The Last Flight(88)

I hear someone unlocking the front door, and I straighten up, feeling guilty because I’m not supposed to be in here. But it’s only Danielle. She stops in the doorway when she sees me. “Looking for ghosts?” she asks.

I smile. “Something like that.”

Danielle had been waiting for me when I first returned to the townhouse. She’d led me into the kitchen and made me a cup of tea. When we’d settled across from each other at the center island, I finally asked the question that had been nagging at me since her first message. “How did you know where to find me?”

She gave a small, sad smile. “Eva was a friend of my mom’s.” She took a tentative sip of her tea and told me a story of an unlikely friendship between two women—one who’d believed she didn’t deserve to be loved, and the other who’d tried so hard to love her anyways. “Although I only met her briefly, there was something furtive about her. She had an edge that felt dangerous.” Danielle set her cup down on the island and traced a swirl of marble with her finger. “But my mother was devoted to her. Swore that Eva was a good person who needed to know someone believed in her.” Danielle shrugged.

“But that still doesn’t explain how you knew to call me on her phone.”

“She was at my mother’s house in New Jersey the night before the Detroit trip. She must have eavesdropped on a conversation I had with my mom, because afterward, I caught her Googling photos of you. I was worried she’d try to target you somehow.” Danielle shook her head, as though the thought embarrassed her.

“How’s your mom doing?”

Danielle looked toward the living room, where the sun streamed through the tall windows, laying patches of light on the hardwood floor. “Not well,” she said. “It’s been hard for her to reconcile that Eva’s really gone. That if Eva had just followed the plan they’d agreed upon and returned to Berkeley, she’d still be alive.”

I took a sip of hot chamomile tea, letting the flavor bloom in my mouth, knowing I could never tell Danielle or her mother about what I believed really happened to Eva. I would leave it up to Eva to reach out, if and when she ever wanted to. “Eva Googling me couldn’t have been enough for you to know where to look.”

“It was the video,” she said. “There you were, in Eva’s hometown, with hair similar to Eva’s and…” She trailed off. “I took a chance. Looked up Eva’s number on my mom’s phone and hoped you’d answer when I called.” Danielle bent her head down, turning her cup slowly in her hands. When she looked up again, her eyes were wet with tears. “I had to do something, after all those years of staying silent. I’m so, so sorry I didn’t do more to help you.” She let out a shuddering breath. “I thought that by keeping you on task, on schedule, I could protect you. If I worked hard enough, maybe he wouldn’t have a reason to be angry.”

I reached across the island and put my hand on top of hers. “You helped me when it mattered most. More than I ever could have hoped for.”

She squeezed my hand, a silent apology. Late, but not too late.

*

The faint sound of a siren travels through the thick glass of Rory’s office window. I look around the room, trying to picture the afternoon of Danielle’s recording and where she might have dropped her phone in order to catch it. “One last question,” I say. “How did you know to record that particular conversation? Did you know what they’d be talking about?”

Danielle steps into the room and runs her fingers across the back of one of the chairs. “I’d just seen the video of you at the A’s event, and even though Mr. Cook never said anything to me about it, his sudden trip to Oakland made me believe he had seen it too. I was hoping to record a conversation about their plans to find you, to give you an idea of where and how they’d be looking. I had no idea I’d end up with something so much better.”

“It was an incredibly brave and stupid thing to do.”

Danielle grins. “That’s exactly what my mom said.” She checks her watch. “We’d better finish. Time’s almost up.”

I close the drawer with a quiet click and follow Danielle into the living room, where we pack the last of my things.

Petra enters the room just as I’m zipping my bag closed. “Ready?” she asks us.

I give the room one last look. The thick rugs, the expensive furniture, all of it meaningless to me now, and I smile at them both. “Ready,” I say.





Epilogue


John F. Kennedy Airport, New York

Tuesday, February 22

The Day of the Crash

I hunch down on the ground next to the Jetway, picking up the scattered items from Claire’s purse, my only view the shoes of the people in line around me, and shove it all back inside, save my prepaid phone. That I hold up to my ear.

My plan is simple. First, I’ll ease sideways, as if I need to lean against the wall for balance. Then, I’ll turn away from the straggling line of travelers, obedient and forward-facing. After that, it will be a simple matter of walking with purpose in a new direction.

I’m just about to speak into the silent phone, to launch into another fake conversation—maybe something urgent, requiring a little space, a little privacy, when someone says, “Ma’am, are you okay?”