I couldn’t lose her, too. Not my mother.
I released my grasp on the metal bars and ran back toward the house to lead the EMTs up the stairs.
One thing was certain: I wasn’t going to New York.
Twenty-four hours was a long time to think about all of the things you could have done differently. Should’ve done differently. By the time I pulled into long-term parking at JFK, I was ready to stop replaying all of the moments I could have spoken up and told Simon the truth. I couldn’t take back the choices I’d made, and now I had to live with them.
I left the keys in Con’s magnetic case under the back bumper. I wasn’t sure if he’d actually come get it or not, but it was the plan we’d agreed on. I would have offered to return it myself, but I think we both knew I might not be coming back. Harriet was holding on to all of my stuff, but I wasn’t holding my breath. My lack of progress with the composition book, along with my strong suspicions about what it contained, made me wary of what I was about to do. But I was running out of options. As much as I wanted to consider the possibility, I couldn’t run forever.
I worked my way through the busy station to board a train toward Manhattan. Even though I had been a lifelong New Yorker, this was my very first subway ride. Like my first flight in coach—it wasn’t something I was proud of. I could only hope this wouldn’t be my last new adventure as a free woman.
I made one detour before re-boarding the train toward Federal Plaza. I rubbed my sweaty hands against my jeans as I ran through my plan. After what felt like a million stops, I exited the subway carrying only my real license and a hundred dollars in cash.
It was strange to be back in New York. It smelled different than New Orleans. The people were all rushing around with places to go. No one moved at the leisurely pace to which I’d become accustomed.
I looked down at my outfit. I had dressed up for the occasion: black skinny jeans and Chucks paired with my vintage Black Sabbath Heaven + Hell Tour T-shirt. It reminded me that I’d been duped just like everyone else. It was a subtle proclamation of my innocence.
I walked through the metal detector, ignored the curious stares, and ducked into the elevator. On the twenty-third floor, I stepped out and stared at the glass doors in front of me. Once I stepped through those doors, my choice would be irrevocable. I squeezed my eyes shut and fought the urge to turn around, get back in the elevator, and keep running. I knew how to disappear. I could do it again. I could start over somewhere else.
I pressed a hand against the cool glass. It was time to stop running.
I pushed the door open.
At the reception desk, an older woman with silver streaks in her dark hair perched on a chair. She held up a finger and gestured to her headset. I waited until she transferred the call and looked up again.
“Can I help you?” Her expression was skeptical as she took in my full sleeves and choice of apparel.
“I’d like to see one of the special agents in charge, please.” She raised an eyebrow at my request.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m pretty sure I don’t need one.”
She shifted in her chair, looking like she was five seconds away from calling security.
“Excuse me?”
“My name is Charlotte Agoston. I believe they’d like to speak with me.”
I sat in a small, windowless room with the requisite one-way mirror. For a moment I wondered who was behind it, but then decided it didn’t matter. I would say only what I intended to say, regardless of the questions asked.
The door opened, and a barrel-chested man in a navy blue suit, white shirt, and red striped tie walked in. A second, taller man in a similar uniform followed. The first man held out his hand.
“Lou Childers, Special Agent in Charge.”
I shook his hand and watched his eyes rake over my tattoos.
“Those real?”
I smiled. “As real it gets.”
He nodded. “You did a good job staying under the radar. You’re a tough woman to find.”
“I was just trying to get on with my life.”
“So, New Orleans?” he asked.
“It seemed like as good a place as any.”
“Never been. But Mardi Gras always looked like a fun time.”
“It is.”
I put an end to the small talk.
“So, you have questions.”
“That we do.” His entire demeanor shifted.
He read me my Miranda rights, and shit got real.
“What do you mean you can’t get in to see her?” I tried to keep my voice low as I paced the hallway of the intensive care wing. A woman in flower print scrubs stared at me as she hurried down the hallway. My attempt at outward calm was failing.
“Mr. Duchesne,” Andrew Ivers’s tone was cool and professional, “unless Ms. Agoston affirmatively requests an attorney, there’s nothing I can do. I have a junior associate sitting in the lobby, waiting to call me the moment we have any indication that she has exercised her right to counsel.”
The thought that Charlie hadn’t asked for a lawyer made me hope that things weren’t as bad as I was imaging. She was smart. I was pretty damn sure if things went sideways, she’d ask for one. Still, Ivers had fucked up my well-orchestrated plan.
“You were supposed to stop her from going in alone.” I raked a hand through my already disheveled hair. “I don’t understand what the fuck happened.”
Ivers paused before speaking, as if choosing his words carefully. “We sincerely apologize. I had another urgent client matter, and the associate I sent over this morning was detained. He was there by nine o’clock, but she must have gotten there first.”