by Julie Clark
* * *
They’d been meeting someone, several months after her expulsion, while she was still living in Dex’s spare bedroom and making the drugs on old equipment in his kitchen. They saw him, a shaggy-haired student, barely twenty years old, with headphones and sagging pants.
“Watch him,” Dex had said. They were tucked behind a bus kiosk, as if they were checking the schedule. The man had a tic of some kind, shrugging his left shoulder, shaking his head, almost imperceptibly, as he waited. In a low voice, Dex said, “You always watch first. You look for anomalies, like whether they’re wearing a sweatshirt in eighty-degree heat. Or if they’re wearing a tank top when it’s raining. These are clues, and you have to notice them. Check out his headphones. They’re not plugged into anything. See the way the cord is tucked into his front pocket, but the outline of his phone is in his back pocket?” Eva had nodded, filing these things away, knowing her survival depended on remembering them. Dex continued. “When you see anything like that, you keep going, because something isn’t right. Either he’s an addict or a cop.” He looked at her with a grave expression, his gray eyes locking onto hers. “Your number one priority—Fish’s number one priority—is your safety. It’s why he’s lasted as long as he has in this business.” Dex laughed quietly. “That and the ten people he has working for him inside the Berkeley and Oakland police departments.”
They’d stepped out from under the cover of the kiosk and turned away from the man without making the sale, leaving him on the curb, waiting for drugs that would never show up.
* * *
“Did you sell her anything?” Dex asked Eva now.
“No. She was off. Crazy. I told her she had me confused with someone else and got the hell out of there.”
Dex nodded. “Good. You’re taking a vacation until we figure out what’s going on.”
“It’s like this guy wants me to see him.”
“He probably does,” Dex said. “People make mistakes when they’re nervous, and he obviously wants to make you nervous. The fact that he’s so visible means he doesn’t have anything on you and he’s getting desperate.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Let him follow you. He won’t see anything, and eventually he’ll look somewhere else.”
Dex tossed a couple five-dollar bills onto the table for a tip. Around them, the room erupted in cheers, all eyes on the television, where someone had just scored a touchdown. Eva started to rise, but Dex said, “You should stay a little longer.”
Eva sat back and watched him leave, fighting down a growing panic, like someone waiting her turn to get on a lifeboat and realizing she was going to be the only one left on the sinking ship. Dex was already trying to distance himself.
Around her, the college kids drank and laughed, their biggest worry whether Cal would go to a bowl game. She had never in her life felt that relaxed. Even when she was a student, she’d been guarded. Quiet. Growing up in a group home, she learned from a young age that it was safest to observe rather than jump in with loud laughter or a witty joke. The sisters at St. Joe’s encouraged them to be studious. Respectful. Which Eva had become, all the while figuring out how to break the rules more quietly.
But it wasn’t a home. The sisters were older. Strict and uncompromising. They believed that children should be silent and compliant. Eva remembered the cold hallways of the dorm, tucked behind the sanctuary, smelling of candle wax and damp. She remembered the other girls. Not their names, but their voices. Harsh and bullying, or soft and scared. She remembered the crying at night. How, at the end of the day, each of them was alone.
Eva took a final sip of her beer and stood, weaving her way toward the stairs that led up to the main dining room. She eyed the emergency exit, imagining the sound of the alarm, which was already screaming inside her head. But she bypassed it, knowing now was not the time for anything so desperate. Not yet.
* * *
As she pulled into her driveway, she saw Liz locking her door and heading down the front walk toward her car. Eva glanced up and down the street, forcing herself to slow down and act normal.
“Hello!” Liz called.
Eva had grown curious about Liz since that first afternoon in Liz’s apartment. She found herself listening for her. Watching her come and go. The sound of Liz’s voice still reverberated in her mind, and Eva couldn’t deny she felt drawn to the woman.
