Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Present Day

I’m up earlier than usual for a Sunday morning. The events of last night generated an endless parade of questions, ensuring I didn’t sleep well. I slide out of bed, trying not to wake Ryan, and slip downstairs to the kitchen. I need to use the next couple of hours contemplating what to do while I wait for Mr. Smith’s next move.

I start the coffee machine before flipping on the small television in the breakfast nook. An old black-and-white movie hums along in the background while I stare at the steady drip of dark liquid.

The rumble thundering down the stairs has me spinning in that direction. Ryan skids into the kitchen, his phone clutched to his ear. He snaps his fingers at me then points to the TV. Covering the mouthpiece with his hand, he says, “Put it on three.”

He looks panicked.

“I’ll call you back,” he says, then ends the call.

I change the channel and the local newscaster fills the screen. She’s on the side of the road, the warm glow of the rising sun behind her highlighting the bridge that crosses the lake.

“The accident happened shortly after eleven last night. Authorities say the car was going at a high rate of speed when it swerved off the road, breaking through the guardrail at the foot of the bridge, and crashing into the lake. When asked if the driver was impaired, police said they wouldn’t have that answer until the toxicology results came back.”

The camera pans the scene and a wave of nausea rolls through me. The same car that backed out of our driveway last night is currently being pulled out of the water by a huge tow truck. And then the picture from the Derby party of James and the woman fills the screen.

“James Bernard and his companion, Lucca Marino, were visiting from Baton Rouge. Both were pronounced dead at the scene, and the Bernard family was notified shortly after,” the newswoman says.

Holy shit.

Then they cut back to the anchor desk. “Chrissy, this must be awful for Mr. Bernard’s family.”

And then Chrissy is on a split screen. “Yes, Ed. Mr. Bernard’s father is currently at home recovering from a fall, and his son, James, had come to help his mother with his care. They are asking for privacy during this very difficult time. We’ve made some calls to our affiliate station in Lucca Marino’s hometown of Eden, North Carolina, and we’ll be sharing what we learn about her on this evening’s broadcast.”

Ryan stares at the small screen with his hand over his mouth. His expression is blank, as if he is still processing what he’s seeing.

When the news moves to the next story, I shut the TV off. Ryan drops down in the closest chair, his head in his hands. I go to him, my fingers brushing through his long strands.

“I can’t believe this. We left things in a bad way last night, and now this. He’s been a fuckup his whole life. Getting into shit, stealing from me . . . but I thought maybe he was better. And then when we were playing around with that football last night, he asked me for money. I was drunk and I lost it. Told him I was done with him for good.”

I don’t say anything, just continue to stroke his hair while I consider how this could have happened and what it means.

“We need to go see his parents,” he says as he looks up at me. “Was she drunk? Should we have stopped her from driving?”

I shake my head, and it takes a moment for me to find my voice. “No. She had two glasses throughout the night. She was fine to drive.” I refuse to let him blame himself for any of this.

This seems to give him some relief but it’s short lived. He hops up from the chair like he was sitting on a spring. “I need to see his parents. His mom is going to be heartbroken. His dad too. Fuck, the cops are going to want to talk to us.” He squeezes his eyes closed. “We were the last ones to see them alive. They’ll have questions for us.”

He’s rambling, and I’ve got to center him. And hopefully talk him out of calling the cops. The absolute last thing I need is for the cops to know anything about me.

“One thing at a time. Let’s get dressed and go visit James’s parents. See if they need any help making the arrangements. We’ll worry about the rest of it later.”

He nods as he walks in a tight circle in the middle of the kitchen.

“Yeah, let’s do that.” Then he stops. “What about Lucca? Should we call her parents? Are you still in contact with your high school friend who has family there? Maybe she knows them.”

Deep breath in. Hold it. Slowly release.

“Let’s start with James’s parents. They may have already called her family.”

He nods again then sprints toward the stairs. “I can be ready in ten minutes.”

I drop down in the chair Ryan vacated.

Run.

Mentally, I’m hauling ass out of this town without looking back.

