The same officer, Deputy Bullock, from the Bernards’ house is leading the way up the driveway, his eyes probably twinkling behind the mirrored shades.
“Miss Porter,” he says as his hands rest on the low-slung gun belt around his waist. “I’m going to need you to come to the station with me to answer a few questions.”
Ryan’s hands are on his hips, blocking me completely from the police. “What is this about?”
Deputy Bullock looks around Ryan to me. “There is a material witness warrant for you from Atlanta PD, in connection with the death of Amy Holder.”
I see two of the other officers moving in closer, and I don’t want this to get any uglier than it has to. The Rogerses, Ryan’s next-door neighbors, have returned from their walk and are watching this unfold, as are several other people across the street. A few cars have stopped down the block. This quiet, tree-lined street has never seen such excitement.
I put a hand on Ryan’s shoulder, which causes him to turn toward me. I don’t speak but I nod, letting him know it’s okay for them to take me with them. He stares at me a second or two, trying to read me so he can understand what’s happening. The officers are gentle with me as they lead me to the closest patrol car. Thankfully, no one makes a move toward my car, so I’m hopeful it will still be here when I get out.
Amy Holder was the mark for my last job, the one I didn’t complete to Mr. Smith’s satisfaction. But my alias for this job, Evelyn Porter, should have been a clean identity and should not be connected in any way to Amy Holder or her death. The fact that they are bringing me in for questioning about her death lets me know I’ve been compromised, and this somehow plays into the next step of whatever Mr. Smith has in store for me.
* * *
It takes more focus than you can imagine to sit absolutely still. I have not tapped my foot or fidgeted in my seat or looked anywhere other than the light-gray wall that is right in front of me. My breathing remains easy, inhaling through my nose and exhaling between my barely parted lips. My eyes blink in an easy rhythm, not too fast, not too slow.
I know they’re watching me through the mirrored wall to my left, but I refuse to give them so much as a twitch of my pinkie finger, because I can’t forget what Devon said the first time I met him in real life: You can tell a lot about a person by the way they act when they are left waiting too long.
There was a big production of bringing me into the interrogation room and sitting me down at this table. Uniformed officers and plainclothes detectives streamed in and out, each wanting to have their part in this. I was offered something to drink, I was asked if I needed to use the restroom. I was asked question after question, all of which I answered with the absolute bare-minimum response. The last question asked was by me. I asked for a lawyer.
I requested Rachel Murray, although I’m sure Ryan has already called her himself.
Sometime later, Rachel arrives and sits down across from me. I’m quiet while she openly studies me. I wasn’t sure what to expect from her—delight in my detainment, or fear of sitting across the table from someone who may or may not be involved with a murder, or confusion as to why I requested her—but I don’t get any of those. Her face is as blank as mine, and I’m happy with the route I’ve decided to take.
She’s going to make me speak first, which I respect.
“Will you represent me?” I ask. I absolutely refuse to say anything to her that won’t be protected by attorney-client privilege.
“Yes,” she answers, then pulls a document out of the bag sitting by her feet. “I figured you wouldn’t talk to me without this.”
It’s a standard agreement stating we are moving into a professional relationship in which Rachel is now my attorney of record. I sign at the bottom, then watch as she scratches her name below mine.
“I’m assuming you’re good for the bill I will send you?” she asks.
I nod. “Of course.”
She stuffs the document back in her bag and then moves to the door. Opening it slightly, she says, “I am the attorney of record for Miss Porter, so cut the mics and video feed to the room.”
The door shuts, then she moves to the window to lower a set of blinds.
Now I have to trust this system and hope no one is about to hear what I’m about to tell her. This little bit of privacy has me shifting in my seat, trying to restore blood flow to the areas that need it.
Her left eye squints as she watches me. “Ryan called me the second they pulled out of his driveway with you in the back seat. When you requested me, I was already here. I was surprised, to say the least.”
Finally, I ask, “Do you know what they have on me? Why they think I am a material witness?”
“Officer Bullock ran your name and Brookwood, Alabama, after he left the Bernards’. The warrant popped. He made the call and talked to the officer on Amy Holder’s case first thing this morning. They have reason to believe you were at the scene when she died and either have knowledge of what happened in the moments before her death or may have assisted or been a factor in her death. They requested you be brought in, so the local guys headed to Ryan’s to pick you up.”
Evie Porter and Brookwood, Alabama, should not have any connection to Amy Holder in any way.
“What proof do they have that I was there?”
“I’m told there is a photo of you at the scene. The local police are saying Atlanta PD hasn’t shared it with them so they couldn’t show it to me. Not sure if that’s the truth or not. Regardless, I have requested a copy of it and have been told it is forthcoming.”
I nod, taking it all in. “How do they know the person in the image is Evie Porter, specifically?”
Rachel’s head tilts to the side. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.” And I’m sure she’s wondering why I’m referring to myself in third person.
“Is there a complete record on Evie Porter? Anything other than her presence where Amy Holder died?” I ask in a frustrated voice. I’m not ready to tell her everything yet, but I need to know everything she does. I’m not at the point where I can reclaim the Lucca Marino identity, and I need to protect it a little longer until I know exactly what’s going on. For now, Lucca Marino is dead and gone and I am stuck being Evie Porter.
Rachel leans forward and rests her arms on the table. “Want to tell me what’s going on? I can’t help you if you keep me in the dark.”
“I knew Amy Holder.” She shows no surprise in this admission. “But when I knew her, my name wasn’t Evie Porter.”
Her head cocks to the side. “What was it?”
“Regina Hale.”
“Regina Hale,” she repeats.
I nod and she stares at me. “Are you Regina Hale?” she asks.
I shake my head no.
“Is Regina Hale a real person you impersonated?” she finally asks.
“No.”
“Are you being vague on purpose?” she asks. “Because if it’s more important to keep your secrets than confide in me, I’ll show myself out.”
God, she’s a tough bitch, but a tough bitch is what I need.
“Regina Hale was the name I used when I lived outside of Atlanta. My understanding is that Amy’s death was ruled an accident.”
Rachel leans back in her chair, her arms crossed in front of her as she openly studies me.
“Is your real name Evie Porter?” she asks.
I hesitate long enough that she knows the answer, but she still waits for my response.
“No.”
“What’s your real name?” she asks.
“Not Evie Porter,” I answer. I’m not ready to give her everything. Not yet.
We watch each other, both of us trying to determine who will break first. Finally, Rachel reaches down and pulls some papers out of her briefcase. “This is from my own personal search. I can find out if the police have anything more than this.”