“Excelsior Hotel,” the woman on the other end answers.
“Good morning,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm and warm. “I was scheduled to stay at your hotel this evening, but had a change of plans. Unfortunately, I was expecting a package to arrive for me this morning, and I’d love it if you could forward it.”
“Of course,” says the woman. “What’s your name?”
Something loosens in my chest, and I take a deep breath. I can make this right. Have her send it to the Caribe and leave from there. “Claire Cook.”
“Oh, right, Mrs. Cook! Yes, the package was delivered this morning. I gave it to your husband not ten minutes ago,” she chirps, no doubt still thrilled by the encounter.
I grip my phone, my vision growing spotty, and I fight hard to stay upright. I picture Rory, arriving in a swirl of activity, making his way straight to the hotel room, where he’ll catch up on emails, phone calls, and review his speech. At some point, he’ll remember the FedEx package. It won’t matter that it’s addressed to me. I can see him opening it, peering inside at the tightly bound packets of cash. Reaching in and pulling out the plain envelope that holds my new driver’s license, passport, credit cards, and other forged documents. His eyes scanning the name—Amanda Burns—then landing on the picture of me. And a letter, stamped and addressed to him in New York, explaining everything.
“Mrs. Cook?” The woman’s voice jerks me back into the present. “Can I help you with anything else?”
“No,” I say, my voice no more than a whisper. “That will be all.” I disconnect, letting my mind sort through the other possibilities. I could go somewhere else. Simply walk up to the counter and purchase a ticket to Miami or Nashville. But that would leave an electronic trail. All the cash I’d planned on using to erase my tracks is in Detroit. With Rory.
I scroll through my contacts until I find it. Nina’s Nail Salon on Park Avenue, with Petra’s number linked to it.
She answers on the third ring.
“It’s me. Claire.” Suddenly aware of the people around me, I lower my voice and explain what happened. “Rory changed the plans. He’s sending me to Puerto Rico. And, Petra.” I can barely say the words. “He’s in Detroit.” I’m desperately trying—and failing—to control my mounting hysteria.
“Oh my god,” Petra breathes.
“I called the hotel there. They already gave the package to Rory.” I swallow hard. “What am I going to do?”
The security line inches forward, and I move with it. On the phone, Petra’s quiet as she thinks. “Get back outside and catch a cab here. You can stay with me until we figure something else out.”
I’m just a few people away from the front of the line, my options shrinking with every minute that passes. Once Rory discovers what I was planning, he will lock down all of our accounts until he has me home again. My thoughts fly back in time, to the last time I tried to leave. I imagine the two of us at home, the evidence of what I was about to do spread before me, and what will surely happen next. Perhaps he might even follow the instructions I gave him in my letter, releasing a statement announcing our split and requesting the world respect my privacy, flipping my own plan against me. It’s possible I’ve written my own suicide note.
“It’s too close,” I tell her. “Someone will see me and tell him.”
“I live at the fucking Dakota. No one comes up if I don’t want them to.”
“So do at least three of Rory’s friends,” I remind her. “He is going to pull my entire life apart and study it. My bank cards. Credit cards. And cell phone records, which will now lead him straight to you. To Nico. And me, if I try to hide there.” My gaze slides over the uniformed TSA agents directing people left and right toward X-ray machines. There are only three people ahead of me in line. “I think my chances of disappearing are better in Puerto Rico,” I say. “So much is still off the grid after the hurricane. People will be more receptive to cash and won’t ask a lot of questions.” But what I don’t say is how hard that will be with almost no money, on an island with limited exit points. I can’t do it without some kind of help. I know I promised I wouldn’t, but I have to ask. “Does Nico know anyone down there?”
Petra blows out hard, thinking. “I think so,” she finally says. “I don’t know much. Nico keeps me pretty far removed from the guys he does business with. But they’re not nice people, Claire. And once they have you, Nico might not be able to get you out right away. Are you sure you want to do that?”
A cold sliver of dread inserts itself beneath my ribs as I imagine a dark car. A nameless face. Perhaps a cold room full of women, bound and chained. Scattered mattresses, stained and lumpy, across a concrete floor. Then I think about what rage looks like when it slips across Rory’s face, of what he will do to me once he gets me alone again. The level of humiliation and outrage he will feel about what almost happened. “Call him,” I say.
“Where are you staying?”
I give her the details, and I can hear her digging around in a drawer for a pen.
“Okay. Someone will contact you there. Be ready to go as soon as you hear from us.”
A tremor of fear passes through me as I wonder if Nico will be able to help me. And whether I want him to.
But Petra’s still giving directions. “Find an ATM and take out as much cash as possible…just in case.”
I’ve reached the front of the line, and people are waiting for me to end my call and put everything onto the conveyor belt. “I have to go,” I tell her.
“Try to stay calm,” she says. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”
And then I end the call, doubt tumbling around inside of me, feeling as if I have just slipped into a nightmare—spinning, turning, three hundred sixty degrees of danger.
Eva
John F. Kennedy Airport, New York
Tuesday, February 22
The Day of the Crash
The desperation in the woman’s voice was unmistakable. It’s me. Claire. The way the words cracked when she said them, as if she were fighting back tears. Eva stood, riveted, as she listened to the hysterical unraveling of a woman in danger. A woman on the run. A woman like herself.
Eva glanced around at the travelers that surrounded them, pressing in on all sides as they wound their way through security. The family with several large suitcases that surely would have to be gate-checked. The couple behind her, whisper-arguing about not leaving for the airport on time. Eva looked to see if anyone else was paying attention. If anyone might remember the distressed woman on the phone and the quiet stranger in front of her, listening.