First Lie Wins(48)

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.”

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.