There’s a fresh pot of coffee and a plate of blueberry muffins in the center of the coffee table.
“You take that chair,” Rachel says, pointing to the one on the left of the couch. “And I’ll take this one. The detectives can snuggle together on the couch between us.”
I settle in while she drops her briefcase on the floor next to the table.
“Not going to lie, I’m feeling underprepared. We haven’t had a moment to talk about that day and how we are handling this.”
Leaning back in my chair, I cross my legs and say, “I’m going to need you to trust me and follow my lead.”
She watches me from across the coffee table and I know she has a ton of questions, but thankfully they remain unspoken. Before there’s any time for awkward silence, there’s a knock on the door.
“It’s your show,” Rachel says, then gets up to open the door, stepping aside so a man and a woman can enter the room. I stay in my spot, making them come to me for introductions and handshakes.
“I’m Detective Crofton and this is Detective West,” the man says once they are standing in front of me.
From her spot in front of the other chair, Rachel motions to the couch and invites them to have a seat. Detective West glances at the couch, then at Rachel, and finally at me. She’s realizing she won’t be able to look at us both at the same time.
They hesitate a few seconds but eventually take seats on the couch. It takes another minute or so of them repositioning themselves and trying to get comfortable before they seem ready to begin.
Detective West is a reed-thin white woman dressed in what has probably been her uniform of the last decade: white shirt, black blazer, black pants. A simple gold band on her left ring finger is the only piece of jewelry she’s wearing. She’s got those lines around her mouth that let me know she loves to pull on a cigarette. Detective Crofton is her exact opposite. He is a tall Black man and was probably a linebacker in his former life given his size. His shirt has a blue paisley pattern and the tight cinch of the belt holding his tan pants up shows he’s recently lost some weight around the waist. There’s a simple gold chain with a cross hanging around his neck. And the peek I got of his socks right before he sat down tells me he has a sense of humor. Cats riding unicorns on a pale pink background.
And then I wonder if this is a true representation of them.
Or are they like me? Hiding behind a mask.
Because I was deliberate when I dressed this morning, striving to show them the image of me I wanted them to see. Plain white tee with jeans. Zero makeup and hair pulled back in a ponytail. I look easily five years younger than I really am.
“Can I offer either of you some coffee? A muffin?” Rachel asks.
Detective Crofton pats his midsection. “Not me. Strict orders to lose twenty pounds and I’m still five from my goal.”
Detective West pulls a small notebook out of her bag and flips it open. “Let’s get started,” she says, ignoring the offer of refreshments while Detective Crofton pulls out a small recorder and presses the red circular button on top. Detective West says in a deep, scratchy voice, “Detectives West and Crofton questioning the material witness, Evelyn Porter, in the death of Amy Holder.” She adds the date, location, and time before meeting my gaze.
Rachel holds a hand up. “I would like it on record that Amy Holder’s death was ruled an accident. And that we are here cooperating with officials to clear my client, Evelyn Porter, of any part in what happened to Miss Holder.”
“Your note is on record,” Detective West says. Then she turns to me. “Why were you living under the identity of Regina Hale in Decatur, Georgia, at the time Amy Holder died?” she asks.
Well, we’re getting right to it. Forcing Mr. Smith’s hand ensured he’d give them everything he could to bring me down. I look at Rachel and she gives me a small shrug, reminding me it is indeed my show.
“I was in a very toxic relationship and moved to put some distance between me and my ex. He didn’t want me to leave, and I was afraid he’d come after me. I went to the police, but the only thing they were willing to do was give me a restraining order, and we all know how ineffective those are. So I used a fake name hoping he wouldn’t find me.”
This gives them pause. Rachel’s left eyebrow raises just slightly, as if she’s impressed with the answer.
“Where were you living when this happened?” Detective West asks.
“Brookwood, Alabama.”
My boss went to great lengths to make me Evelyn Porter, lifelong resident of Brookwood, Alabama, so I’m putting it to work.