The Last Flight(59)
“You might know him as Fish.”
She didn’t answer. As long as she didn’t say anything, she could stay inside this neutral space where she’d neither betray Fish or have to lie to a federal agent.
He continued. “You are not my target, Eva. If you help me, I can protect you.”
Eva gave a short, mirthless laugh. If Fish knew Castro was here right now, Eva wouldn’t see the end of the week.
“You’re going to have to make a choice,” he said.
“I thought the task force was disbanded.” If Castro was surprised she knew this, he didn’t let on.
“Let’s just say we scaled back. You’ve turned into quite a sports fan.”
Eva kept her eyes on the tree, although all her attention was on Castro, marking his posture, watching his body language. She knew he didn’t have anything on her, or he would have arrested her, not crept up to her porch late at night, asking questions. “I’m just a server who likes football and basketball,” she said.
“Want to know what I think?” he asked.
“Not particularly.”
“I think you want out.” His voice was soft, but his words cut through her anyways, how clearly he saw her. How much of her mind he already knew.
She shot him a quick glance, and he smiled, as if something had just been confirmed. “Time’s running out,” he said, pushing off the railing and standing upright. “I can either keep this conversation a secret or let slip to someone inside the department that we’ve talked. How do you think that might go over with Fish?” He shook his head slightly and said, “Even if you were to tell him about it first, he’d have doubts. And in my experience, doubts always cause problems.”
Eva stared at him, her options narrowing down to just one. “Why me?” she asked.
Castro locked his eyes onto hers and said, “Because you’re the one I want to help.”
He slid his card onto the railing and walked down the front path, disappearing as quietly as he’d appeared.
Claire
Saturday, February 26
On the ride home from the A’s event, Kelly and I are silent, my mind leaping forward and backward, trying to rewrite what I’ve just done. I know what those people will do with the videos and photos they took. They’ll show up online first, then eventually migrate to television. The question is how soon, and will anyone recognize me?
I relish the quiet of the car and stare out the window, looking at the darkened apartments that back up against the freeway. As we head up the on-ramp, Kelly says, “What happened back there?”
I keep my face averted, wondering what she’d say if I unloaded everything from the past few days. I imagine her eyes growing wide as I speak, the horror of what I’ve done to save myself edging out any friendliness that used to live there. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“The way you jumped in between Donny and his girlfriend when he lost his temper. What did you leave behind?”
The road is nearly empty this late at night, and the car glides over several lanes, settling in the middle. “It’s better if you don’t know.”
Kelly keeps her eyes on the road, occasional headlights from the opposite direction briefly illuminating her face, before it’s covered in darkness again. “Did your husband hit you?”
I let the question hang in the air, wondering if I have the nerve to answer it. Finally I whisper, “Many times.”
“And now you’re worried he might see the video and find you.”
“I don’t know how I could have been so stupid,” I say.
We drift off the freeway into downtown Berkeley, and in almost no time, we’re approaching Eva’s house. When she pulls up in front, Kelly turns to me. “Let me help,” she says.
I know better than anyone how secrets can fester, cutting you off from the rest of the world. I never had any true friends in New York, other than Petra, because I had too much to hide. So much to conceal. And now that I’ve escaped, nothing’s changed. I have to hold Kelly at the same distance in order to protect my secrets. They’re just different secrets.
I offer a weak smile, wishing more than anything Kelly and I could be friends.
“Thanks,” I say. “But it might be too late for that.”
*
Upstairs at my computer, I type in the web address for TMZ. Right at the top is a link showing Donny and Cressida’s fight, posted just forty-five minutes ago. The headline says “Fight Between Baseball Star Donny Rodriguez and Girlfriend Turns Physical.” I click on it, and the video pops up. There’s no sound, just the footage, but the resolution is incredible. It shows Donny and Cressida fighting, the way he grabbed her arm and yanked her toward him, and me, stepping into the middle of all of it.
There are already over two hundred comments, and about halfway down, I see it.
NYpundit: Hey, does anyone think that woman in the background looks a little bit like Rory Cook’s dead wife?
“No,” I breathe into the empty room and think about the Google alert this mention has activated. To Danielle’s email. To Rory himself.
I quickly navigate to his inbox and open his alerts folder. The email sits at the top of a long list of unread notifications, and my first instinct is to delete it. But that will only delay the inevitable. Danielle will still see the alert, read it, and click on the link. She will watch the video, perhaps several times, before taking it to Bruce. Together, they’ll figure out the best way to approach Rory, to show him that the wife who was about to leave him, the one who supposedly died, is alive and well and working for a caterer in Oakland.