Even though I knew she would do her own search on me, I’m not prepared for the first item she lays down in front of me. It’s a photocopy of a student ID from the University of Alabama with the name Evelyn Porter and my picture dated seven years ago.
“What is this?” I ask. I recognize the picture. It’s from the first job I did. The Kingston job under the name Izzy Williams, but here it is on a school ID for Evelyn Porter.
Rachel doesn’t say anything but hands me another piece of paper. It’s a photocopy of a driver’s license dated six years ago. Again, the picture is of me but the name on the license is Evelyn Porter. This image is one I used for the Andrew Marshall job under the name Mia Bianchi.
Another page lands on the table. Evelyn Porter’s passport dated four years ago. Another picture of me that was intended for a job in Florida under the name Wendy Wallace.
Three more pieces of paper. An electricity bill, a speeding ticket, and a statement from a doctor’s office. Three more pieces of proof that I’m Evelyn Porter.
I’ve spent eight years hiding my real identity, while Mr. Smith has spent eight years creating a new active one for me.
Devon and I are so thorough when we research a new town and a new mark, but not doing a deep dive into the name assigned to me was a blind spot.
Rachel waits for some sort of reaction from me. When she realizes she’s not going to get one, she leans back in her chair and blows out a loud breath. “You still want to tell me you aren’t Evelyn Porter?”
I’m back to being still. Calm. Composed. My brain may be firing in a million different directions, but I refuse to let anyone know that.
“If you’re not Evelyn Porter and you refuse to tell me who you really are, how am I supposed to help you?” she asks.
“I need out of here. I need a few days to get this straightened out.”
She’s already shaking her head. “I can try but don’t get your hopes up. They’ve been looking for you for a while and they don’t want to chance you disappearing on them. All they’ve got is the formal request to interview you as a potential material witness, not a suspect in her death, so there’s that, but I don’t see them letting you just waltz right out of here today. I can probably have you out in a day or so, but it will be contingent on you going immediately to Atlanta for questioning.”
Time is what I need more than anything else right now. I wait a few seconds, weighing my options, then pull her notebook and pen toward me. I scribble a name and push it back. I don’t want to say it aloud in case there are still ears listening in. “Call this man. Say your client was on Hilton Head in June 2017. Tell him to get me out of here. Today.”
Rachel leans forward, her face a shade paler than it was before. “You want me to call him and mention Hilton Head, June 2017, then what . . . ask him to pull some strings to get you released?”
It’s not a question, so I don’t bother giving her an answer.
She gives me a quick nod then leaves the room. I’m surprised she didn’t badger me about the cryptic message, but I’m learning I didn’t give Rachel enough credit.
I never wanted to be sitting here, facing what I’m facing, but I was prepared for it nonetheless. It’s time to call in my favor.
The door cracks open slowly, but it’s too early for Rachel to be back. I relax into my chair, ready to play the game with the detectives. And then Ryan’s head peeks through the open space like he’s not sure he’s in the right room.
When he thought the police were there for him, he was worried about protecting me. Now he looks at me with apprehension.
“Rachel talked the cops into letting me see you for a minute. I think they’re all too scared to tell her no. She did say to expect the cameras and mics to be back on, though.”
They probably want him in here with me, hoping I’ll say something to him they can use against me.
He hesitates just a moment, then he’s by my side and pulling me into his arms. I’m surprised by my own flood of emotion. It’s a relief to see him. He holds me close, squeezing me tight, as he mumbles quietly, “What the hell, Evie.”
I should step away. Break contact with him.
But I can’t let him go.
I don’t want to let him go. I blame my lowered defenses on the long day . . . the long past several days.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer. “Better now that you’re here.”
He pulls back so he can look at me. “Rachel says she’s working on getting you out of here.”
“Good. That’s good.” He looks tired. The past twenty-four hours haven’t been kind to him. First, he loses his childhood friend, then his girlfriend is hauled off in a police cruiser.
He laces his fingers in mine. “What’s going on, Evie? That cop said you’re wanted for questioning as a material witness in a death of some woman in Atlanta. They think you were there when it happened.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was told too. I was as surprised as you were that they wanted to talk to me. I had no idea there was a warrant out for me,” I say, making sure I don’t say anything that I wouldn’t say in front of the cops, since they’re probably listening.
“Does that mean they think something is suspicious about her death? I mean, why else would they need a warrant to talk to you?”
I take a deep breath and blow it out. “I have no idea why they think I know anything.”
He’s nodding while I talk as if he’s weighing the truth of my words.
Before he can say anything else, Rachel opens the door and slips into the room. Her eyes bounce back and forth between us, the judgment there very clear. I’m lying to her friend.
“Evie,” she says with heavy emphasis on my name, “I made the call. It seems to have been successful. We’ll know for sure soon.”
I nod because I knew it would be.
She looks at Ryan. “Can you give us a few minutes? I need to go over some things with Evie.”
He looks between the two of us, I’m sure wondering what we could possibly talk about that he can’t hear.
When I don’t say it’s okay for him to stay, he says, “Of course. I’ll be just outside.”
And then he’s gone.
She waves her hand, gesturing at the room. “Mics and cameras are back off.”
I nod, waiting for whatever she wants to say that no one else can hear.
“Are you going to tell him who you really are?” she asks.
“I hired you to handle the legal aspects of my life, not the personal ones.”
She’s not deterred. “He’s my friend.”
I don’t respond, and we stare at each other a few seconds before she says, “I’ll be back as soon as the release comes through. If it comes through.”
“It will,” I say.
She throws me a look as she leaves the room.
I sit back in the chair and clear my mind so I can start planning.
Lucca Marino—Six Years Ago
I take my time driving from Hilton Head back to Raleigh, North Carolina, with the last twelve hours heavy on my mind. I shouldn’t care what Andrew Marshall thinks about me now, but I do.
I’m off the grid. Matt has called my phone a million times and texted threat after threat, but I am not fazed.
I park in front of AAA Bail Bonds midmorning on Monday, almost forty-eight hours after I left Andrew at that resort in South Carolina, even though I was instructed never to set foot back here.
Matt is not expecting me.
The last time I was here I was terrified. I had just fled the Kingstons’ house after leaving a bleeding Jenny Kingston dying on the floor and a sleeping Miles on the couch.
Today is different.
Today I walk into his office like I own it.
There are a few random people scattered around the waiting room and the same girl at the front desk. She gives me a halfhearted smile when I walk toward her, but her expression changes quickly when I bypass her desk and head down the hall.
“Wait! You need to check in first!” she yells, hot on my heels.
I twist open the door to Matt’s office, and she stops herself just before colliding with my back.
“Where the fuck have you been!” Matt yells the second he sees me, then he looks at the receptionist behind me. “Get the fuck back out front!” She makes a U-turn just as I shut his office door.