The Last Flight(78)

“Jesus,” Kate breathes out. Then she seems to regroup. “I guess we’d better move on to Maggie Moretti.”

“I have a recording of my husband and his assistant, Bruce Corcoran. In it, they’re discussing a woman named Charlotte Price, who has direct knowledge of my husband’s involvement in Maggie Moretti’s death.”

There’s a pause as Kate Lane absorbs this information. “When was this recording made?”

“I’m not sure,” I admit. “In the last few days. My assistant made it and sent it to me sometime last night. She’s willing to verify its legitimacy.”

Kate seems to think about this. “Before we do anything, I’ll need to listen to it. Can you text it to my producer?” She rattles off a number, and I send it off.

Soon, I hear it playing across the phone line. The knocking, Danielle’s voice, then Rory and Bruce’s. When it’s done, Kate lets out a sigh, her voice gentle. “Mrs. Cook, I’m sorry. But I don’t think we can put that on the air.”

“What do you mean?” This was my last shot. I’d laid everything on the table—revealed where I was and what I’d done—and the outcome is still the same. “He all but admits he was responsible.”

“It’s not enough,” Kate says. “His assistant outlines the accusation, and while your husband doesn’t deny it, it’s not an admission.”

“He’s on his way to California,” I tell her. “He knows what I’ve done. This is the only thing that might stop him.”

“I want to help you,” she says. “What you’ve told me is huge in its own right. An abused wife, a man about to run for Senate, two women meeting in an airport and switching tickets. Let me put you on the air to tell that story.”

I swipe a hand across my eyes and say, “And like all the other women who have come out against powerful men, I’ll be the one ostracized, while he sails on to Congress.”

“Your concern is valid,” she says. “But this might buy you time. While you tell your story, others can be working on the link between your husband and Maggie Moretti. Have your assistant send the recording to the New York district attorney. We’ll look for Charlotte Price and see if she wants to go on the record. If there’s anything there, we’ll find it.” I hear her shuffling more papers in the background, and the sound of someone’s muffled voice. “Let’s get you over to our San Francisco studio while we work the phones on this end. Tell me where you are, and I’ll have a car sent over.”

I tell her the name of the motel, feeling unsettled and agitated. Coming forward to talk about what Rory did to me was exactly what I wanted to avoid.

“I’ll be in touch if anything comes up,” Kate says. “The car should be there in about an hour. Be ready.”

“I will. Thank you.”

I begin packing my things, shoving them into my bag haphazardly. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be Claire Cook again, shouldering all the baggage that comes along with it, facing the circus my accusations will create. I think about Eva, out there somewhere, and hope that at least this might set her free.

A knock on the door startles me, and I worry that Rory might have bumped his trip up, slipped out of New York without Danielle knowing, and somehow located me here. That by the time the CNN car arrives, there will be nothing but an empty room.

I peek through the curtains and see a man, his arms folded across his chest, revealing a brief glimpse of a gun holster under his coat.

I call through the door. “Can I help you?”

He smiles and flashes a badge. “My name is Agent Castro,” he says. “And I’d like to talk to you about Eva James.”





Eva


New Jersey

February

One Day before the Crash

The plane bumped down at two o’clock in Newark, after flying all night and an interminable layover in Chicago. After taxiing to the gate, Eva hurried up the Jetway, stopping only to buy a new prepaid phone at a kiosk, tossing the packaging in the trash, and dialing the number Liz had written at the bottom of her letter. “It’s Eva,” she said, relieved to find Liz at home. “I’m actually in New Jersey. Is it possible I can stop by?”

“You’re here? How? Why?” Liz’s surprised voice floated through the line.

“It’s a long story,” Eva said, passing through baggage claim and out into the frigid February air. “Can I tell you in person?”

*

Just a little over fifty miles from Manhattan, Liz’s New Jersey street looked like it belonged in the Midwest, with small, well-cared-for houses, a mix of brick and painted stucco. When Liz opened her door, she pulled Eva into a tight hug. “This is such a surprise,” she said. “Come in.”

She followed Liz through the house to a large room off the kitchen that overlooked a snowy backyard. An afternoon talk show was on the TV in the corner, and Liz switched it off, gesturing for Eva to sit on the couch. Liz perched next to her and said, “I’ve missed you. Tell me everything.”

Eva froze. The whole flight, she’d rehearsed in the dark while people slept around her. Tried to find the right place to begin unraveling it all. But now that she was looking into Liz’s questioning eyes, waiting for Eva to say something, she couldn’t make her mouth work at all.