desert. I wish I were there with her, sitting in one of the deep chairs while she makes idle conversation from behind the counter. I ache for the simplicity of it, to have a place in the world where I belong.
My stomach growls, so I grab my NYU hat and some cash and dart down to the corner mart with ten dollars I can’t afford to spend, and return with an enormous cup of coffee and a package of stale cinnamon buns. My only option—weak as it is—is to find something on the thumb drive I can use against Rory to trade for my freedom. A secret he cares more about keeping than he does about punishing me.
I turn the TV on for company and slowly set up my computer, plugging in the thumb drive and looking through the desk for the Wi-Fi directions. When I’m logged in, a quick check of Rory’s email shows nothing new, but when I click over to the Doc, a jolt like a lightning bolt shoots through me.
They’re talking about me.
Rory Cook:
How the fuck did she do it?
Bruce Corcoran:
I don’t know. The airline said she was scanned onto the flight. No one disputed that.
Rory Cook:
They said her seat was empty. Do you think they know?
Bruce Corcoran:
I think they would have contacted you immediately if they thought there was any chance she wasn’t on the plane. Do you want me to tell them?
Rory’s words come fast, his anger nearly leaping off the screen.
Rory Cook:
Absolutely not. I’m going to handle this quietly. Let the NTSB keep thinking she’s dead. I’ve scheduled the plane for Oakland tonight.
Just as quickly as the words appeared, they disappear again, line by line, until I’m looking at a blank doc, the top reading Last edit made by Bruce Corcoran. Bruce’s icon vanishes, leaving only Rory’s behind. I know what Rory means when he says I’m going to handle this quietly. It means he’s going to make a problem disappear, out of view of the public. And I’ve given Rory the perfect cover to do whatever he wants to me, because the whole world already thinks I’m dead.
I feel the walls closing in, Danielle, Rory, and Bruce tracking my every move, forcing me into a smaller and smaller box until I’m trapped with only one way out.
A banging on a door across the courtyard startles me, causing my elbow to slip forward, knocking my coffee toward the keyboard. I jump, trying to grab it before it tips, a small amount spilling on the surface of the desk. But in my haste to save the coffee, I accidentally press a few keys. “Shit,” I say, hurrying to delete what I typed, my eyes leaping again to the top right corner, hoping Rory logged off when Bruce did.
I stare at the screen for what feels like an hour, but must have only been a few minutes. No new text appears. But at the top of the page, it now reads Last edit made by Rory Cook 2 minutes ago, and I pray neither of them will remember who wiped the Doc clean.
In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face, the cheap fluorescent lighting making my skin look haggard and washed out. I brace my arms on the counter and try to regroup. Deep breath in, deep breath out, five, eight, ten times. I bring my attention to the way the faucet drips around a rust-edged drain, the repeating swirl of fake granite, before forcing myself back to work.
Seated in front of my computer again, the weight of futility settles across my shoulders. I’m unsure of what to look for or where to start. Should I look for more about Charlie? Or maybe I could find some kind of financial or tax fraud. The problem is, I don’t know enough about finance to recognize anything that might be useful. I’m about to double-click on the thumb drive when my eye catches again on the alert at the top of the Doc. Last edit made by Rory Cook two minutes ago. A quick check of the time tells me it’s been at least ten.
I hit refresh, expecting to see the time update, but instead I’m redirected back to the Gmail log-in page. “No,” I whisper into the room.
I retrieve the crumpled Post-it Note with Rory’s password from Eva’s wallet and enter it again, but it fails. I try once more, slower this time, but again it tells me the password is incorrect.