The Last Flight(72)

I sprint up the stairs and through the kitchen, my shoes tracking Diet Coke into the living room, stuffing Eva’s sworn deposition and voice recorder into my bag. I don’t know what compelled me to take them, what instinct warned me that leaving them behind would be a mistake. My mind flashes back to the man on the porch, how close he stepped, the scent of cigarette smoke still tickling the back of my throat, and I know without a doubt these papers, this recorder, are what he’s after. Then I think of Eva’s cell phone, sitting on the kitchen table, Danielle’s message still on it. I scurry back to grab it, powering it off before shoving it into my pocket.

Outside a car drives by, the radio a faint thump as it passes, and I peek through the curtains, thinking about who might be out there, watching from the shadows. I have to force myself to open the door and step onto the porch, my instincts in disarray, unsure whether I risk more by leaving or staying. But in my mind, I see the basement drug lab, a notarized letter to a federal investigator, and a man who is most certainly not a DEA agent, leaning in too close, a silent promise that he’ll be back.

I cross the lawn quickly, keeping my head down as I walk toward campus, bracing myself for a voice or a hand on my shoulder to stop me. In the distance, a cat yowls, long and low, then rises into a scream that sounds almost human.

*

I find a small motor court motel on a busy street, about a mile from campus. My shoulders ache, my feet hurt, and I’m freezing. A light burns in the small office, revealing an older woman smoking a cigarette and staring at a television mounted on the wall. When I enter, she turns to face me, her eyes squinting through a cloud of smoke.

“I’d like a room please.”

“It’s eighty-five dollars a night plus tax,” she tells me.

“That’s fine,” I say, although I wobble a little as I do the math.

She gives me a once-over and says, “I’ll need your name, your driver’s license, and a credit card.”

“I’d like to pay cash.”

“Doesn’t matter. We have to enter the card into our system. We won’t run it until you check out, and if you want to pay by cash then, we won’t run it at all.”

I consider arguing with her, but I don’t want to solidify myself in her memory. I hand over Eva’s driver’s license and her credit card, anxious as I watch her enter them into her computer, waiting for the tiniest hesitation—perhaps just her eyes, a slight widening, then flicking back up to my face. But she taps in the number, her expression bored, before handing everything back.

“How many nights?” she asks.

I can’t think past this moment, the days stretching ahead of me, blank, with no idea what I’ll do next. “I don’t know. One? Two?” At eighty-five dollars a night, my money will run out quickly.

“I’ll put you down for two,” the woman says, handing me a key. “Room five, just out the door and to your left. Checkout is at eleven. If you’re here past that, we charge you for another night.”

The room is small, with cheap carpeting and a polyester bedspread on the double bed that faces a television on a small bureau. A tiny desk and lamp are in the corner next to the bathroom. I sit on the bed and try to let the last few hours drain out of me.

The clock on the nightstand reads eleven thirty, and my head is heavy with fatigue. The party in the Berkeley Hills feels like it happened a month ago instead of just a few hours. I lean forward, covering my face with my hands, and choke down a sob. I have no name, no plan, and not nearly enough money.

My eyes are gritty with exhaustion. It’s been two days since I’ve had any real sleep, and I fall back on the bed, fully dressed, hoping tomorrow brings a solution.

*

I wake early, having slept so deeply I didn’t even dream. As I look around the room in the early morning light, I let my mind adjust to this new reality. My entire life exists within these walls. Outside, I’m either a dead woman or a drug dealer on the run.

I sit up, my muscles screaming from two nights in a row of heavy catering work, and think of Kelly, already working her shift in the coffee shop, imagining me driving toward the heat of the desert. I wish I were there with her, sitting in one of the deep chairs while she makes idle conversation from behind the counter. I ache for the simplicity of it, to have a place in the world where I belong.

My stomach growls, so I grab my NYU hat and some cash and dart down to the corner mart with ten dollars I can’t afford to spend, and return with an enormous cup of coffee and a package of stale cinnamon buns. My only option—weak as it is—is to find something on the thumb drive I can use against Rory to trade for my freedom. A secret he cares more about keeping than he does about punishing me.

I turn the TV on for company and slowly set up my computer, plugging in the thumb drive and looking through the desk for the Wi-Fi directions. When I’m logged in, a quick check of Rory’s email shows nothing new, but when I click over to the Doc, a jolt like a lightning bolt shoots through me.

They’re talking about me.

Rory Cook:

How the fuck did she do it?

Bruce Corcoran:

I don’t know. The airline said she was scanned onto the flight. No one disputed that.

Rory Cook:

They said her seat was empty. Do you think they know?

Bruce Corcoran:

I think they would have contacted you immediately if they thought there was any chance she wasn’t on the plane. Do you want me to tell them?