Breathe.

I need to think this through. I need to think about this as if I were Mr. Smith. Would he be willing to exert the time and energy it would take to groom her for this job and use the connections he’d need to insert her here only to kill her off just a short time after she arrived?

The only way that scenario seems likely is if she completed the task she was sent to perform and her usefulness had run its course. I don’t see how that would have been possible.

I came into this job knowing it was a test—not the first test he’s given me in the eight years I’ve worked for him—so I expected there was more going on here than I was originally told. The only thing that’s certain is that woman’s appearance here was linked to my boss’s displeasure over my performance on my last job, and now she’s dead.

For now, I will accompany Ryan to James’s parents’ home, where we will provide comfort by telling them how happy James was in his last hours of life. I will learn everything I can about the woman who was sent here to impersonate me. I will hold Ryan’s hand while he grieves the loss of his friend. Regardless of the harsh words, I know Ryan would rather James had not died in that car wreck last night. Death has a way of letting those hard feelings go.

But most importantly, I will finish what I started.

Ryan parks on their street two houses down, the closest spot he can find.

The Bernards live in an older neighborhood on the other side of the lake from Ryan, where the houses were built in the mideighties, in various shades of brown brick with low-slung roofs and narrow driveways.

There is a steady stream of people walking toward the front door, just as we are.

“Why are there so many people here right now? This seems like the kind of crowd that shows up to the funeral home,” I whisper to Ryan as he maneuvers us through the crowd to the side of the house. I knew he and James grew up together and he spent a lot of time here as a kid so I’m not surprised he’s bypassing the front door.

“These are probably mostly neighbors and members of their church. It will be twice this at the funeral home visitation. A lot of these women keep a casserole in the freezer for just this occasion.” He looks back at me from over his shoulder and rolls his eyes, adding, “Plus, they’re here for the gossip.”

Ryan lets us in through the side door and we move down the narrow back hall toward the main living area. There are people wall to wall, and the low ceilings intensify the claustrophobic feel. A group of little old ladies wearing very official-looking name tags and matching smock aprons—probably the Bible brigade from the Bernards’ church, if I’m guessing right—scurry around offering water or coffee to those visiting as well as making sure the room stays tidy.

“They aren’t in here,” Ryan mumbles, then pulls me back into the hall and through another open doorway that leads to a small office.

Rose Bernard’s thin, frail body is wedged into the corner of an oversize chair, while Wayne Bernard is stuffed into a wingback chair next to her with his bum leg propped up on a small ottoman. One uniformed officer sits on a stool in front of them while two other officers stand behind him.

The cops’ attention pivots to us the second we fill the doorway.

Ryan and I both take a step back. “I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to interrupt . . .”

Mrs. Bernard lets out an anguished cry when she sees Ryan. “Don’t leave,” she cries. “How did this happen, Ryan? Was he okay at your house last night? Did something happen?”

Ryan moves into the room and crouches down next to her, his hands covering hers. “Nothing happened. He was great! They both were. I wouldn’t have let them leave if I didn’t think they were okay.”

The officers share a look with each other when they realize the deceased were at our house before the crash. We’ve gone from random visitors to possible witnesses to their state of mind before the accident.

Mrs. Bernard leans forward just enough that Ryan can embrace her. Mr. Bernard swallows thickly as he reaches over to clutch his wife’s hand in support.

I shouldn’t have come. I should have let Ryan handle this alone. Assured him this was a private matter, not a place for a stranger like me, but I was so desperate for any shred of information about the woman that I ignored the risk of what I could face here.

Now I realize how big my mistake is. The officer who was sitting on the stool now has his sights set on us. And because it seems like the only thing stopping Mrs. Bernard from completely falling apart is Ryan’s arms around her, the officer approaches me first.

“Hello,” he says, as he turns the pages in his notebook. “I’m Deputy Bullock. I’m gathering as much information as I can. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

I’m stuck. I can’t say I don’t know anything because obviously they were with us last night. And as much as I would like to answer those questions on my terms, now will have to do.

