The Last Flight(84)

I feel the air rush out of me and collapse against the seat, clasping my shaking hands in my lap. CNN. Not Rory. Dizzy relief floods through me, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to fall apart.

This is the price of abuse. It has twisted my thinking into such a tangle I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not. Logically, I can see how impossible it would have been for them to find me so easily. And yet, years of being under Rory’s influence has made it so that I’ve given him nearly superhuman power. To see where I’m hiding, to know my every thought and fear, and to then exploit them.

Finally, the car picks up speed, and we enter the tunnel. The darkness is a brief blink, and then we’re out the other side. As if by magic, the entire city rises up before us, bright white buildings shining in the early afternoon sun.

“Mrs. Cook?” he asks again, holding up a small bottle of water.

“I’m okay,” I tell him, as much for myself as for him.

*

Breaking news: We interrupt our regularly scheduled program to bring you Kate Lane, live from Washington, DC, with a story that is just emerging from California. Kate?

The voices talk in my ear, though I sit alone on a stool placed in front of a green screen. Several producers and assistants are clustered around the single camera, zoomed in on me, but the red light indicating that I’m on-air remains dark. Next to it, a television screen shows Kate Lane in her DC studio, the feed piped directly into my earpiece. My head is still fuzzy from the adrenaline, but the freezing temperature of the studio clears it a little. On the far wall of the studio is a large digital clock with a bright-blue background that reads 1:22, and I watch the seconds tick down, trying to align my heart rate with them.

Shortly after I’d arrived at the CNN studio, weak and shaking, a producer had handed me an iPad with Kate Lane calling via video chat. They’d been able to talk with Danielle, who had agreed to send the recording to the New York State Attorney General. Kate’s sources inside the department told her they should have some news about next steps very soon. Charlotte Price had also been located and was willing to go on the record as soon as her attorney could file to void the NDA she’d signed so long ago.

“So now it’s up to you to tell your story,” Kate had said. “Paint a picture of your marriage for us. Tell us what your husband was like, and what you were running from.” Her expression softened. “I have to prepare you for what will likely happen once you come forward. People are going to dig into your life. Your past. Say hateful things about you and to you, in a very public way. It won’t matter whose side people are on—yours or your husband’s—your life will be put under a microscope regardless. Every choice you ever made. Every person you ever talked to. Your family. Your friends. I have an obligation to make sure you’re clear, before we proceed.”

Hearing Kate spell out exactly what I’d feared for so many years made me hesitate, and I considered stepping back. Letting Danielle and Charlie’s evidence do all the work. No one needed to hear the details of my abuse in order to lay Maggie Moretti’s death at Rory’s feet.

And yet, I knew that if I didn’t, I’d be destined to live and relive moments like the one on the bridge. I would never be truly free if I scurried away to hide under another rock. I’d be complicit in Rory’s abuse as long as I continued to protect him. The world didn’t need to hear my story, but I needed to tell it. “I understand,” I told her.

“Live in five seconds,” someone says.

“Good evening.” Kate’s voice fills my earpiece, as if she’s sitting right next to me. “In the last hour, attorneys for Rory Cook, head of the Cook Family Foundation and son of the late Senator Marjorie Cook, have been fielding requests for questioning related to the death of Maggie Moretti, who died twenty-seven years ago on a Cook family property. But even more extraordinary is the fact that authorities received this information via Mr. Cook’s wife, previously believed to have perished on Flight 477. CNN has discovered that she is alive and living in California. We have her here now, via satellite, to discuss the accusations against her husband and why she felt she had to hide. Mrs. Cook, so good to see you.”

The light on the camera in front of me illuminates, and the director points at me. I fight the urge to reach up and touch my hair, aware of how different I look. “Thank you, Kate. It’s good to be here.” My voice sounds lonely in the empty space, and I try to stay focused on the television monitor that shows a background of the San Francisco skyline behind me.

“Mrs. Cook, tell us what happened and how you came to be here today.”

Now that I’m here, I can see that it was always going to come to this. For too long, I believed my voice alone wouldn’t be enough. That nobody would want to hear the truth and step in to help. But when I needed it most, three women showed up. First Eva, then Danielle, and finally, Charlie. If we don’t tell our own stories, we’ll never take control of the narrative.

I square my shoulders and look directly into the camera, feeling the terror of the last hour, the stress of the past week, and the fear of the past ten years slipping off me, now nothing more than the faint whisper of a shadow.

“As you know, my husband comes from a very powerful family, with unlimited resources. But what you don’t know is that our marriage was a difficult one. For the cameras, he was charming and dynamic, but behind closed doors, he became violent, triggered without warning. The world saw us as a happy and committed team, but beneath the veneer, I was in crisis. Guarding my secrets. Trying to do better, to be better. Desperate to live up to the impossible standards my husband set for me, terrified when I couldn’t.