The Last Flight(61)

After Kelly leaves, I head back upstairs to my computer, hoping to see more of the discussion about Charlie. But the Doc is empty again, and I feel the silence, like a whispered threat only I can hear.

*

I start with Eva’s desk, locating the most recent bank statement and setting it aside. From the box in the corner, I pull the title and registration to her car, her social security card and birth certificate, and take a second unsuccessful look for a passport. I see myself somewhere far away, a big city like Sacramento or Portland. Maybe Seattle. Finding a cheap motel or hostel, and then a job, filling in Eva’s information on the W-2, the momentum of possibility growing inside of me.

I grab a pay stub from DuPree’s, the restaurant where Eva worked, and add it to my pile. Maybe I can use them as a reference. I reach up and touch my short blond hair. To anyone outside of Berkeley, I am Eva James. I can prove it with a driver’s license. A bank account. A social security card and tax returns. Like a funhouse mirror, I’m no longer sure where I end and she begins. I imagine a restaurant manager somewhere, calling DuPree’s, asking about me. Eva James? Yeah, she worked here.

I turn back toward my computer. Where should I go? The possibilities bubble up inside of me. Heading north seems to be the best choice, with so many large cities and miles between here and Canada. Maybe I can circle back and settle in Chicago or Indianapolis. I begin my search, using Craigslist to look for jobs and inexpensive places to live, calculating how long my money will last.

After an hour, I click back over to the Doc, which is still empty, a blank white square offering nothing but stress and fear. It’s the only thing anchoring me to my old life, and I’m tempted to cut my losses, log out, and leave it all behind. I have to find my own path forward, think about my own next steps, not some hypothetical Maggie Moretti scandal that might not even be true. Maggie is dead. And if I don’t keep my wits about me, I could end up that way too.

Because once Rory sees the video, I’m certain he’ll come. He’ll fly to Oakland and track down Tom, demanding answers. All Tom will be able to tell him is Eva’s first name. He has no W-2. No employee records to even indicate where Eva lived.

But Kelly knows.

I can see Rory, giving her that smile, the one that knocks even the most hard-hearted donors into writing a check. I know what he’ll say about me—that I’m troubled. Unbalanced. Prone to exaggeration and lies. I’d like to think Kelly could withstand that, but the truth is, I don’t know her well enough to be certain of anything. Which is why by tonight, I need to be gone.

*

The party is up a winding road, perched high in the Berkeley Hills. Kelly and I arrive shortly after two. A quick checkin with Tom has us starting with tablecloths of crisp white linen that snap open and float onto each table in a large room with 360-degree views of the bay.

“Where do you think you’ll go?” Kelly asks in a low voice. The bartender Tom hired, a twentysomething graduate student, bounces around behind the bar, earbuds in, setting up bottles, polishing glasses.

I smooth my hands across the tablecloth and look out the plate glass windows, the harsh afternoon sun making the view look washed-out and dirty. “Maybe Phoenix,” I lie. “Or Las Vegas. East, I think.”

I’ve decided to head north, bypassing Sacramento in favor of Portland. Save as much of my cash as possible by using Eva’s debit card and zip code to fill up at the pump, going as far as I can until her money runs out. I’ve packed a small bag, simple things, enough to get me through at least a week on the road until I can get settled somewhere more permanent.

Kelly leans closer. “You won’t want to do casino work. They fingerprint.”

I take a step back, wondering what she knows, what I must have inadvertently revealed.

She catches the look of panic on my face and says, “Hey. I don’t mean anything by that, other than you might want to avoid it if your husband is working with the police to find you.”

Tom emerges from the kitchen wearing a white chef’s coat and calls us in for the debrief. Kelly and I drop what we’re doing to step up for our final instructions before the party starts. As he finishes, the hostess joins us. She’s young—about my age—and doesn’t pay us much attention as we stand to the side, letting Tom explain how service will work. Her eyes slide over us, as if we’re furniture, before she says, “That sounds perfect. Please make sure to keep the appetizers circulating.”

*

Soon, Kelly and I are moving among the crowd with our heavy trays. The glass windows have been opened so that guests can pass between indoors and a small grassy yard overlooking Berkeley and the bay beyond. The sun has moved across the sky, and the view that seemed harsh earlier is now cast in rich greens and golds. There’s a chill that might make me shiver if I wasn’t working so hard. As promised, the party is private, no sign of anyone interested in photographing the guests.

At a table near the edge of the yard, I set my tray down to gather dirty glasses and empty plates, and let my eyes linger on the horizon. San Francisco is shaded in deep blues and purples as the sun begins to set, the lights on the Bay Bridge becoming more vibrant against the darkening sky, a stream of cars traveling into the city, their red taillights a bright necklace. Behind me, the party goes on, voices mixed in with pockets of laughter, the clink of glasses and cutlery, and beneath it all, low classical music smoothing out the edges.