Eva locked her car and turned to her with a smile, pointing at Liz’s New Jersey plates. “You drove all the way from New Jersey?” She tried to relax her shoulders and focus on Liz and not on the possibility that Agent Castro’s car might turn the corner at any moment.
But today was not a day for talking, and she breathed easy when Liz said only, “I thought it would be a fun road trip, but already I’m dreading the drive back.” She rounded her car and slid into the driver’s seat with a wave, and Eva continued up the walkway, unlocking her door and slipping inside.
The silence was a relief. She made her way over to the couch and lay down, forcing herself to take several deep breaths, but she couldn’t relax. She could feel Castro’s presence like an audience, watching everything she did. Every coming and going, to the market, to DuPree’s. Every interaction like the one she’d just had with Liz, recorded in someone’s field notes. 4:56 p.m.: Eva chats with older neighbor on lawn. She stared at the wall that separated her apartment from Liz’s and wondered if Liz might be a useful person to have around. Become part of the story she wanted Castro to believe about her. That she was just a server who lived a small life filled with mundane details too boring to record. Eva spends evening out with neighbor friend. Or Eva and neighbor friend do a guided tour of Berkeley Rose Garden. What might bore them the most?
* * *
Later that evening, there was a knock on the door. A quick peek through the window revealed Liz on the porch, holding a casserole dish. “I don’t know when I’m going to remember to cut a recipe in half,” she said, though Eva suspected Liz preferred to have someone to cook for.
Liz handed her the dish and stepped inside, causing Eva to falter as she carried the casserole into the kitchen. She had just closed the refrigerator and turned around to see Liz bent over, reading the titles of the books on her shelf in the living room. It unsettled her, to have someone in her space, looking at her things. But she took a deep breath and smiled through her discomfort. 7:45 p.m.: Neighbor brings Eva food. They chat for twelve minutes. She could do this.
“You’re interested in chemistry?” Liz asked.
Eva shrugged. They were mostly old textbooks from her last year of college that Eva hadn’t opened in years. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to get rid of them, as if doing so would toss away a critical part of herself. “I studied it for a little while. In school.”
“These are college texts,” Liz said, pulling one out. She flipped it open, looking at the stamp of the Berkeley student store on the inside cover. “You went to Berkeley? You never mentioned that.”
“For a bit,” Eva said. “I didn’t graduate.”
“Why not?” Liz asked, as Eva knew she would.
“Stuff got in the way.” Eva hoped that her half answers and deflections would end the conversation there.
On the counter, Eva’s phone buzzed, lighting up with a text from Dex. Eva snatched the phone, pressing the Save for Later option on the screen before shoving it into her pocket.
Liz watched her, waiting for her to say something, and when she didn’t, Liz pointed to the open can of Diet Coke on the counter. “That stuff is poison,” she said.
Eva checked her watch, the charade suddenly draining her. How long would she need to entertain this woman? “I’d better get in the shower. I’m working a shift at the restaurant this evening.”
Liz waited a beat, as if trying to read the truth beneath Eva’s words, before saying, “You know, life is long. Lots of things can
go wrong and still end up all right.”
Eva thought about her lab, hidden beneath the room where they stood. And she thought it was a fitting metaphor. Liz saw only what was in front of her, while Eva worried about everything hidden beneath the surface that might float to the top, where Agent Castro waited to collect it.
“Thanks for the food,” she said.
Liz replaced the textbook on the shelf, dismissed. “You’re very welcome.”
After she left, Eva pulled out the phone and read Dex’s text.
Fish is dealing with it. Take a couple weeks off and this guy will be gone.
Relief flooded her. Like a missed collision, Castro would barrel past her, leaving her weak and shaky but in one piece.
“It’s going to be fine,” she said out loud to the empty room. Next door, Liz had turned on some music, and the faint sound of jazz wound its way around Eva, calling out to her, offering her a glimpse of a life she could have for a little while.
