is Eva’s first name. He has no W-2. No employee records to even indicate where Eva lived.
But Kelly knows.
I can see Rory, giving her that smile, the one that knocks even the most hard-hearted donors into writing a check. I know what he’ll say about me—that I’m troubled. Unbalanced. Prone to exaggeration and lies. I’d like to think Kelly could withstand that, but the truth is, I don’t know her well enough to be certain of anything. Which is why by tonight, I need to be gone.
* * *
The party is up a winding road, perched high in the Berkeley Hills. Kelly and I arrive shortly after two. A quick check-in with Tom has us starting with tablecloths of crisp white linen that snap open and float onto each table in a large room with 360-degree views of the bay.
“Where do you think you’ll go?” Kelly asks in a low voice. The bartender Tom hired, a twentysomething graduate student, bounces around behind the bar, earbuds in, setting up bottles, polishing glasses.
I smooth my hands across the tablecloth and look out the plate glass windows, the harsh afternoon sun making the view look washed-out and dirty. “Maybe Phoenix,” I lie. “Or Las Vegas. East, I think.”
I’ve decided to head north, bypassing Sacramento in favor of Portland. Save as much of my cash as possible by using Eva’s debit card and zip code to fill up at the pump, going as far as I can until her money runs out. I’ve packed a small bag, simple things, enough to get me through at least a week on the road until I can get settled somewhere more permanent.
Kelly leans closer. “You won’t want to do casino work. They fingerprint.”
I take a step back, wondering what she knows, what I must have inadvertently revealed.
She catches the look of panic on my face and says, “Hey. I don’t mean anything by that, other than you might want to avoid it if your husband is working with the police to find you.”
Tom emerges from the kitchen wearing a white chef’s coat and calls us in for the debrief. Kelly and I drop what we’re doing to step up for our final instructions before the party starts. As he finishes, the hostess joins us. She’s young—about my age—and doesn’t pay us much attention as we stand to the side, letting Tom explain how service will work. Her eyes slide over us, as if we’re furniture, before she says, “That sounds perfect. Please make sure to keep the appetizers circulating.”
* * *
Soon, Kelly and I are moving among the crowd with our heavy trays. The glass windows have been opened so that guests can pass between indoors and a small grassy yard overlooking Berkeley and the bay beyond. The sun has moved across the sky, and the view that seemed harsh earlier is now cast in rich greens and golds. There’s a chill that might make me shiver if I wasn’t working so hard. As promised, the party is private, no sign of anyone interested in photographing the guests.
At a table near the edge of the yard, I set my tray down to gather dirty glasses and empty plates, and let my eyes linger on the horizon. San Francisco is shaded in deep blues and purples as the sun begins to set, the lights on the Bay Bridge becoming more vibrant against the darkening sky, a stream of cars traveling into the city, their red taillights a bright necklace. Behind me, the party goes on, voices mixed in with pockets of laughter, the clink of glasses and cutlery, and beneath it all, low classical music smoothing out the edges.
I heft my tray back onto my shoulder and make my way carefully toward the house. As I cross the threshold, one voice lifts up above the others. A woman’s, bright with surprise and joy. “Oh my god, Claire! Is it really you?”
Heat zips up my spine, spreading outward, growing into a white-hot panic as the party swirls around me. My eyes dart toward the exits—front and back—measuring which one might be closer, but people press in on me with no clear path of escape.
I should have left when I had the chance. And now it’s too late.
Eva
Berkeley, California
January
Seven Weeks before the Crash
Cold January wind and a resolution—one way or another, she was done. Either Agent Castro was going to help her escape or she’d do it herself. They were meeting in a deserted beach parking lot in Santa Cruz,