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the Detroit event himself. He wants you to go to Puerto Rico. There’s an organization down there—a humanitarian group that’s working on the hurricane relief effort—and he thinks it’s a cause the foundation should take on.”
    I feel as if my entire world has shifted on its axis, gravity yanking me hard toward the center of the earth. “What did you say?”
    â€œMr. Cook is going to Detroit. He and Danielle left early this morning,” he repeats. “He didn’t want to wake you.”
    Constance zips my bag closed again and slips past Bruce, disappearing into the hallway.
    â€œYour flight leaves from JFK at eleven.”
    â€œJFK?” I whisper, unable to keep up.
    â€œMr. Cook has taken the plane, so we had to book you on Vista Air. There’s some kind of weather event brewing over the Caribbean, and it’s the last flight out before they close everything down. We were lucky to get you on it.” He glances at his watch. “I’ll wait out here while you get dressed. We’ll need to get you to the airport by nine.”
    He closes the door, and I sit down hard on the bed, my thoughts careening. All my plans, vanished in the few hours I slept. Everything I’d assembled, the forty thousand dollars, the fake ID from Nico, my letter, and all of Petra’s help. Waiting in Detroit, where Rory will open the package and know.
    * * *
    Somehow, I manage to get dressed, and soon we’re in the back of a hired town car, heading toward the airport. Bruce runs through the itinerary, his tone just a shade less respectful than when Rory’s around, but I’m barely listening, trying to grab on to something that will somehow turn this around.
    My phone buzzes with a text from Rory.
    Sorry about the last-minute change of plans. We’re about five minutes from the hotel. Call me when you get there and enjoy the warm weather. It’s 35 degrees here.
    So he doesn’t know yet. Maybe there’s still time to fix this. I grip my phone tight in my hand and urge the car to go faster, to get me to the airport where I can figure out what to do next.
    â€œYou’ll be staying in San Juan,” Bruce says, reading off a document on his phone. “You’re booked for two nights at the Caribe, but Danielle says it could be three, so she’ll cancel the meeting you have on Friday.”
    He looks up at me, so I nod, not trusting my voice to respond. Every inch of me is frantic to call Petra, to figure out how to fix this, but I’ll have to wait until I’m at the airport, until the only people who might overhear my conversation are strangers.
    * * *
    They drop me at the curb, Bruce giving me final instructions. “Vista Air, Flight 477,” he tells me as I exit the car. “The boarding pass is on your phone, and someone will be on the other end to meet you. Call Danielle if you have any questions.”
    I head toward the sliding glass doors that lead into the large departure terminal for Vista Airlines, aware of the car, still idling at the curb. Keep walking , I instruct myself. Be normal. I fall into the security line that winds through several rows of travelers, unlocking my phone and scrolling through my email, looking for the Detroit itinerary Danielle sent me the other day, and dial the hotel there.
    â€œExcelsior Hotel,” the woman on the other end answers.
    â€œGood morning,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm and warm. “I was scheduled to stay at your hotel this evening, but had a change of plans. Unfortunately, I was expecting a package to arrive for me this morning, and I’d love it if you could forward it.”
    â€œOf course,” says the woman. “What’s your name?”
    Something loosens in my chest, and I take a deep breath. I can make this right. Have her send it to the Caribe and leave from there. “Claire Cook.”
    â€œOh, right, Mrs. Cook! Yes, the package was