* * *
Later that night, she entered DuPree’s from the alley and hurried to her locker, hoping Gabe, her manager, wouldn’t notice she was late. When she emerged again, she found him directing a busser to clear some tables. “Finally,” he said. “You’re working section five.”
Eva grabbed her notepad and ran through the specials with the sous chef in the kitchen before heading out into the large dining room.
She soon lost herself in work. Taking orders, chatting with patrons, delivering food. For a little while, she could be exactly who everyone thought she was. Just a server, working hard and saving her tips for a long weekend in Cabo or a new leather jacket. A lightness zipped through her, making her feel buzzy with anticipation, like a child released from school for the summer.
Gabe found her in the kitchen, giving directions to the cook for a vegetarian order. He was in his midforties, balding, with a shirt that always seemed to be straining at the edges. He was a fair boss who seemed gruff and impatient with his employees, but always gave them time off when they needed it. “Eva,” he said. “When are you going to let me schedule you for more shifts? I need you more than twice a week.”
“No thanks,” she said. “It’s too hard to pursue my hobbies otherwise.”
“Hobbies?” Gabe said, perplexed. “What hobbies?”
Eva leaned against the kitchen wall, grateful for the short break, and ticked them off on her fingers. “Knitting. Ceramics. Roller derby.”
One of the dishwashers snorted, and she winked at him.
Gabe shook his head, muttering under his breath about how no one appreciated him.
Someone called from across the kitchen. “Eva, table four looks ready to order.”
She headed back into the dining room, emptier now that it was nearing nine o’clock. When she arrived at table four, she pulled up short. There sat one of her best clients, Jeremy, flanked on either side by what had to be his parents.
Jeremy was a third-year communications major whose father demanded straight A’s in order to continue funding Jeremy’s tuition and lavish lifestyle, which included a BMW, a loft apartment in downtown Berkeley, and the drugs Eva made. And unlike Brett, Jeremy always paid in full. Cash on delivery. It was a pleasure working with him.
Every now and then, she ran into her clients in the real world, and it always caused them to stumble in some way. Jeremy was no different. When he saw her, his face paled, his eyes darting for the nearest exit. His mother studied her menu while his father scrolled through his phone. Eva smiled, hoping to put him at ease. “Hi there. Let me tell you about the specials.” She launched into her recitation, all the while Jeremy refusing to look at her. She understood his panic. It had taken her years to figure out that people couldn’t see through her act, that they wouldn’t know what she was doing when she met someone in the park or on the corner by the grocery store. The world was filled with people who carried secrets. No one was who they seemed to be.
Jeremy cornered her by the bathrooms before dessert. “What are you doing here?” he hissed.
“I work here.”
He looked over her shoulder toward the dining room.
She followed his glance and said, “Look, Jeremy. You can relax. Take some advice: people will believe whatever you want them to, as long as you don’t hesitate. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you.” She walked away, leaving him standing between the men’s room and the emergency exit.
When her shift was over, she walked by Agent Castro’s car in the lot, letting her gaze meet his for a split second before sliding away. Whatever game he was playing, she could play it too.
Claire
Wednesday, February 23
I stare at the frozen image on the computer screen until my eyes begin to water, until I see nothing more than an accumulation of pixels—shades of pink, dark shadows, platinum-blond hair where a face should be.
It was Rory’s Aunt Mary who had given me that pink cashmere sweater for Christmas one year. “Something to keep you warm while living in the stone-cold center of the Cook family.” She’d laughed, loud and wet, jiggling the ice in her nearly empty glass, as if to loosen whatever gin might remain on the bottom.
I’d held the sweater, soft and luxurious, on my lap, waiting for someone to jump in, to explain away Aunt Mary’s words. But they’d just rolled past it, Rory giving me a tiny wink, as if I was now in on the family secret.
Later that same Christmas, Aunt Mary sidled up to me, drunk, and said, “The whole world loves Rory Cook.” The oldest sister of Rory’s father, Mary was unmarried and considered a family liability. Her voice lowered, the smell of gin heavy on her breath. “But you be careful not to cross him, or you’ll go the way of poor Maggie Moretti.”
