Page 58 of The Last Flight

Claire

Sunday, February 27

Mrs. Cook, it’s Danielle. I know you didn’t get on that plane. You need to call me.

A deep, thumping fear passes through me as I set the phone down and back away from it, as if Danielle might be able to reach through it and grab me, pulling me back to New York, where Rory waits.

My mind swirls, cloudy with panic. How did she find me so fast? The video has been up for less than twenty-four hours. And then, a terrible realization. Could all of this have been a setup? How else would Danielle know how to reach me—on a burner phone belonging to a stranger all the way across the country? My breathing comes out sharp and rasping, and I fight the urge to vomit.

If Rory and Eva were connected… I try to grab on to the second half of that idea. Of how they might have met, how they could have hatched a plan to send me to Puerto Rico, swapping tickets at the last minute and leading me somewhere with no friends. No resources, isolated and alone. A perfect target. Because if something happened to me here, no one would know.

But I can’t fit it together. The plane wasn’t supposed to crash. And I never intended to end up at Eva’s. I was going to call Petra. Slip into and out of Eva’s life within a few hours. Rory couldn’t have known I would end up here. He certainly couldn’t have orchestrated it.

I let the silence of the house wash over me, willing myself to calm down and look at events as they really happened, not through the lens of an abused woman, paranoid and seeing threats where there are none. My mind works backward. Somewhere, somehow, there’s a link. I pick up the phone again, tracing the edges with my fingers, staring at the black screen, my faint shadow reflected back at me.

Me.Bruce told Rory he was looking into the number I’d called the day of the crash. I think back to the evening I unlocked Eva’s phone and dialed Petra’s number again, hoping somehow the call would connect. If they can access the records for Petra’s number, it’s possible they can also see who else tried to call her.

I’m the one who led Danielle here. If they know the number, what else do they know? Could they somehow use the phone to track me? I look toward the kitchen window, the back door, tempted to open it and toss the phone into the bushes.

“Think, Claire.” My voice sounds scratchy in the empty room. This isn’t television or a bad movie. Rory has a lot of money, and Bruce has connections that might give him some information, but I don’t think they’d have the capabilities to track the phone. To follow me the way law enforcement could.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I do it again, and then once more, allowing the most important question to surface.

Why is Danielle calling and not Rory? It doesn’t fit with how Rory likes to operate. And if they knew where I was, they wouldn’t have called at all. Rory would have just shown up, slipping up next to me when I least expected it.Hello, Claire.

With shaking fingers, I listen to the message again, Danielle’s voice still sending a jolt of fear through me, even though I’m expecting it.I know you didn’t get on that plane. You need to call me.This time, I notice her voice, low and urgent, as if she’s delivering a warning, not a threat.

One thing is certain—I need to go. The oven clock reads just past ten. Late enough that I can ease out of town without anyone noticing, but early enough that I won’t be the only one on the road. I leave my bags by the door and grab Eva’s key ring, heading toward the garage. Time to see if Eva’s car works.

* * *

The garage is locked with a padlock. I strain my eyes in the dark, flipping through the keys until I find the right one, and pop the lock open, praying the car will start. That it has gas. That it’s in enough working order to get me out of here.

The door lifts easily on well-oiled springs, and I enter the even darker space, letting my eyes adjust, making out the edges of dusty shelves with paint cans, a cobwebbed ladder leaning against a wall. But no car. Just the shadow of tire marks to show where it should be, a large tray in the center, spattered with dried oil. I feel the loss like a blow, crushing what little hope I had. No matter which way I turn, opportunities and openings slam closed again, forcing me into a tighter and tighter corner.

I walk all the way to the back, my gaze scanning the bare walls, as if I might find a clue if I just look hard enough. When I turn around to face the darkened street beyond, my mind fights to rearrange my plans into a new configuration. One more night at Eva’s. An early morning BART train to San Francisco. Precious money spent on a bus ticket north. Gone before the sun comes up.

I relock the garage and start to head back inside. But when I step around the tree and into view of the front porch, I pull up short, nearly dropping Eva’s keys. Peering into the uncovered windows of the apartment next door is the man who bumped into me the other day. The one who seemed to be watching me through the window of the coffee shop.

I shrink back into the shadows, glancing over my shoulder and down the street, wondering if I should slip away. But I’ve left Eva’s door unlocked, with my bag, computer, and purse sitting just inside.

I take a deep breath and approach. “Can I help you?”

He turns and gives me a warm smile, as if we’re old friends. “Hello again.” The light coming from my living room window illuminates his face enough for me to see his eyes—a startling gray color that looks like a stormy ocean. “Can you tell me who I might call to inquire about renting this apartment?”

I take a few more steps onto the porch and put myself between him and Eva’s unlocked front door and say, “Seems a little late to be apartment hunting.”

He opens his hands wide. “I was just passing by and I wondered about the empty unit.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m just staying here while my friend travels.”

“Ah. When will she return?” He holds perfectly still, his face a mask revealing nothing. But I feel a shift as he waits for my answer, as if whatever I tell him is of the utmost importance.

When will she return.

“She’s out of the country,” I finally say, wanting to put as much space as possible between Eva and this man.

He nods as if this explains something, a smirk curling the corners of his mouth. He steps closer to me, reaching out to pluck something from my shoulder. “Spiderweb,” he says. But he maintains his proximity, and I feel the heat of him, the smell of cigarettes and cologne enveloping me, and I shrink back toward Eva’s door, wondering suddenly if he might follow me inside.

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