Page 30 of The Last Flight

“Thanks for the food,” she said.

Liz replaced the textbook on the shelf, dismissed. “You’re very welcome.”

After she left, Eva pulled out the phone and read Dex’s text.

Fish is dealing with it. Take a couple weeks off and this guy will be gone.

Relief flooded her. Like a missed collision, Castro would barrel past her, leaving her weak and shaky but in one piece.

“It’s going to be fine,” she said out loud to the empty room. Next door, Liz had turned on some music, and the faint sound of jazz wound its way around Eva, calling out to her, offering her a glimpse of a life she could have for a little while.

* * *

Later that night, she entered DuPree’s from the alley and hurried to her locker, hoping Gabe, her manager, wouldn’t notice she was late. When she emerged again, she found him directing a busser to clear some tables. “Finally,” he said. “You’re working section five.”

Eva grabbed her notepad and ran through the specials with the sous chef in the kitchen before heading out into the large dining room.

She soon lost herself in work. Taking orders, chatting with patrons, delivering food. For a little while, she could be exactly who everyone thought she was. Just a server, working hard and saving her tips for a long weekend in Cabo or a new leather jacket. A lightness zipped through her, making her feel buzzy with anticipation, like a child released from school for the summer.

Gabe found her in the kitchen, giving directions to the cook for a vegetarian order. He was in his midforties, balding, with a shirt that always seemed to be straining at the edges. He was a fair boss who seemed gruff and impatient with his employees, but always gave them time off when they needed it. “Eva,” he said. “When are you going to let me schedule you for more shifts? I need you more than twice a week.”

“No thanks,” she said. “It’s too hard to pursue my hobbies otherwise.”

“Hobbies?” Gabe said, perplexed. “What hobbies?”

Eva leaned against the kitchen wall, grateful for the short break, and ticked them off on her fingers. “Knitting. Ceramics. Roller derby.”

One of the dishwashers snorted, and she winked at him.

Gabe shook his head, muttering under his breath about how no one appreciated him.

Someone called from across the kitchen. “Eva, table four looks ready to order.”

She headed back into the dining room, emptier now that it was nearing nine o’clock. When she arrived at table four, she pulled up short. There sat one of her best clients, Jeremy, flanked on either side by what had to be his parents.

Jeremy was a third-year communications major whose father demanded straight A’s in order to continue funding Jeremy’s tuition and lavish lifestyle, which included a BMW, a loft apartment in downtown Berkeley, and the drugs Eva made. And unlike Brett, Jeremy always paid in full. Cash on delivery. It was a pleasure working with him.

Every now and then, she ran into her clients in the real world, and it always caused them to stumble in some way. Jeremy was no different. When he saw her, his face paled, his eyes darting for the nearest exit. His mother studied her menu while his father scrolled through his phone. Eva smiled, hoping to put him at ease. “Hi there. Let me tell you about the specials.” She launched into her recitation, all the while Jeremy refusing to look at her. She understood his panic. It had taken her years to figure out that people couldn’t see through her act, that they wouldn’t know what she was doing when she met someone in the park or on the corner by the grocery store. The world was filled with people who carried secrets. No one was who they seemed to be.

Jeremy cornered her by the bathrooms before dessert. “What are you doing here?” he hissed.

“I work here.”

He looked over her shoulder toward the dining room.

She followed his glance and said, “Look, Jeremy. You can relax. Take some advice: people will believe whatever you want them to, as long as you don’t hesitate. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you.” She walked away, leaving him standing between the men’s room and the emergency exit.

When her shift was over, she walked by Agent Castro’s car in the lot, letting her gaze meet his for a split second before sliding away. Whatever game he was playing, she could play it too.

Claire

Wednesday, February 23

I stare at the frozen image on the computer screen until my eyes begin to water, until I see nothing more than an accumulation of pixels—shades of pink, dark shadows, platinum-blond hair where a face should be.

It was Rory’s Aunt Mary who had given me that pink cashmere sweater for Christmas one year. “Something to keep you warm while living in the stone-cold center of the Cook family.” She’d laughed, loud and wet, jiggling the ice in her nearly empty glass, as if to loosen whatever gin might remain on the bottom.

I’d held the sweater, soft and luxurious, on my lap, waiting for someone to jump in, to explain away Aunt Mary’s words. But they’d just rolled past it, Rory giving me a tiny wink, as if I was now in on the family secret.

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