Both of the detectives are looking at me expectantly.
“That’s Lucca Marino,” I say after a few quiet seconds.
The two detectives look at each other, then back to me.
Detective Crofton asks, “Lucca Marino?”
“Yes, the woman in that video is Lucca Marino.”
I spent years and years protecting the identity of Lucca Marino. Making sure I could go back there and be that girl. I’ve already bought the land to build the dream house Mama and I planned. Already have the landscaping plans for the garden Mama would have loved. But when that name was threatened, I realized it was just that. A name. I spent years protecting the idea of Lucca Marino, but I’m no longer that naive little girl. While it was hard to finally make the decision to let her go, the truth is she’s been gone a long time. I don’t need to be Lucca Marino to keep the memory of Mama alive. Or to do the things Mama would have wanted me to do.
All eyes are on me, including Rachel.
“Let me get this straight. You’re saying that’s not you,” Detective West says.
My eyebrows raise and my mouth drops open. And then I tilt my head and give them a quizzical look. “The woman in that hotel room is Lucca Marino. I don’t know how else I can say it.” They could hook me up to a lie detector and I’d pass with flying colors.
Rachel breaks in. “My client is referring to a woman who recently spent time in Lake Forbing, Louisiana. She was in a car accident a week ago and did not survive.”
I nod and add, “Lucca lived here when Amy died. She knew Amy.”
“Do you know her connection to Amy Holder?” Detective West asks. She has pulled out her laptop and is presumably doing a search on Lucca Marino.
“Again,” Rachel says. “We’re not here to answer questions about Miss Holder’s associates.”
I hold a hand up and say, “It’s okay, Rachel. I can answer this.” I’ve got to frame this just right. “Amy was mixed up with some bad people. Lucca was a part of that. That’s all I can tell you.” Again, it’s all in the tone.
They hand me a few more pictures, images I already knew they had, including the one of me dragging Amy from her car to her house.
I look them over and shrug. “The person in all these images is Lucca Marino.”
Detective West is engrossed in the information she has pulled up on the screen. Detective Crofton leans in closer and mumbles, “The resemblance is striking.”
Guessing they found her picture, I lean to the side and glance at her screen. Yep, it’s the one from James’s mother’s Facebook post about that stupid soup. She’s got her hair pulled back, no makeup, jeans, and a plain tee. We could be twins. Mr. Smith may be regretting finding such a perfect match.
By now Detective West should also be pulling up records that Devon created, which will show Lucca Marino rented an apartment in downtown Atlanta in the time frame around Amy’s death. For good measure, there will also be a couple of parking tickets for a vehicle registered in that name down the street from where Amy lived, proving she had been in that area.
When Devon and I parted ways in Nashville, I drove to North Carolina, but Devon went back to Louisiana. When these detectives call the Lake Forbing police and ask about Lucca Marino and her time there, they will be told about the file folder full of pics and information on Amy Holder discovered in a forgotten bag in James’s room. The bag Devon planted there. He also called the police, as one of the helpful church volunteers, alerting them there was one more personal effect of Lucca Marino to add to the others they’d collected to ensure they had it in their possession.
“Why would Lucca Marino follow you to Louisiana?” Detective West asks.
I shrug. “That’s not something I can answer.”
I’m not here to solve their crime, I’m only here to ensure they look in the direction I want them to.
My boss worked really hard to find someone who looked just like me so she could assume my identity and make it hers. He splashed her all over social media and made sure she was the talk of the town. He locked it up tight, covering all the bases. And then he killed her off.
Killing her off also made it impossible for them to question her, so there’s no one to go against what I’m saying to the detectives today.
Mr. Smith thought he was just making it difficult for me to one day go back to my real identity, but yesterday I put the final nail in the coffin, so to speak. Thanks to the uniform from Goodwill and my last stop in Eden, the woman’s dental records now match a set in a dentist’s office in Eden, North Carolina, under the name Lucca Marino, making the ID of her body complete.
If I’m losing Lucca Marino forever, it’s going to be worth it.
The two detectives are lost to the computer screen while Rachel eyes me from across the table. I stare right back at her.
“Detectives,” she finally says, “we’ve come all this way, and yet there’s absolutely nothing connecting my client to the death of Amy Holder. Now unless there’s something else . . .”
“We will check into this new information. But to make sure we cover everything we need from you, can you tell us where you were the night of August twenty-seventh?” They’re not ready to pull the plug on this yet.
I relax in my chair. Calm. Controlled.
“I looked back at my calendar after I learned from the police in Lake Forbing there was a warrant out for me, so I could see where I was when Amy died. I went to a friend’s house that night for dinner. He and his wife just had a baby and they invited me over to see him.”
The only lie in my response was the date of the dinner. That dinner took place the week before.
Detective West has her pen poised over her notebook. “Can you give us the name and number of who you dined with that evening?”
“Yes, of course. His name is Tyron Nichols.”
Detective Crofton’s head pops up. “Tyron Nichols who plays for the Falcons?”
I smile. “Yes, he’s an old friend.”
Another truth.
Holding up my phone, I say, “I told him I had an appointment with you this morning. He said to call if you need to verify anything with him. Would you like me to get him on the line? I know he’d rather me not give out his private number if it can be helped.”
Detective Crofton jumps at the chance to talk to one of the best-known players on the Atlanta Falcons.
I decide to FaceTime him because seeing is believing.
Tyron appears on the screen. He’s sitting in his chair in his home office. On the wall behind him are framed prints, articles, and jerseys depicting his time playing football in high school in Central Florida, then later at Ole Miss under Coach Mitch Cameron, and then his rise to the NFL. He’s come a long way from that naive eighteen-year-old kid whose biggest dream was a full-ride scholarship to play college football in the hopes of one day being able to give his family a better life.
“Hey, girl,” he says in his big booming voice.
“Hey, Tyron. Do you have a sec to talk to these detectives?” I roll my eyes for good measure.
“Sure, put ’em on.”
I hand my phone to Detective Crofton, who looks absolutely giddy. “Yes, hello, Mr. Nichols. I’m Detective Crofton with the Atlanta PD. We need to verify Miss Porter’s whereabouts the night of August twenty-seventh. She says she was at your home that evening.”
I sit back in my chair and find Rachel staring at me again. I give her a small smile.
“Of course,” Tyron says. “She was here that night. It was the week of our home game against the Saints. During the season, Tuesday nights are the only nights I’m home for dinner, so that was the best time for her to come over and see our son.”