Page 27 of The Last Flight

It also explains why the house is so bare, empty of anything Eva might have accumulated from a family—photo albums, birthday cards, notes. I know what it’s like to wake up alone every day, with no family to worry about your well-being. Your heart. Whether you’re happy. At least I had that for the first twenty-one years of my life. It’s possible Eva never did.

This is what it’s like to die, having left so much unfinished. It still tethers you—like an unbreakable thread, always leading your thoughts back toif only. Butif onlyis a useless question, a spotlight shining on an empty stage, illuminating what never was, and never will be.

I tuck the letter back into the envelope and return it to her drawer, trying to imagine this new version of Eva into existence. But she dances, like quicksilver—a flash and then gone. Never settling long enough to see her clearly, an ever-shifting shape just outside my peripheral vision.

* * *

I need a shower, stray pieces of hair making the back of my neck itch. The only clothes I own are the few items I grabbed from my suitcase in the bathroom stall at JFK. My jeans. One pair of underwear. No bra or socks other than the ones I’m wearing. I look between the bag and Eva’s dresser, filled with clothes that don’t belong to me. Not just jeans and shirts, but intimate things. And it hits me again. I have almost nothing. I hesitate before sliding open her underwear drawer again, my stomach clenching, steeling myself against the idea of wearing her clothes. I close my eyes, thinking of other people who have had to resort to much more horrific things to survive than wearing someone else’s underwear.It’s just cotton and elastic, I tell myself.And it’s clean.

I pull my own clothes from the bag, wondering if a person can live indefinitely with only two pairs of underwear, and hurry into the hall where I pull a towel from the linen cupboard. In the bathroom, I run the water hot, letting the room steam up and obscure my reflection in the mirror until I’m just a faint outline. A blurry facsimile of an anonymous woman. I could be anybody.

* * *

When I’m done, I dress and stand in front of the mirror in Eva’s room, the unfamiliar rose scent of Eva’s soap and lotion hanging in the air around me. A stranger looks back at me with her cropped blond hair and sharp cheekbones. I step over to the dresser, where Eva’s wallet sits, and pull out her license, comparing my face to hers, a flutter of optimism growing inside of me.

I recognize this feeling, the excitement of being on the cusp of a new life. I felt it when I met Rory, when everything seemed to glitter with possibility, standing on the edge between who I was and who I wanted to become.

A cover story starts to form, an explanation I can give to anyone who asks.Eva and I grew up together in the group home.I can speak with authority about Sister Bernadette and Sister Catherine. And if they ask where Eva went and why I’m here, I’ll tell them I’m getting a divorce, and Eva is letting me stay here while she travels.

Where did she go?

I stare at my reflection in the mirror—not quite Eva, not quite Claire—and try out my answer. “New York.”

* * *

Back in Eva’s office, I begin to tidy up, sorting Eva’s papers into stacks, unsure of what to do next, when text pops up on my computer screen. First, a single sentence, typed by Rory.The Detroit trip.Then, on the right-hand side of the computer, Rory adds a comment.

Rory Cook:

What did you do with the FedEx package?

A reply comes almost immediately.

Bruce Corcoran:

Money in the drawer. The ID, passport, and the rest of it have been shredded.

Rory Cook:

The letter?

Bruce Corcoran:

Scanned, then shredded.

Rory Cook:

How the fuck did she get her hands on a fake passport and ID?

Three dots show Bruce responding, and I hold my breath.

Bruce Corcoran:

No idea. Homeland security has cracked down on forgers, but what Claire had looked real. I checked her cell activity in the few days leading up to the trip. There was a number she called that morning that we can’t match to anyone she knew. We’re still looking into it.

I wait for them to continue, but nothing new appears. Then the comments disappear, one by one, and the text in the Doc itself also vanishes. In the upper right-hand corner, Bruce’s icon disappears, leaving only Rory’s behind. I need to be careful. There’s no way to differentiate my presence in the Doc from Rory’s, and if I start clicking things, that activity will show up on his computer with his name attached. So I’m stuck, a silent observer, unable to follow up or have my questions answered. All I can do is watch this play out on the screen in front of me.

* * *

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