I open the text.
Unknown number: 911
Shit. That’s my warning from Devon to get the hell out of here. I look up to find Ryan is stepping out of his car, his attention drawn to the street behind me.
I check my rearview mirror, afraid of what I will see there.
Three police cars have pulled up behind me, blocking us both in.
It only takes a few seconds to realize there’s no getting past them. It also occurs to me that had I not lingered with Ryan in the garage, I would have seen Devon’s text as soon as I received it. Those few minutes may have cost me a clean getaway.
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.