“That was an accident,” I said, my eyes glued on Rory, across the room from us, joking around with some younger cousins. I was still trying to believe I’d gotten the life I always wanted, with three generations of the Cook family gathered to celebrate the holidays. I wanted to embrace their traditions. The caroling at the children’s hospital, the candlelight church service followed by a midnight supper, the family life I’d always craved as a girl, such a vibrant contrast to the quiet holidays of my childhood.
But my instincts pinged, forcing me to stay and listen to what she had to say, because my idea of Rory had begun to shift, the shine of his attention had begun to chafe. I was beginning to see the price I’d paid, missing the simple things I used to take for granted. The freedom to pick my own friends. To grab my car keys and go somewhere on a whim without having to clear it with at least two assistants and a driver first.
Aunt Mary cackled. “Oh, so you’re in the poor Rory camp, alongside the rest of the world.” She took a sip of her drink and said, “Let me tell you something. It’s a poorly kept family secret that my brother paid off everyone involved. Why would he do that if there was nothing to hide?” She gave me a sly smile, and I could see her pink lipstick oozing into the crevices around her mouth. “The Cook men are dolls, as long as you do what they want. But step out of line and watch your back.”
Across the room, Rory threw his head back and laughed at something one of the cousins said. Aunt Mary followed my gaze and shook her head. “You remind me a little bit of Maggie—a nice girl from a simple background. Like you, Maggie seemed to have integrity, which is something this family is sorely lacking. But she and Rory fought like dogs, about every little thing.” She looked at me, her smirk somewhat blurred by alcohol. “She couldn’t control him. I’m guessing you can’t either.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
Aunt Mary’s watery eyes held mine, the years etched into the deep lines around them. “This family is like a Venus flytrap—shiny on the surface, but dangerous underneath. And once you know their secrets, they will never let you leave.”
She was drunk. Bitter. A resentful old woman spreading poison. And yet, what she said ha
unted me through the years as Rory grew silent. Then angry. And eventually violent. I wanted to believe the version Rory meticulously fed to the world, but he beat that desire out of me, one bruise and broken bone at a time.
Aunt Mary died a few years later, the last of that generation of Cooks to pass. But her words trailed after me every time I wore that sweater, a whisper—or a warning—that Maggie Moretti’s fate might also be mine.
* * *
Somewhere outside, a dog barks, pulling my attention back to the room and to my computer. I drag the cursor backward to replay the video from the beginning, staring so hard at that blurred figure in pink, my eyes begin to burn. No matter how I try, I can’t see anything else. Just some blond hair—long or short, I can’t tell. Just a flash of pink—there and then gone—and I try to remind myself that plenty of people wear pink sweaters, in all kinds of weather, and that Eva was scanned onto the flight. You can’t fake that.
* * *
“One drip coffee, room for cream please,” I tell the barista early Thursday morning. I keep my eyes averted, and I still wear my NYU cap, too nervous to show my entire face. Will it always be like this, terrified to look anyone in the eye and smile?
I tossed and turned all night, my mind replaying the flash of pink at the news conference, but no matter how many ways I imagined an alternative for Eva, I kept coming up against the fact that my ticket was scanned onto the flight. It’s unlikely she had enough time to talk someone else into switching with her, and the flight crew would have noticed when they did the headcount if she’d gotten off the plane before takeoff. I woke this morning convinced it was just a coincidence, that it was only guilt, wishing it had turned out different for Eva.
I pay for my coffee and settle into a soft leather armchair with a clear view of the door and the street outside.
Last night, wanting to try calling Petra again, I’d Googled how to reset the password on a prepaid phone and was able to unlock Eva’s. As I expected, it didn’t reveal much. No photographs, no emails. She used an app called Whispr, and the texts that arrived my first night were gone, vanished into the ether. If any others had been received since then, they were gone as well.
