I click over to my computer settings, where I change my own password, making sure I’m the only one who can access it.
When I’m done, I close it and head up the stairs and back into our bedroom, where Rory still sleeps. After returning his phone to the charger, I take the thumb drive and the Post-it with his password into the master bathroom. I pull the long plastic tube of my travel toothbrush from my packed toiletry bag and twist it open, tossing the cheap toothbrush into the trash and wrapping the Post-it around the thumb drive. Then I drop them both into the tube and twist it closed again, burying it underneath my face lotion and cosmetics. With the bag zipped, I look at myself in the mirror, surrounded by the luxury Rory’s money has given me. The marble counters, the deep soaking tub and shower the size of a compact car. So different from the tiny bathroom I grew up using. Violet and I used to argue about who got to use it first in the mornings, until my mother disabled the lock. “We don’t have time for privacy,” she’d say. I used to dream about the day when I could lock the bathroom door and spend as much time in there as I wanted. I’d give anything to go back to how it used to be, the three of us in and out, squeezing past each other in the tight space, brushing teeth, putting on makeup, drying our hair.
I won’t miss any of this.
I flip off the light and make my way back into the bedroom, where I slip into bed next to my husband for the very last time.
Twenty-two hours.
Claire
Tuesday, February 22
The Day of the Crash
I must have slept, because the next thing I know, my alarm is yanking me awake. I blink the sleep from my eyes, taking in the room around me. The sun is up, and Rory’s side of the bed is empty. The clock reads seven thirty.
I sit up, letting my nerves settle and excitement take over, before moving into the bathroom where I turn on the shower, letting steam obscure my face in the mirror. On the counter, I check again for the thumb drive, reassured that it seems to be undisturbed.
Then I step into the shower, letting the hot water pound on my back, exhilaration flooding through me. After more than a year of careful planning, constant terror that the smallest error might lead to the discovery of what I’m about to do, the moment is finally here. I’m packed. I have everything I need. Rory is gone—to the office, to a meeting, it hardly matters. All I have to do is get dressed and walk out the door one last time.
I finish quickly and wrap myself in my favorite robe, my mind already hours ahead. A quiet flight to Detroit, a school tour, and a banquet to keep me busy until everyone is asleep. A series of boxes I can check off, one at a time, until I’m free.
But I pull up short when I enter my bedroom to find Constance, the upstairs maid, lifting my suitcase onto the bed and unzipping it. She begins to remove the heavy winter clothes that are packed on top of my undergarments.
I grip my robe tight around my neck. “What are you doing?” My eyes are glued on the suitcase, tracking her hands as she pulls things out, bracing myself for what she’ll find at the bottom—a nylon backpack slipped under the lining. Blue jeans that don’t belong anywhere near the Detroit event. Several long-sleeved shirts and a down jacket no one has ever seen before.
But she only carries the cold-weather items back to the closet, returning with lighter things—dresses and slacks in linen, setting my bright pink cashmere sweater on the bed, a flash of color that seems out of place and much too thin for this cold February morning. She smiles at me over her shoulder as she repacks everything and says, “Mr. Corcoran would like to speak with you.”
He must have been lurking in the hall, because at the mention of his name, Bruce steps into the doorway and halts, clearly uncomfortable to find me just out of the shower. “Change of plans,” he says. “Mr. Cook is going to do the Detroit event himself. He wants you to go to Puerto Rico. There’s an organization down there—a humanitarian group that’s working on the hurricane relief effort—and he thinks it’s a cause the foundation should take on.”
I feel as if my entire world has shifted on its axis, gravity yanking me hard toward the center of the earth. “What did you say?”
“Mr. Cook is going to Detroit. He and Danielle left early this morning,” he repeats. “He didn’t want to wake you.”
Constance zips my bag closed again and slips past Bruce, disappearing into the hallway.
“Your flight leaves from JFK at eleven.”
“JFK?” I whisper, unable to keep up.
“Mr. Cook has taken the plane, so we had to book you on Vista Air. There’s some kind of weather event brewing over the Caribbean, and it’s the last flight out before they close everything down. We were lucky to get you on it.” He glances at his watch. “I’ll wait out here while you get dressed. We’ll need to get you to the airport by nine.”
He closes the door, and I sit down hard on the bed, my thoughts careening. All my plans, vanished in the few hours I slept. Everything I’d assembled, the forty thousand dollars, the fake ID from Nico, my letter, and all of Petra’s help. Waiting in Detroit, where Rory will open the package and know.
* * *
Somehow, I manage to get dressed, and soon we’re in the back of a hired town car, heading toward the airport. Bruce runs through the itinerary, his tone just a shade less respectful than when Rory’s around, but I’m barely listening, trying to grab on to something that will somehow turn this around.
My phone buzzes with a text from Rory.
Sorry about the last-minute change of plans. We’re about five minutes from the hotel. Call me when you get there and enjoy the warm weather. It’s 35 degrees here.
So he doesn’t know yet. Maybe there’s still time to fix this. I grip my phone tight in my hand and urge the car to go faster, to get me to the airport where I can figure out what to do next.
“You’ll be staying in San Juan,” Bruce says, reading off a document on his phone. “You’re booked for two nights at the Caribe, but Danielle says it could be three, so she’ll cancel the meeting you have on Friday.”
He looks up at me, so I nod, not trusting my voice to respond. Every inch of me is frantic to call Petra, to figure out how to fix this, but I’ll have to wait until I’m at the airport, until the only people who might overhear my conversation are strangers.
* * *
They drop me at the curb, Bruce giving me final instructions. “Vista Air, Flight 477,” he tells me as I exit the car. “The boarding pass is on your phone, and someone will be on the other end to meet you. Call Danielle if you have any questions.”
I head toward the sliding glass doors that lead into the large departure terminal for Vista Airlines, aware of the car, still idling at the curb. Keep walking, I instruct myself. Be normal. I fall into the security line that winds through several rows of travelers, unlocking my phone and scrolling through my email, looking for the Detroit itinerary Danielle sent me the other day, and dial the hotel there.