I have been trying to put a face to Mr. Smith for years. Turning to look at Ryan three feet away, it’s hard to believe he could be the boss I’ve grown to despise.
No. No, that’s not right. He’s too young. Timeline doesn’t match up.
As I shove everything back in the bag the exact way I found it, I mentally scroll through every conversation with Mr. Smith.
The first time I talked to him was eight years ago. Ryan was still at LSU and has no connection to North Carolina.
Mr. Smith handed me off to Matt, who I dealt with solely over the next two years. I didn’t speak to Mr. Smith again until after the Andrew Marshall job six years ago.
Six years ago.
Ryan’s grandmother fell ill with cancer six years ago. Ryan stepped in to handle the trucking business—both the legal and illegal side—for his grandfather, so he could stay home to care for his wife, and eventually took over the business fully after he died not long after.
Was that all he took over?
No.
No.
Ryan is going to Atlanta with me where I’ll talk to a bunch of cops. Would he open himself up like that?
And then I’m back at the Bernards’ house in my mind. Seeing that small room where we answered every question asked of us. Where that detective learned Evie Porter was from Brookwood, Alabama. Because Ryan told them.“Evie moved here from Brookwood, Alabama, a few months ago. She didn’t know James.”
No, no, no.
And then Monday morning in the garage. Where Ryan lingered. And I ignored the 911 message from Devon. Because Ryan wasn’t ready to let me go. I remember thinking,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.
But wait. No. Mr. Smith responded to Mitch on that forum after we left Oxford. Ryan was driving. I think back on the moment I saw the message come across. I was in the passenger seat of my car. Ryan had just filled it up with gas and gone inside for more snacks. He was in the store while I was watching the conversation between Mr. Smith and Mitch.
The memory of the moment between Ryan and George boots up and I watch it again through a different lens. The familiarity is still there, same as I would have with George. But it’s Ryan making the decisions. George deferring to him. George delivering the papers to him.
This job was a test. Testing my loyalty.
And shit, Ryan would have known immediately that I’d altered the information on his business before I turned it over. He has direct proof I wasn’t doing the job I was sent to do. And I was worried about him losing his business to Mr. Smith.
I knew I would be watched closely.
What better way to watch me than when I’m sharing the same space?
No.
Not going there. Not yet.
While it’s easy to jump to conclusions, it’s also very dangerous to make assumptions.
I crawl back to my side of the bed and snatch my phone off the nightstand and pull up Instagram.
Scrolling through my feed, I stop on the Skimm’s post recapping the five biggest news stories of the day and comment:That is breaking news! Too hot for me to handle! #OnTheRoadAgain #PartyOfOne
It’s a good chance Devon won’t see this for a couple of hours, but I need him to know I’m out of here and leaving Ryan behind.
Once my comment loads, I grab my purse and keys, abandoning everything else. I had already planned to stop at Goodwill on my way out of town to get what I need going forward, so I’ll just have to add a few more items to my shopping list.
The click of the motel door opening echoes through the room, but luckily Ryan doesn’t stir. I’m in my car and pulling out of the parking lot within minutes. As soon as I hit the interstate, I dump the phone I’ve been using as Evie Porter in Lake Forbing, and thanks to the little black box from Devon, if there is a tracer in my car, it’s not providing any information. Before, I wanted Mr. Smith to know where I was going, but not anymore.
Once I’ve been on the road about two hours, I stop to buy a prepaid phone and call Devon.
“Hey,” I say, when it connects.
