A blond man in a pinstripe suit steps up next. “Didn’t I see you at the Family Assistance Center?”
“I was there,” I say and leave it at that. The thing is, I would have remembered this guy by his height alone. He’s shockingly tall, the kind of tall you see prancing up and down a basketball court.
Then again, I was a wreck, and maybe he was sitting down. Either way, he lost someone on that plane, I’m positive of it. His face is molded into something polite and pleasant, but his green eyes give him away. They are haunted, and nothing about this is pleasant.
He offers me a hand. “Evan Sheffield. My wife and baby daughter were on the plane.”
I wince, at the same time a shiver of something that feels a lot like relief passes through me. This poor guy lost two people on that plane. Apparently, there are people here who have it worse than me.
“Iris Griffith. My husband, Will...” I swallow. I still can’t manage to get the awful words past my lips.
Evan gives me a nod, his grimace telling me he understands. Of course, he does. “I wanted to let you know, I’m organizing an association for friends and family of the passengers and crew. I figure if we band together, we’ll get a lot more accomplished.”
“Like what?”
“Like figuring out what we’re supposed to be doing and who we’re supposed to be listening to, for starters. I don’t know about you, but I don’t plan to blindly follow the path my Care Specialist laid out for me. I’m not sure a Liberty Air employee is our best advocate at this point.”
“I agree.”
“Good.” He pulls a business card from his jacket and passes it to me. He points to his name in swirling blue letters. “Shoot me an email with your contact information, and I’ll add you to the list. First meeting will be early next week sometime at my firm, Rogers, Sheffield and Shea in Midtown. The address and parking instructions will be included in the email.”
I know Rogers, Sheffield and Shea. Everybody in the South knows Rogers, Sheffield and Shea, after they overturned the 2001 conviction of Troy Coles, a Savannah man sentenced to death for a murder he didn’t commit. I look back down at his name, a name I now remember as the lead attorney in the case. “You’re that Evan Sheffield?”
“Yes, and I’m not the only attorney in the group if that’s what you’re asking. We’ve also got a couple of nurses, a sleep therapist and a handful of doctors. If you have a specific talent or knowledge you’d like to volunteer, let me know in the email. It’s not mandatory, of course. You can always just come and listen.”
“My daughter’s a psychologist,” Mom says, not able to help herself. “Agnes Scott and Emory educated.”
“I’m not sure I’ll do anybody any good,” I quickly add. “I’m kind of hanging by a thread here.”
Evan tries to push up a smile, but it looks more like a grimace. “Welcome to the club. Everybody keeps telling me we’ll survive this, but if you ask me, the jury’s still out.” He inhales, pulling himself together. “Anyway, nice to meet you, and I’ll watch for your email.”
He moves on, and I watch him give his spiel to the next person, his shoulders slumped with a weariness that I feel down to my bones. Grief is exhausting, and this man lost two people to my one. Where does he get the energy? My gaze travels to a patch of thick, fluffy grass, and I wonder if I could lie on it, just for a minute.
Dave steps up beside me, sliding an arm around my waist, and I lean into him. I meant it when I told Evan I was hanging by a thread—one that’s frayed enough to give out any second. I also meant it when I told my mother I wanted to go home. Suddenly, leaving is my newest and most urgent goal. I can’t take another person in this parade of mourners.
“Let’s go.”
Dave points across the grass, where they’re setting up giant trays of food on a buffet table. “But—”
“I’m not kidding, Dave. I need you to get me out of here. Now.”
Dave looks over his shoulder, craning his neck. “Okay, but Mom just headed off in search of the bathroom, and I don’t know where James went.” He turns back, gives my hand a quick squeeze. “Hang tight. I’ll go round up the troops.”
“That’d be great. Thanks.”
As soon as he’s gone, there’s another tug on my sleeve. Before I can stop myself, I whip around, my face tightening into a scowl. “What?”
If the man is insulted by my lack of manners, he doesn’t let it show. He smiles, a flash of bright white against coffee-bean skin, and holds up a glass of clear, sparkling liquid. “San Pellegrino. You looked like you could use something cold.”
“Oh.” Guilt surges, and I stretch my mouth into what I hope looks like an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I’m not usually that much of an asshole, but...” I take the glass from his hand, tip it in his direction. “Thank you. Really.”
“Corban Hayes,” he says. “I’m a friend of Will’s from the gym.”
I sip my water, taking him in over the rim. That this guy spends time at the gym is not exactly news. Tall and lean, with muscles so clearly defined that his veins pop, like black rope standing up on his brown arms. The type of guy who does one-handed pull-ups while chanting eat clean, train dirty to anyone who walks by. Will worked out, but he wasn’t a gym rat. Weights and treadmills were necessary evils, but only so he could eat as many burritos as he pleased. How good of friends could they have been?
“Will gave me shit for putting the weights up in the wrong place. I gave him shit for being so anal. We’ve been buddies ever since.”
I smile despite myself. “That’s Will. He likes order.”
“I’ll say.” Corban’s expression sobers, and he shakes his head. “I’m going to miss that guy bossing me around, harassing me to change my passwords every thirty days. My company migrated over to the AppSec security suite last year, and it was the cleanest, quickest software migration we’ve ever experienced. Will made sure of it, and he didn’t bill me for all the extra hours he spent whipping us into shape. I know AppSec was sorry to see him go.”
I’m already nodding, already murmuring my thanks for his kind words, when the last ones register. “What do you mean, see him go?”
“To the new job. What’s the company’s name again? EPM? TPM? Something like that. I assume that’s why he was on a plane to Seattle, to finalize the contract, no?”
The glass slips from my fingers, dropping onto the bricks with a loud crash. Heads swing in my direction, and something wet stings my shins.
But instead of lurching backward to avoid the mess, Corban springs forward, clamping a palm around my biceps, right as I feel myself sway. “Steady now.”
I open my mouth to tell him to let go, but I can’t seem to catch my breath. The air gets stuck halfway down my throat.
“Are you okay? You’re white as a sheet.”