the wife of philanthropist Rory Cook, son of Senator Marjorie Cook and the executive director of the Cook Family Foundation, was traveling to Puerto Rico on a humanitarian trip and was a confirmed passenger on Flight 477.”
And then my picture is replaced with a live shot of the exterior of the airport, the camera panning in on what looks like a restricted area behind large, plate glass windows. “Representatives from Vista Airlines are meeting with family members this evening, while off the coast of Florida, search and recovery teams work late into the night. NTSB officials have been quick to dismiss terrorism as a cause of the crash, citing unstable weather and the fact that this particular plane had been grounded just four months ago.”
The camera zooms in to show people hugging and crying, consoling each other. I move closer to the television, straining my eyes to see if Rory’s there. But I needn’t have bothered. As if on cue, the scene cuts to a bank of microphones, and Rory emerges from the room, stepping behind them. “I’ve been told we’ll be getting a brief statement from Mr. Cook on behalf of the families.”
I pause the TV and study him. He’s wearing an expensive pair of jeans and one of his button-down shirts in a shade of blue that looks good on camera. But his face is etched with grief, his eyes hollow and red. I sit back on my heels, wondering if he’s truly devastated or if this is all an elaborate act, that far beneath the surface he’s livid, having surely discovered the truth by now.
Leaving the TV paused, I grab my computer from my bag and take the stairs two at a time up to Eva’s office. The internet router blinks its green lights from a corner of the desk, and I turn it over, finding the password on the back, praying she never bothered to change it. It takes me three tries to match the password with a network name, but I’m in.
I click on the window I opened last night and take a quick look through Rory’s inbox while he’s on live TV. There are several messages from Danielle, cc’d copies of emails she sent this morning, letting the Detroit hotel know Rory will be using my reservation, informing the school that Rory would be the one doing the event.
And one message exchange between Bruce and Rory, shortly after the news of the crash broke.
I think we need to delay the announcement.
Rory’s reply was brief.
Absolutely not.
But Bruce would not be deterred.
Think about the optics. Your wife just died. There’s no way you can announce next week. It’s insane. Let the NTSB recover the body. Have a funeral. Then announce after that. Tell them it’s what Claire would have wanted.
Even though it doesn’t surprise me, the fact that they’re worrying about the Senate announcement right now still hurts. Despite our problems, despite his temper, I know Rory loved me, in his own broken way. But underneath is a tiny thread of satisfaction that I’d been right to break away now. That if given the choice, Rory would never pick me over his ambition.
I open a new tab and Google Petra Federotov. A long list of what appear to be art catalogues pop up, with brightly colored graphics and names I can’t pronounce. Page after page of them. I revise my search to Petra Federotov phone number, and the list grows slightly longer—a pizza parlor in Boston, links to sites offering people-finding software for a thirty-dollar fee. But I’m certain Nico has made sure their information is scrubbed from those databases, and most likely scrubbed from the web as well.
I leave my computer open and go back downstairs, where Rory is still frozen on the screen, his arm about to swipe a chunk of hair that has flopped over his forehead. In another lifetime, I would have reached out to smooth it back, my touch gentle and loving. I stare at his face, remembering what it felt like to love him. The early days, when he’d pick me up from the auction house and surprise me with a dinner at Le Bernardin or a summer picnic in the park. His mischievous smile as he’d sneak us in the back door of a club, the tender way he’d brush the edge of my lip with his thumb, right before he’d kiss me.
Those memories aren’t lost. Just buried. Maybe someday I’ll be able to pick them up again. Hold