5. Laney #2
“I’ll get it.” Reed gets to his feet and answers it. “Laney Flores’ room.”
He listens for a moment, his ear pressed close to the phone, and then nods. “Yes, of course. I understand. We’ll be down shortly.”
He puts the phone back down and turns to us. “Looks like they’re ready and waiting for us downstairs.”
“Who are?” I ask.
“The police, the airline, the lawyers.”
“Shit,” Cade swears.
My stomach tumbles with nerves, and Darius reaches out and takes my hand. “Let’s get this over with,” he says.
I blow out a breath. I’ll feel better once it’s done.
Together, we leave the room and catch the elevator down to the first floor.
People in suits are waiting for us in the foyer.
I recognize a couple of them—a woman from the airline called Amanda Greer, and the police sergeant, Moore, who’d met us off the plane. They’re all wearing the same strange smiles that I can’t read.
We still have a lot of formalities to deal with before we can get our replacement passports and get on a plane home.
I’m pleased all the various authorities have come to us, instead of making us travel to their offices. I guess they figure we’ve done enough.
They’ve made use of the hotel’s conference rooms to set up in.
We’re separated, and I’m taken to one of the rooms, where I’m seated in front of a long table that contains a panel of similarly dressed men and woman.
The room is windowless, and airless, with patterned mauve carpets and uncomfortable chairs with the same pattern on the seats that’s on the floor.
There are jugs of water, and practically shot-sized glasses.
One of the suited men clears his throat.
“Miss Flores. My name is Frank Turner. I’m a representative from the company who manufactures the plane you were on. Can I start by saying what a relief it is to learn you survived the crash.”
He’s careful about how he words things. They won’t want to say something that sounds like they admit any kind of responsibility for the crash. The company will try to make the crash out to be pilot error rather than admit to there being any fault with the aircraft itself.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice small.
I wish the guys were with me, but I expect they’re in identical rooms, going through the same questions.
“I realize this is difficult,” he continues, “but can you run me through what happened during the flight? You can start before you even got on the plane. Was there anything unusual you noticed?”
“I—I have no idea what would be considered unusual. I’d never even flown before.”
His hands are folded on the table primly. “It doesn’t matter how small the detail. Anything that stood out in your mind?”
I don’t feel as though he’s really listening to me.
I take a shaky breath and twist my hands in my lap. “Honestly, I can’t remember much about it. I know that in your mind it’s only been a matter of weeks, but to me it feels like a lifetime ago. So much has happened since then.”
“I understand that, but I really do need you to try to remember.”
I tell him what I recall, about how there was turbulence, and bad weather, and then the pilot announcing equipment failure and needing to make an emergency landing.
The suits all exchange glances and write things down. I doubt the equipment failing is what they were hoping to hear.
I don’t care either way. The crash happened; it makes no difference to me who they want to point the finger at. I guess the only reason I care is that I don’t want anyone else to have to go through what we did.
They move on to what happened after the crash—the distance we walked, where we found the other half of the plane, discovering the flight attendant’s body.
Sometimes, they reword the question so it sounds different, but it’s essentially asking the same thing. I know they’re doing it to try to catch us, as though instinctively they know we’re not telling the whole truth about something.
Eventually, exhausted and frustrated after repeating myself once more, I lose my temper. “Stop! Just stop. I can’t do this anymore.”
“We only want to find the plane and the bodies of those poor people,” one of the suits says in response. “I’m sure you understand how important that is.”
“If it was that easy to find,” I say, “you’d have found us before now, wouldn’t you?
It’s hard being lost in a place where everything looks the same.
Where all the days seem to blur into one.
When you’re terrified, and half-starved, and dehydrated, and exhausted.
I’d like to see one of you give an accurate description of exactly what directions you took and what distance you’d walked. ”
I’m aware I sound a little hysterical, but I don’t even care.
“You’re right, and we’re sorry. Perhaps it’s time for a break?”
I put my head in my hands. “I just want to go home. Why is that so hard to understand? I want to go home and sleep in my own bed. I want to bury my mom. I want to say goodbye to her.”
I’m half expecting Cade to launch himself into the room and demand to know who’s upsetting me, but he’s dealing with his own assholes.
“It’s okay, Miss Flores. I think we’ve got enough for today.”
For today. It means they’re not done. There will still be more lawyers and police officers and people from the airline wanting to ask questions in Los Angeles. Then there will be the reporters to deal with, and just the regular guy on the street who’ll recognize us and want to know everything.
They excuse me, but I’m in no way done. I still have people from the airline to speak with, plus police from both the United States and Canada.
I manage to grab a coffee before I have to head into the next session. Cade catches up with me.
“How was it?” he asks.
“Brutal,” I reply.
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” He takes my hand and squeezes it. “Stay strong, Laney. If you can handle us in the wilderness for a month, you can definitely handle a bunch of overpaid suits.”
“Thanks, Cade.”
He kisses my cheek, as chastely as possible, and then we’re ushered into our next sessions.
The day feels as though it’s never going to end.
We break briefly for lunch, and then meet with yet more people.
I don’t understand why they can’t see how exhausted I am.
My throat is sore from all the talking. I’ve repeated my story so many times now it almost feels as though that’s all it is—a story.
Of course, none of us mention Smith and his men.
By the time the evening arrives, and the interviews have been completed, we’re all silent and numb from being made to relive our trauma over and over.