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It seems hysterical, idiotic, and unnecessary. I’m not going to believe it until they show me proof.
I make my way to the hospital’s morgue in my own car to identify the body. The officers will meet me there.
One of the officers—Hannah—told me she called Miranda Langston, Grace’s official next-of-kin. She said Miranda is coming down from Connecticut to the morgue, but that understandably, it might take her till morning. I haven’t spoken to Miranda in over a decade, save for the taciturn exchange of condolences during Douglas’s funeral. But it occurs to me that she might not even know her daughter and I are engaged. In the spirit of having a fucked-up relationship to the highest degree, Grace and I never really discuss her mother in any form or capacity.
Which clearly doesn’t matter, since Grace is alive, and this is all a terrible misunderstanding that will end in someone being sued.
Grace can’t be gone. We’ve only just begun our lives together. We have plans. A wedding to organize. A honeymoon booked. She still hasn’t quit, birthed our babies, had her dream nuptials. Her bucket list is still full, sloshing about with plans and ideas.
Every time I stop at a traffic light, I scroll through the local news on my phone, trying to find reports about a United Airlines plane crashing. There are none. With each passing second, my suspicion this is a simple human error intensifies.
This is purely a case of identity mix-up. I’m sure of it. Grace flies United Airlines twice a month. The flight she is on is currently above the Atlantic, making its way to Zurich.
To think she is asleep, her cheek squished against a freezing window in first class, unaware of this entire mess floods me with warm satisfaction. I try to call her again, but her phone goes to voice mail.
This is not weird,I remind myself.Her phone is always turned off when she travels to Zurich.
Maybe it’s all a big fat prank.
I arrive at the hospital in a daze. Park. Stumble out of the car.
Relax, idiot, she is fine. It’s not her.
Even if it isn’t, I’m not particularly hot on seeing anyone’s corpse tonight, or any other night.
I head to the basement floor, where the morgue is, passing the loading dock area. The stench of hospital cleaning products assaults my nostrils. It deepens with each step I take, until my lungs burn. I need to get out of here.
The officers wait for me in the reception area. It’s a small blue-green room, with a row of simple benches. The air-con is on blast. The walls are littered with plastic holders offering brochures about group therapy and funeral homes and casket makers. Zero points for subtlety.
“Was the drive here okay?” Officer Hannah asks sympathetically.
“A fucking delight.” I pocket my car keys. “Let’s get it over with. You have the wrong person, and I’ve no time for this bull crap.”
Her concerned, poor-you frown doesn’t waver. “So here’s what we know so far. MissLangston’s private plane left Teterboro Airport at quarter past midnight this Friday—”
“See?” I sneer. “You’ve got your facts wrong. Grace boarded a United Airlines flight to Zurich. UA2988. She flew out of Newark. Jesus Christ, I can’t believe my hard-earned tax money is wasted on you and your likes.”
Officer Hannah’s face twists, like I’m beating each word into her skin. Officer Damien remains calm, his expression unreadable, but he does write things down in a stupid little notebook.
Nice journal you have there, Gossip Girl.
“I understand this may be the information you have—” she starts.
“This is not a matter ofopinion,” I say sharply, losing all traces of decorum. “It’s the truth. There was a computer mix-up or something. Grace flew commercial out of Newark. Check again.”
“We were able to recover her passport.” Officer Hannah clears her throat, her eyes meeting mine for the first time.
I’m rendered speechless. It can’t be. Why would Grace lie about flying private?
Is it possible they got a perk this time around and she forgot to tell me? Unlikely, but not completely impossible.
I shake my head. “What about Chip Breslin? Paul Ashcroft? Pablo Villegas? Were they on the plane too?”
The two officers exchange glances. I want to grab them by the collar and shake the information out of them.
Suddenly, I’m on the brink of laughter. This is ridiculous. It is the kind of thing that happens to other people. People you read about in the newspapers. People who go on talk shows. Write heart-wrenching autobiographies. Not me.Not. Me.
“Look, Mr.Corbin, I understand you’re upset. However, we—” Officer Damien starts.
