First Lie Wins(47)
Ryan is out of his car and moving to my door, attempting to open it, but the car is locked since I’m still in reverse. I do a quick mental inventory as to what is in this car that could possibly get me in trouble, but know that there’s nothing.
He knocks on the window. “Evie, open up.” His eyes track the approaching officers.
With slow and deliberate movements, I put the car in park and cut the engine. The second Ryan hears the lock disengage, he opens my door and pulls me out.
His face is wiped free of expression. Even though I didn’t see him while he was talking to that rogue employee, I imagine this is what his face looked like then.
Does he think they are here for him because they have discovered his activities in East Texas? I do appreciate the sentiment when he steps between me and the cops, but the text from Devon tells me they are here for me and he can’t save me from what’s about to happen.
“Don’t worry,” he whispers. “I’ll handle this.”
He does think they are here for him.
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.