Julie Clark - The Last Flight

Eva stared across the yard toward the bushes by the back gate, their shadows quickly disappearing in the fading light. “I’m not very good at forgiveness.”

Liz nodded. “Not many people are. But what I’ve learned in life is that in order for true forgiveness to occur, something has to die first. Your expectations, or your circumstances. Maybe your heart. And that can be painful. But it’s also incredibly liberating.”

“Is this your roundabout way of telling me I need to forgive my birth family?”

Liz had looked at her, surprised. “I think you need to figure out how to forgive yourself. For whatever it is that still chases after you.”

As Eva flew east, the window next to her a black square, she wondered if this was the death Liz was talking about. Her entire life, abandoned in Berkeley, just a hollow shell that no longer fit the person she was becoming. It didn’t make sense, even to her, why she needed to see Liz one more time. But somehow she understood that this was how she’d forgive herself.

Claire

Monday, February 28

While I wait for a reply from Kate Lane, I flip through the notes I took from Eva’s lab, sinking again into the story of a chemistry prodigy, an outcast, and a drug dealer. When I’m done, I stare at the curtained window, the sound of distant traffic just beyond the door, and picture her out there, moving silently through crowds of students, shoulders hunched, hands shoved into the pockets of her green coat, head tucked into her chest. Invisible. Her solitary life always holding her apart. Never safe, never known.

And I know why she decided to do what she did.

I drink the rest of my cold coffee and eat the last cinnamon bun, wishing I could check the Doc. I imagine Rory, packing a bag and assembling a small team. Coordinating with Bruce. A short trip to California for personal business, Danielle quiet and watchful, taking notes. Waiting for another opening to tell me what she knows.

Just then, my email pings with a response from Kate Lane’s production assistant.

Ms. Lane is definitely interested in this story. We will need to verify your claim before moving forward. Please send a number where we can reach you so we can confirm you are who you say you are.

I toggle over to the settings on Eva’s phone, find her number, then type it directly into my email reply. Ten minutes later, the cell phone rings and I leap for it. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Cook, it’s Kate Lane.”

The sound of my own name sounds odd to my ear, making me feel exposed. “Thank you for talking with me,” I say.

“Well, you tell an interesting story. But I first need you to explain how it is you aren’t dead, when the NTSB says you got on that plane.”

The years of silence pile up in me, the secrets I’ve guarded for so long, the belief that no one would want to know the truth. I start slowly, describing Rory’s abuse and how desperate I was to leave him, how my plans to disappear in Detroit fell apart, and how Rory had discovered them. “And then I met a woman at JFK. Her name was Eva James, and she agreed to trade flights with me,” I say. “When I landed, I found out the Puerto Rico flight had crashed. I’ve been stuck here, with no money and no way to disappear, so I took a job with a catering company.” I tell her about the TMZ video and how Rory was now on his way to California because of it.

“So Eva James died in the crash instead?”

I close my eyes, knowing I need to be careful. The best way I can protect Eva is to let the people who are after her believe she’s dead. “She did.”

“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?”