“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.
“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.”
