Page 70 of The Last Flight

He looks out the window as a black town car glides into the spot next to his sedan. “I think your ride is here.”

We stand and I open the door.

“Claire Cook?” the driver asks. He’s large, in his midtwenties, squeezed into a dark suit with sleeves that just barely cover a tattoo circling up his right wrist. In his ears are those giant circles, stretching enormous holes in his earlobes.

Berkeley. Where everyone is just a little bit weirder than you are.

As he loads my bag into the trunk, I notice his gaze land on Agent Castro’s gun beneath his coat. He looks away and slams the trunk closed, stepping away from the rest of our conversation.

Agent Castro turns to me. “Good luck,” he says, shaking my hand. “If possible, I’d like to touch base again before you leave town. Assuming you go back to New York.”

“Sure,” I say, looking toward the busy street, cars and buses blowing past the motel. “Though what happens next depends on the next few hours. How much trouble I’ll be in for what I did, and whether anyone will believe what I have to say.”

“If your husband was involved in what happened to Maggie Moretti, it won’t matter if they believe you or not. The evidence will back you up.”

I tear my eyes away from the street and look at him. “You don’t know the Cook family very well if you think they won’t fight. The rules are different for people like them.”

I wait for Agent Castro to tell me I’m wrong, but he doesn’t. Even he knows that the power of money can make all kinds of problems disappear.

Finally, he says, “A little advice? Get on the air as soon as possible. Your husband can’t touch you if the whole world knows you’re alive.”

* * *

Traffic into the city is horrible. We progress slowly through the toll booth and up onto the Bay Bridge, walled in on all sides by cars. Alone in the back seat, I stare out the window, my gaze traveling across the water and landing on Alcatraz, small and squat in the middle of the bay, the slate-gray water surrounding it.

The driver adjusts the rearview mirror so he can see me better, his sleeve riding up even higher, and I catch another glimpse of his tattooed arm. “Okay if I turn on the radio?” he asks.

“Sure,” I tell him.

He flips around until he lands on some quiet jazz. I pull Eva’s phone out of my purse to check the time, and see that I have a missed text from Danielle.

I just found out that Mr. Cook’s already got a guy on the ground in Berkeley looking for you. A local, someone who can better blend in with the people there. But I’m told he’s big, with a tattoo sleeve on his right arm. Be careful.

Eva

New Jersey

February

One Day before the Crash

Ellie—or rather, Danielle—did not look as Eva had expected Liz’s daughter to look. Instead of the eclectic woman she’d imagined, a woman who wore long flowing skirts and worked for a hardscrabble nonprofit, Danielle had her dark hair pulled back into a conservative bun at the base of her neck. She wore pearls and a tailored suit with low heels. But the resemblance between mother and daughter was immediate. Danielle had the small stature of her mother, the planes of her face an almost mirror image of the friend Eva had grown to love. But where Liz was calm and centered, Danielle seemed agitated.

Liz stood to give her daughter a kiss. “Are you just getting home from work? It’s late.”

Ignoring her mother’s question, Danielle said to Eva, “I didn’t know you were coming to town.”

The way Danielle said it, like an accusation, rumbled low inside of Eva, warning her to be careful. “A last-minute trip,” she said. “In and out.”

“Because?” Danielle’s gaze held Eva’s.

“Because she wanted to,” Liz interjected, throwing a warning glare at her daughter.

“A quick visit to see some friends,” Eva said, hoping to defuse some of the tension. “I have to head back tomorrow.”

Danielle waited a moment, as if to see if Eva would offer more details. When she didn’t, Danielle said, “Mom, can I see you in the other room?”

Apologetic, Liz turned to Eva. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back in a minute.”

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