The Last Flight(60)

I check the box next to the message, along with several others for good measure, and hit Delete, and then toggle over to the trash and empty it. I’m screwed either way.

*

By Sunday morning, over a hundred thousand people have viewed the video, and I scroll through at least one hundred replies to the comment from last night. Most of them are chastising NYpundit for being blind, stupid, or simply a callous conspiracy theorist.

People like you are what’s wrong with this country. You hide behind your computer and throw out baseless theories in the hopes of becoming famous.

But NYpundit isn’t giving up. He posted a screenshot of my face from the video, and next to it, the same image from the Stars Like Us magazine article. You tell me, he says.

They do look similar, another commenter concedes. If you swap out the hair, maybe.

I know that despite my short blond hair, Rory will recognize me right away. The way I move, the expression on my face as I step between Donny and Cressida is unmistakable. It’s only a matter of time until Rory sees the video and tracks me down—through Tom, or Kelly—and I need to be far away from Berkeley when that happens.

But so far this morning, the Doc remains empty of the words I expect to materialize there at any moment.

Did you watch the video? Do you think it’s really her?

*

But when text finally appears, it’s not about the video.

Bruce Corcoran:

Charlie sent me a draft email of a press release and a sworn deposition.

Rory Cook:

What’s in it?

Bruce Corcoran:

Everything.

The word sits there, and I can feel the weight of it, whatever it is.

Bruce continues typing, and I can practically hear his appeasing tone.

Bruce Corcoran:

Obviously, we aren’t going to let this happen. We have people looking into Charlie’s background. All the way back to college. We’ll find something that will put an end to this.

Rory Cook:

There’s a lot there. Keep me posted.

Bruce Corcoran:

Will do.

A knock on the door downstairs startles me. I creep down and peek through the window and see Kelly standing on the porch, holding two cups of coffee from the coffee shop. I’m tempted not to answer, to get back upstairs to find out what everything means and what exactly a senior accountant from the foundation knows about Maggie Moretti’s last weekend with Rory.

But she’s seen me. “I thought you might need some caffeine this morning,” she calls through the closed door. “I wanted to thank you for helping the girls yesterday. They finished last night and it’s pretty good.”

We settle on the couch, the low table between us. Kelly sips from her cup, and I hold mine, the heat radiating through my hands.

“There’s a video of me on TMZ,” I tell her.

“I saw,” she says. “But it’s only online. Nothing on TV. So unless your ex likes to troll celebrity gossip sites, you’ll probably be fine.”

If she looked at the comments at all, it’s unlikely she read far enough to catch NYpundit’s. I rotate the cup in my hands, wishing I could explain that it isn’t so simple. That this isn’t going to go away so easily.

“Thanks for checking in with me, and for this.” I hold up my coffee. “But I need to get packing. I’m leaving this afternoon.” I look around the space that’s been my refuge for the past few days. My coat, thrown across the back of the chair, the stack of newspapers on the floor next to the couch, how quickly this house has begun to feel like a home.

“There’s still a chance he won’t see the video.”

I place my coffee on the table between us, untouched. “It’s more complicated than you might think.”

“Then explain it to me,” she says. “If you need money, I can loan it to you. If you need a different place to say, I have a friend who can find one for you.”

In this moment, I’m reminded of my mother, who never hesitated to reach out to someone in need and offer help, even when she couldn’t afford to give it. I want more than anything to let Kelly help me. But I can’t risk pulling her—or her family—into something bigger than any sane person would be willing to carry.

“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, more than you will ever know.”

“Let me at least help you earn a little more money before you go. Tom’s got a party this afternoon. No media, I promise. Just a straight-up event at a house in the hills with killer views. I can pick you up at two and have you home by nine.” She gives me a sad smile. “Early enough so you can still technically leave today.”

On the other side of the living room wall, tucked away in the dark garage, is Eva’s car, and I feel an urgency to go now. Not to waste another minute. To toss my coffee into the trash, clear out the debris of the last few days, throw my things into her car, and take off.

But caution pulls me up short. I can’t afford to be impulsive, to make another mistake. I need to have a plan. Figure out where I’ll go next, gather the relevant documents I might need from Eva’s office, and pack. Even if Rory sees the video right this second, the earliest he might appear in town is tomorrow. I can still leave tonight, with another two hundred dollars in my pocket. I can’t afford to say no.

“I’ll see you at two.”