The Last Flight(44)

But as she stared at her dim reflection in the dark train window, Eva was struck with a thought so clear, so pure, it sent a shiver through her. I’m not going to do this anymore.

An impossible wish. Fish and Dex would never let her walk away. Not just because of what she could do, but also what she knew. Even though she was compartmentalized, she still knew too much.

Could I find out more?

Castro’s presence had felt like a threat. But she saw now how it could also be an opportunity. The chance to become the person Liz saw when she looked at Eva. She fingered the photo of the two of them at the entrance to the stadium, already looking like a relic from another time. As the train rose again on the east side of the bay and outside light filled their car again, Eva felt it slip into her, creating space where there had been darkness, hope where there had been despair.

Eva would do what was expected of her—she’d go back to work, she’d deliver the drugs—but underneath it all, she’d do what she did best: She’d watch. And wait. And exploit everyone’s complacency. Because she knew without a doubt Castro would be back. And this time Eva would be ready for him.





Claire


Friday, February 25

At the coffee shop Friday morning, I wander over to the job board while I wait for my coffee. My tentative plan is to take Eva’s social security card, her birth certificate, and any other relevant documents and move somewhere else. Which will require more money than the three hundred fifty dollars I have left.

There are plenty of minimum wage jobs I’m qualified to do—data entry, waiting tables, or even working in a coffee shop—but I feel paralyzed with fear, constantly weighing the risks against the benefits of applying. It would mean committing to being Eva in a very real and public way. There’s a difference between using her name to order a coffee and writing her name and social security number on a W-2 form.

And whatever Eva was running from tumbles around in my mind, a riptide of questions that pull me in unforeseeable directions. I can never work a job requiring a background check. I will always have to be on the move, never settling, always wondering when Eva’s past will finally crash into me.

Through the window, students are beginning to make their way to class. A crowd of them emerges from a bus, some carrying coffee cups and wearing earbuds, while others look tired and drawn, up too early on a Friday morning.

When they’ve dispersed, I see him again. The man from yesterday, standing on the corner, waiting to cross the street. He wears the same long wool coat, with a paper tucked under his arm, as if he’s heading to work. I stare at him, trying to figure out what it is about him that bothers me. He’s just a man on his way somewhere. The longer I stay at Eva’s, the more familiar the people in the neighborhood will become.

But as the light changes, he looks over his shoulder, directly at me, as if he knew I would be here, watching him. Our eyes lock, and I feel the weight of his gaze, curious and searching. He lifts his hand in a silent salute, meant just for me, before he crosses the street, disappearing onto campus.

“Eva?” the barista says.

I turn, still surprised I had the nerve to give her the name. It felt low stakes, to use it on a coffee barista who seemed more in tune with the local bands than the national news.

“Looking for a job?” She passes me my drip coffee, the cheapest item on the menu.

“Sort of,” I say, handing her two dollars.

She raises her eyebrows as she gives me my change. “You either are or you aren’t.”

“I am.” I turn away from her, doctoring my coffee with enough cream and sugar to fill me up for a few hours. I don’t know how to tell her that I’m desperate for work, that I’m terrified I will run out of money and be stuck here forever.

“I work part-time for a caterer,” she says, wiping down the counter next to the coffee machine. “He’s always looking for extra people to be servers. You interested?”

I hesitate, trying to decide whether I have the nerve to say yes or not.

She glances at me and continues her cleaning. “It pays twenty dollars an hour. And”—she gives me a sly grin—“he pays under the table.”

I take a sip of coffee, feeling the hot liquid scald the back of my throat. “He would hire someone he never met?”

“He’s actually desperate for bodies. He’s got a huge party this weekend and two of his servers flaked because they have some kind of sorority meeting.” She rolls her eyes and tosses the rag into the sink behind her. “If it goes well, it could be a regular thing.”

I’ve organized hundreds of catered events—both big and small—and wonder what it would feel like to work behind the scenes. To be one of the anonymous people I barely noticed when I was hosting an event. “What would I have to do?”

“Set tables. Carry trays of food. Smile at bad jokes. And clean everything up. The event begins at seven, but we start at four. Meet me here on Saturday at three thirty. Wear black pants and a white top.”

I quickly do the math. Twenty dollars an hour, under the table, will earn me close to two hundred dollars for one night’s work.

“Okay,” I say.

“My name’s Kelly,” she says, holding her hand out to shake. Her grip is firm and cool.

“Nice to meet you, Kelly. And thanks.”