Julie Clark - The Last Flight

I finish quickly and wrap myself in my favorite robe, my mind already hours ahead. A quiet flight to Detroit, a school tour, and a banquet to keep me busy until everyone is asleep. A series of boxes I can check off, one at a time, until I’m free.

But I pull up short when I enter my bedroom to find Constance, the upstairs maid, lifting my suitcase onto the bed and unzipping it. She begins to remove the heavy winter clothes that are packed on top of my undergarments.

I grip my robe tight around my neck. “What are you doing?” My eyes are glued on the suitcase, tracking her hands as she pulls things out, bracing myself for what she’ll find at the bottom—a nylon backpack slipped under the lining. Blue jeans that don’t belong anywhere near the Detroit event. Several long-sleeved shirts and a down jacket no one has ever seen before.

But she only carries the cold-weather items back to the closet, returning with lighter things—dresses and slacks in linen, setting my bright pink cashmere sweater on the bed, a flash of color that seems out of place and much too thin for this cold February morning. She smiles at me over her shoulder as she repacks everything and says, “Mr. Corcoran would like to speak with you.”

He must have been lurking in the hall, because at the mention of his name, Bruce steps into the doorway and halts, clearly uncomfortable to find me just out of the shower. “Change of plans,” he says. “Mr. Cook is going to do the Detroit event himself. He wants you to go to Puerto Rico. There’s an organization down there—a humanitarian group that’s working on the hurricane relief effort—and he thinks it’s a cause the foundation should take on.”

I feel as if my entire world has shifted on its axis, gravity yanking me hard toward the center of the earth. “What did you say?”

“Mr. Cook is going to Detroit. He and Danielle left early this morning,” he repeats. “He didn’t want to wake you.”

Constance zips my bag closed again and slips past Bruce, disappearing into the hallway.

“Your flight leaves from JFK at eleven.”

“JFK?” I whisper, unable to keep up.

“Mr. Cook has taken the plane, so we had to book you on Vista Air. There’s some kind of weather event brewing over the Caribbean, and it’s the last flight out before they close everything down. We were lucky to get you on it.” He glances at his watch. “I’ll wait out here while you get dressed. We’ll need to get you to the airport by nine.”

He closes the door, and I sit down hard on the bed, my thoughts careening. All my plans, vanished in the few hours I slept. Everything I’d assembled, the forty thousand dollars, the fake ID from Nico, my letter, and all of Petra’s help. Waiting in Detroit, where Rory will open the package and know.

* * *

Somehow, I manage to get dressed, and soon we’re in the back of a hired town car, heading toward the airport. Bruce runs through the itinerary, his tone just a shade less respectful than when Rory’s around, but I’m barely listening, trying to grab on to something that will somehow turn this around.

My phone buzzes with a text from Rory.

Sorry about the last-minute change of plans. We’re about five minutes from the hotel. Call me when you get there and enjoy the warm weather. It’s 35 degrees here.

So he doesn’t know yet. Maybe there’s still time to fix this. I grip my phone tight in my hand and urge the car to go faster, to get me to the airport where I can figure out what to do next.

“You’ll be staying in San Juan,” Bruce says, reading off a document on his phone. “You’re booked for two nights at the Caribe, but Danielle says it could be three, so she’ll cancel the meeting you have on Friday.”

He looks up at me, so I nod, not trusting my voice to respond. Every inch of me is frantic to call Petra, to figure out how to fix this, but I’ll have to wait until I’m at the airport, until the only people who might overhear my conversation are strangers.

* * *

They drop me at the curb, Bruce giving me final instructions. “Vista Air, Flight 477,” he tells me as I exit the car. “The boarding pass is on your phone, and someone will be on the other end to meet you. Call Danielle if you have any questions.”

I head toward the sliding glass doors that lead into the large departure terminal for Vista Airlines, aware of the car, still idling at the curb. Keep walking , I instruct myself. Be normal. I fall into the security line that winds through several rows of travelers, unlocking my phone and scrolling through my email, looking for the Detroit itinerary Danielle sent me the other day, and dial the hotel there.

“Excelsior Hotel,” the woman on the other end answers.

“Good morning,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm and warm. “I was scheduled to stay at your hotel this evening, but had a change of plans. Unfortunately, I was expecting a package to arrive for me this morning, and I’d love it if you could forward it.”

“Of course,” says the woman. “What’s your name?”

Something loosens in my chest, and I take a deep breath. I can make this right. Have her send it to the Caribe and leave from there. “Claire Cook.”

“Oh, right, Mrs. Cook! Yes, the package was delivered this morning. I gave it to your husband not ten minutes ago,” she chirps, no doubt still thrilled by the encounter.

I grip my phone, my vision growing spotty, and I fight hard to stay upright. I picture Rory, arriving in a swirl of activity, making his way straight to the hotel room, where he’ll catch up on emails, phone calls, and review his speech. At some point, he’ll remember the FedEx package. It won’t matter that it’s addressed to me. I can see him opening it, peering inside at the tightly bound packets of cash. Reaching in and pulling out the plain envelope that holds my new driver’s license, passport, credit cards, and other forged documents. His eyes scanning the name— Amanda Burns —then landing on the picture of me. And a letter, stamped and addressed to him in New York, explaining everything.

“Mrs. Cook?” The woman’s voice jerks me back into the present. “Can I help you with anything else?”

“No,” I say, my voice no more than a whisper. “That will be all.” I disconnect, letting my mind sort through the other possibilities. I could go somewhere else. Simply walk up to the counter and purchase a ticket to Miami or Nashville. But that would leave an electronic trail. All the cash I’d planned on using to erase my tracks is in Detroit. With Rory.

I scroll through my contacts until I find it. Nina’s Nail Salon on Park Avenue, with Petra’s number linked to it.

She answers on the third ring.

“It’s me. Claire.” Suddenly aware of the people around me, I lower my voice and explain what happened. “Rory changed the plans. He’s sending me to Puerto Rico. And, Petra.” I can barely say the words. “He’s in Detroit.” I’m desperately trying—and failing—to control my mounting hysteria.

“Oh my god,” Petra breathes.

“I called the hotel there. They already gave the package to Rory.” I swallow hard. “What am I going to do?”

The security line inches forward, and I move with it. On the phone, Petra’s quiet as she thinks. “Get back outside and catch a cab here. You can stay with me until we figure something else out.”

I’m just a few people away from the front of the line, my options shrinking with every minute that passes. Once Rory discovers what I was planning, he will lock down all of our accounts until he has me home again. My thoughts fly back in time, to the last time I tried to leave. I imagine the two of us at home, the evidence of what I was about to do spread before me, and what will surely happen next. Perhaps he might even follow the instructions I gave him in my letter, releasing a statement announcing our split and requesting the world respect my privacy, flipping my own plan against me. It’s possible I’ve written my own suicide note.