Page 39 of The Last Flight

Right. The head count. Eva had to have gotten on that flight.

I’m startled by the buzzing of Eva’s phone on the desk next to me. A call fromPrivate Number. I stare at the bright screen as it rings two times. Three. Four. I picture myself answering it. Pretending to be Eva. Asking questions that might lead to answers about who she really was. What she did. Why she might approach a stranger in an airport bar with an outrageous story about a dying husband. The buzzing stops, and silence fills the room again. After a minute, the screen lights up with a new voicemail. I punch in the new code I set the other day and listen.

It’s a woman’s voice on the other end.Hi, it’s me. Checking in to see how it went. If you’re okay. I thought I’d hear from you by now, so call me.

That’s it. No name. No callback number. I listen to the message again, trying to grab at any details—the age of the woman, any background noise that might tell me where she’s calling from—but there’s nothing.

My mother once took Violet and me on a trip to the beach in Montauk. She gave each of us an empty egg carton, telling us to fill the spaces with treasures. Violet and I walked for miles, searching for sea glass and intact shells that looked black on the outside, but when you turned them over revealed the pearly pink of cotton candy and ballet slippers, or the purply blue of music boxes and baby blankets. We sorted our treasures by type, by color, and when we’d filled our cartons, we returned to the rental house to show our mother.

Trying to figure out Eva’s life is like trying to fill one of those cartons. Some spaces are filled with things that don’t make sense—a prepaid cell phone left behind. A lack of any personal items. A house paid for in cash. A woman, waiting for a phone call from Eva, inquiring abouthow things went. And others are still empty, waiting to connect it all. To make sense of everything.

A heaviness descends. This isn’t how I thought it would be. Maybe it was naive, but I never considered the stress of trying to live a lie. I only thought of how it would feel to be free of Rory.

And here I am. I’m free, but far from liberated.

* * *

Saturday morning, I’m up early, eating a vanilla yogurt and watching Rory and Bruce debate whether to release a printed version of the eulogy Rory wrote for me after the funeral is over. Bruce—yes. Rory—no.

And then:

Rory Cook:

What did Charlie say when you met?

I sit up and carefully set my yogurt aside while I wait for Bruce to respond.

Bruce Corcoran:

I did as you asked. I explained that you were too devastated by Claire’s death to come yourself, that it was incredibly opportunistic to come forward now, violating the terms of an ironclad nondisclosure agreement. Doing so would force us to bring a lawsuit, which no one wanted to do. Especially now.

Rory Cook:

And?

Bruce Corcoran:

Didn’t make a difference. Kept saying if you’re going to run for office, the voters need to know what kind of a criminal they’re voting for. That what happened to Maggie Moretti needs to be brought out into the open. The people who loved her deserved to know the truth.

And just like that, all of my assumptions rearrange into something new. I feel a rush of adrenaline pass through me at the mention of Maggie and I hold my breath, waiting.

Bruce Corcoran:

What do you want me to do now?

I can practically hear Rory yelling as words appear next to his name.

Rory Cook:

I want you to do your fucking job and make this go away.

Bruce Corcoran:

I’ll put together a package, see whether that might silence this. Try to be patient.

Rory Cook:

I don’t pay you to tell me to be fucking patient.

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