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.”