Julie Clark - The Last Flight

To the left of the stairs is a counter strewn with papers and a voice recorder next to them. I lean over, reluctant to touch anything, and begin reading what appears to be a notarized letter to someone named Agent Castro.

My name is Eva James and this is a sworn statement of events beginning twelve years ago all the way through the present, January 15 of this calendar year. I read quickly, the pages turning faster, the story of a college student who just wanted to fit in. Who took the only option she believed was available at the time, latching on to a man named Dex, who promised her things he had no intention of ever giving her. A life. Happiness. Freedom. It’s the story of a woman who was tired of the corner she’d been forced into, a woman ready to burn it all down on her way out.

Eva wasn’t a con artist or an identity thief. She was a woman like me, for whom the world will never bend, trying to set her path straight.

I pick up the voice recorder and press Play. The sound of a sports arena fills the small space, chants and cheers, an announcer’s voice, a marching band of some kind.

“Seems kind of dangerous to get rid of the guy who was Brittany’s contact.” Eva’s voice, just as I remember it. “Won’t that draw the attention of the police again?”

A familiar voice, one I heard not ten minutes ago on the porch, warning me not to leave my front door unlocked, answers her. “They’ll never find him. Fish has a warehouse in Oakland. Some kind of import/export bullshit. There’s an incinerator in the basement.”

I stop the recording, unable to listen to any more. Like scenes flipping, faster and faster, images appear in my mind. The cash purchase of her home. Eva’s desperation at the airport. The way she shoved her purse into my arms, without even looking through it to see if there was something she wanted to keep. The phone she had with her, and the black one she left behind. No wonder Eva didn’t tell me the truth. This is why she couldn’t return to Berkeley.

And why I need to get out of here. Now.

I leave the lab untouched, but I gather the paperwork and the voice recorder, pressing them close to my chest as I sprint up the stairs.

Eva

Berkeley, California

February

Two Days before the Crash

Eva was meeting Agent Castro at the Round House, a diner that sat at the entrance to the Golden Gate Bridge on the San Francisco side. She parked down by Crissy Field and walked up, checking over her shoulder several times as she made her way along the shaded paths of the Presidio. She’d taken the long way into the city, through San Rafael and Mill Valley, instead of crossing over on the Bay Bridge, hoping she wasn’t followed.

A letter had arrived from Liz the day before. Eva touched the folded edges of it, like a talisman, pulling it from her pocket again to read.

Eva,

I’m so sorry we didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. I had really hoped we could talk one more time before I left. I feel like I owe you an apology. I made some assumptions that I shouldn’t have, so I’m going to spell it out for you, just so we’re clear. There are no conditions on my friendship. I don’t expect you to be anyone other than who you are. Whatever your past is, I accept it. Whoever you want to be, I will still love you.

When you share your problems with someone else, your load gets lighter. And so, I’m here, whenever you’re willing to share what’s troubling you. Just because I’m no longer next door doesn’t mean I won’t be there when you need me. Call me anytime.

And then she’d scribbled a phone number at the bottom. Eva tucked the note back into her pocket where she’d been carrying it since its arrival, wishing she’d met Liz all those years ago instead of Dex, wondering how different her life would have been if all she’d had to confess was one bad mistake in the chemistry lab. She could see how that might have been something Liz could forgive. Eva had been young and stupid. She certainly wasn’t the first person to do something dumb for a guy.

But it was too late now. Liz was gone, and soon, Eva would be too. Maybe it was better this way.

* * *

She found Castro sitting in the back, near the kitchen, away from the giant windows that overlooked the bridge. “I ordered you a burger and fries,” he said by way of a greeting.

She dropped her bag on the seat and slid across from him. The red vinyl booths were filled with tourists taking selfies with their cell phones. In the parking lot outside, a tour bus unloaded and a crowd of people made their way toward the walking side of the bridge.

Nerves slipped through her, like long ribbons twirling and twisting into a tangle as she imagined leaving from there. Exiting the restaurant and climbing into an anonymous sedan and disappearing. Her fingers tapped the table, her leg jiggling beneath her. “Thanks,” she said. “But I’m not really interested in a meal and small talk, if that’s okay with you.”

Agent Castro nodded. “My supervisor denied the request for witness protection,” he said.

Eva felt the air rush out of her, the sounds around them growing sharper. The clatter of plates and cutlery, the steady drone of conversations. All of her plans dissolved and vanished, as if they’d never existed. “Why?” she managed to ask. “You told me yourself you’d been after Fish for years.”

Agent Castro took a packet of sugar from the small cup at the edge of their table and traced the edges of it with his fingers, unable to meet her eyes. “I happen to agree with you. But like I said, witness protection is expensive, and we don’t do it very often.”

“When do you do it, then?”

He looked up at her, and she saw genuine regret in his eyes. “We use it mostly for big targets. Organized crime. Major networks. I know Fish feels like a big target to you. And he certainly is for me. I’ve been close to him more times than I care to admit. And every time, he slips away. My contact goes dark, and I’m back at square one.”

“All the more reason to make this happen,” she said, working hard to keep her voice low. To not let the desperation she felt break through.

“I can offer you twenty-four-hour protection at an undisclosed location. All the way through the trial. I promise you’ll be safe. If you have an attorney, now would be the time to call them.”

Eva sat with his words. Let them assemble into a picture. Her, alone in a hotel room, two guards at the door. An armed escort to and from the trial that would surely result in a not-guilty verdict. Or a mistrial. And then what? She’d be free to go back home? To unlock her front door and do what? Wherever she went, Fish’s people would find her. Dex would probably do the job himself. After a betrayal like this one, he wouldn’t rest until he’d found her.

When she was a child, the girls in the group home would go to Sister Bernadette for advice with a problem—a friendship gone bad, an unfair teacher, a foster home that hadn’t worked out. Eva never had, but she’d listened all the same, sliding herself along the edges of their conversations, absorbing whatever wisdom Sister Bernadette had to offer. She would often tell them The only way out is through , that no matter the situation, one step would lead to the next, and the next one after that. And so Eva leaned into this new development. Wrapped her mind around it and got to work thinking through to the other side. She found it ironic that both Sister Bernadette and Dex offered her such similar advice. Play through.

“Then I guess we move forward and hope for the best,” she said. “What do you need?”

Castro tucked the sugar back into its cup as the server brought their food, the smell of the burger and fries turning her stomach sour. “Ideally, we’d like to put a wire on you and have you meet with Fish.”