"Perfect. We'll see you Thursday."
I hang up and set the phone down carefully.
Dom's staring at me. "You just invited a detective to interview us."
"I just acted like we’re innocent people with nothing to hide."
"Roxy, I’m not so sure about this."
"It's the right move. Trust me."
"I do trust you," he says quietly. "But if this goes wrong…"
"It won't."
"But if it does, we run."
"Agreed."
We stand there for a long moment, holding each other in the morning light, preparing for the test that's coming.
I spend the next two days preparing, not by rehearsing lies, but by reviewing the truth.
The truth of who James and Roxy Brennan are.
I pull out our documentation, our marriage certificate from Portland. Tax returns showing my photography income and Dom's carpentry work. Rental history. Business license for my photography business. Client records, invoices, receipts. Everything legitimate and recorded.
Because James and Roxy Brennanarereal.
We've been living as them for five months. We've built a life, a business, a reputation. We exist in the system, tax records, credit history, employment verification. The people Detective Chen is looking for, Dom and Roxy, whoever they were, those people don't exist anymore.
They died.
And in their place are two law-abiding citizens with alibis and documentation and absolutely no connection to a dead trucker in New Mexico.
I make a timeline fromliving in Portland, Roxy working as freelance photographer, Dom doing carpentry. Moving to San Diego fourteen months ago for better weather and art scene opportunities.
I create a false client list for that time period. Photography jobs that never happened but could have. Weddings, portraits, landscape work. I backdate invoices, create email trails, build a paper history that places me in Portland during the time Gary Hollis died in Arizona.
Dom does the same with his carpentry work. Job sites, contractors, payment records. It's all fake. But it's convincing fake. This type of documentation would take weeks to verify, and even then, who's going to remember a specific job from eight months ago? Especially freelance.
By Wednesday night, we're ready.
Our story is solid and our alibis are documented.
We're James and Roxy Brennan.
And we have nothing to hide.
Thursday arrives too fast and I make an effort to practice controlled breathing. I dress carefully. Jeans, simple blouse, minimal makeup. I look like a young artist, a normal person. All of the bold and loud colors are gone.
I’m not a murderer, or someone who helped hunt and kill a witness.
I’m Roxy Brennan, a concerned citizen cooperating with law enforcement.
Dom's interview is first. He leaves at 1:30pm, and I watch him go with my heart in my throat.
"Remember," I say at the door. "You're James Brennan. Carpenter. Moved here from Portland. You've never been to Arizona. You don't know Gary Hollis. You're helpful and cooperative."
