The Last Flight(4)
He laughed at his joke, and I could see the boy he used to be flash across his face, sitting next to Petra and me at lunch, eating his sandwich while doing his math homework, the weight of who he was expected to become already bearing down on him.
“Thanks, Nico.” I passed him the envelope containing ten thousand dollars, a small fraction of the money I’d managed to siphon off and squirrel away over the past six months. One hundred dollars here. Another two hundred there. Cash back whenever I could, slipping the money into Petra’s gym locker every day so she could hold it until I was ready.
His expression grew serious. “I need you to know that if something goes wrong, I can’t help you. Petra can’t help you. Your husband has resources that would put me, my livelihood—and Petra’s—at risk.”
“I understand,” I told him. “You’ve done more than enough, and I’m grateful.”
“I’m serious. All it takes is one tiny thread connecting your new life to your old one and it’ll all fall apart.” His dark eyes latched onto mine and held. “You can never go back. Not once. Not in any way, ever.”
*
“Rory’s scheduled the plane to leave around ten,” I tell Petra now. “Did you remember to include my letter? I don’t want to have to rewrite it on hotel stationery ten minutes before I leave.”
She nods. “In with the rest of it. Addressed and stamped, ready to be mailed from Detroit. What did you say?”
I think about the hours I’d spent, the many versions I’d shredded, drafting a letter that would close the door on any possibility that Rory might try to follow me. “I told him I was leaving, and that this time, he would never find me. That he should announce our separation publicly, tell them it was amicable and that I was not going to be giving any public statements or media interviews about it.”
“One week before he announces his run for Senate.”
I give her a smirk. “Should I have waited until after?”
Once I’d saved enough money to carry me into a new life, I began to look for the perfect opening to leave. I studied our Google calendar of upcoming events, searching for a trip I’d be taking alone, focusing on cities near the Canadian or Mexican borders. I found it in the Detroit trip. I’m scheduled to visit Citizens of the World, a social justice charter school funded by the Cook Family Foundation. An afternoon school tour followed by an evening dinner with donors.
I lean back on the bench behind me and stare up at the ceiling, obscured by a layer of steam, and run through the rest of the plan. “We land around noon. The school event starts at two, so I’ll make sure we go to the hotel first so I can get the package and put it somewhere safe.”
“I called the car rental place. They’re expecting a Ms. Amanda Burns to pick up a compact around midnight tonight. Will you be able to get a cab?”
“There’s a Hilton just down the road from where I’m staying. I’ll catch one from there.”
“I worry about someone seeing you leave with a suitcase in the middle of the night. Following you. Calling Rory.”
“I’m not taking it. I bought a backpack big enough for a couple changes of clothes and my money. I’m leaving everything else—including my purse and wallet—behind.”
Petra nods. “If you need it, I booked a room with the credit card at the W in Toronto. They’re expecting you.”
I close my eyes, the heat making me woozy. Or perhaps it’s the pressure of having to get every detail exactly right. There’s no room for even the tiniest mistake.
I feel the minutes slipping away. Pushing me toward the moment when I’ll take the first step in a series of steps that will be irrevocable. A part of me wants to forget it all. Go to Detroit, visit the school, and come home. Have more days in the sauna talking to Petra. But this is my chance to finally get out. Whatever options I have now will narrow to nothing once Rory announces his run for the Senate.
“Time to go.” Petra’s voice is soft, and my eyes open again.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” I tell her.
“You were my only friend all those years ago. You don’t have to thank me. This is me, thanking you,” she says. “It’s your turn to be happy.” She tightens her towel around her body, and I can see the flash of her smile through the steam.
I can’t believe this is the last time we’ll sit here. The last time we’ll talk. This room has been like a sanctuary, dark and quiet, with just our whispered voices, plotting my escape. Who will sit here tomorrow with her? Or the day after that?
I feel the finality of my departure looming, how absolute that ending will be, and I wonder if it’ll be worth it. If it’ll be better. Soon, Claire Cook will cease to exist, the shiny pieces of her facade cracked and discarded. I have no idea what I’ll find underneath it all.
Thirty-three hours until I’m gone.
Claire
Monday, February 21
The Day before the Crash
I meet Danielle outside the Center Street Literacy offices, fifteen minutes late. “Not a word,” I warn her, though I know she’s probably already texted Rory three times.
She trails me through the doors and into the large common area they use for book talks and writing workshops. The room is busy at this hour, filled with students and tutors. I imagine how different it would be if Rory were passing through, the wave of excited murmuring, starting at the front and rippling backward as he made his way into the space. But no one gives me a second look. Without Rory, I’m just another face, there and gone. Unremarkable. Which will be my advantage very soon.