a pleasure working with him.
Every now and then, she ran into her clients in the real world, and it always caused them to stumble in some way. Jeremy was no different. When he saw her, his face paled, his eyes darting for the nearest exit. His mother studied her menu while his father scrolled through his phone. Eva smiled, hoping to put him at ease. “Hi there. Let me tell you about the specials.” She launched into her recitation, all the while Jeremy refusing to look at her. She understood his panic. It had taken her years to figure out that people couldn’t see through her act, that they wouldn’t know what she was doing when she met someone in the park or on the corner by the grocery store. The world was filled with people who carried secrets. No one was who they seemed to be.
Jeremy cornered her by the bathrooms before dessert. “What are you doing here?” he hissed.
“I work here.”
He looked over her shoulder toward the dining room.
She followed his glance and said, “Look, Jeremy. You can relax. Take some advice: people will believe whatever you want them to, as long as you don’t hesitate. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you.” She walked away, leaving him standing between the men’s room and the emergency exit.
When her shift was over, she walked by Agent Castro’s car in the lot, letting her gaze meet his for a split second before sliding away. Whatever game he was playing, she could play it too.
Claire
Wednesday, February 23
I stare at the frozen image on the computer screen until my eyes begin to water, until I see nothing more than an accumulation of pixels—shades of pink, dark shadows, platinum-blond hair where a face should be.
It was Rory’s Aunt Mary who had given me that pink cashmere sweater for Christmas one year. “Something to keep you warm while living in the stone-cold center of the Cook family.” She’d laughed, loud and wet, jiggling the ice in her nearly empty glass, as if to loosen whatever gin might remain on the bottom.
I’d held the sweater, soft and luxurious, on my lap, waiting for someone to jump in, to explain away Aunt Mary’s words. But they’d just rolled past it, Rory giving me a tiny wink, as if I was now in on the family secret.
Later that same Christmas, Aunt Mary sidled up to me, drunk, and said, “The whole world loves Rory Cook.” The oldest sister of Rory’s father, Mary was unmarried and considered a family liability. Her voice lowered, the smell of gin heavy on her breath. “But you be careful not to cross him, or you’ll go the way of poor Maggie Moretti.”
“That was an accident,” I said, my eyes glued on Rory, across the room from us, joking around with some younger cousins. I was still trying to believe I’d gotten the life I always wanted, with three generations of the Cook family gathered to celebrate the holidays. I wanted to embrace their traditions. The caroling at the children’s hospital, the candlelight church service followed by a midnight supper, the family life I’d always craved as a girl, such a vibrant contrast to the quiet holidays of my childhood.
But my instincts pinged, forcing me to stay and listen to what she had to say, because my idea of Rory had begun to shift, the shine of his attention had begun to chafe. I was beginning to see the price I’d paid, missing the simple things I used to take for granted. The freedom to pick my own friends. To grab my car keys and go somewhere on a whim without having to clear it with at least two assistants and a driver first.
Aunt Mary cackled. “Oh, so you’re in the poor Rory camp, alongside the rest of the world.” She took a sip of her drink and said, “Let me tell you something. It’s a poorly kept family secret that my brother paid off everyone involved. Why would he do that if there was nothing to hide?” She gave me a sly smile, and I could see her pink lipstick oozing into the crevices around her mouth. “The Cook men are dolls, as long as you do what they want. But step out of line and watch your back.”