“Of course,” I say, then nod toward Ryan. “We rushed right over as soon as we heard what happened. James and Lucca were at our house last night.”

With his pen poised over the clean sheet of paper, he asks, “And your name is . . . ?”

I hesitate only a second before I answer, “Evie Porter.” I’ve now officially lied to the police.

“Is Evie your full name or is it short for something else?”

“Evelyn.”

“Okay, Miss Porter, how did you know Mr. Bernard and Miss Marino?”

Ryan disengages himself from Mrs. Bernard, promising her he will return shortly, then comes to stand next to me. His right arm slips around my waist and I’m not sure if he’s trying to show a united front or if he needs any comfort I can give him.

“Hi, I’m Ryan Sumner. James was an old friend of mine. Evie and I had him and Lucca over for dinner last night.”

Deputy Bullock scribbles away and doesn’t look up when he asks the next question. “Was Miss Marino drinking last night?”

Ryan looks at me before answering, the pause causing the deputy’s pen to stop and his eyes to move from the notepad to us.

“She had one glass of wine when they first arrived around six and then one more glass with dinner. James had a considerable amount more to drink, which is why she was driving,” I answer.

Deputy Bullock waits a beat then goes back to his notes. “Would you say she seemed in control of her faculties when she left your home?”

“Yes,” Ryan answers.

“Is it possible she had more to drink than you witnessed? Maybe she snuck another glass or two that you weren’t aware of?”

“I guess it’s possible but I think that’s unlikely. She was around us the entire evening except for when she went to the bathroom.”

Drunk driving is the most obvious reason for an accident like this. The question of her alcohol consumption will eventually be answered when the autopsy comes back, but I know she couldn’t have had more than two glasses.

“Did Mr. Bernard put up a fight about not being able to drive home?” he asks.

Mrs. Bernard clutches her chest at his question. Ryan, realizing how upset she is, motions for us to move into the hallway.

“No. Not at all. He willingly and gladly got into the passenger seat,” Ryan finally says when we’ve cleared the room.

The deputy nods. He’s writing more than what we’re saying, but the way the pad is angled I can’t see his notes.

“How were things between Mr. Bernard and Miss Marino last night? Any arguing? Fighting?”

“No, not at all,” I answer.

“Anything happen that could have caused Miss Marino to be distracted? Upset?” The officer looks at Ryan, shrugging as he adds, “Any talk of old girlfriends? I know how reminiscing with old friends can be. Did she have to sit and listen to Mr. Bernard’s glory days and maybe didn’t like what she was hearing?”

“No, it wasn’t anything like that,” Ryan says, his words tinged with anger. “Neither of us would have wanted Lucca or Evie to be uncomfortable.”

The officer holds a hand up. “Okay, I get it, but I have to ask. Just trying to figure out what was going on inside of her head while she was behind the wheel last night.”

I know what was going through her head. I not only outed her, I all but threatened that Mr. Smith would turn on her as quickly as he turned on me. And Ryan had just told James he was done with him after he asked Ryan for money. Neither of them was in a good place.

“What time did they leave your home?” he asks.

“A little before eleven,” I say.

We answer every question, laying out the evening, starting with the dinner invitation made yesterday morning in Home Depot all the way through our day, until we saw their taillights disappear down our quiet street. Deputy Bullock only looks up when Ryan stumbles over an answer, but mostly his haziness on the details comes from the fact that he matched James drink for drink, and I’m sure the evening is a bit blurry for him.

“When was the last time you’d been in contact with Mr. Bernard before he came back to town?”

Ryan stares off into the distance, seemingly lost in thought. He finally answers. “Maybe a year ago. He needed money. I sent it to him.” He keeps his answer to the bare minimum, and he doesn’t mention James’s most recent request for financial help.

The deputy looks at me. “And when was the last time you’ve interacted with Mr. Bernard before his return home?”

I shake my head. “I just met him for the first time a week ago.”

Ryan adds before I can stop him, “Evie moved here from Brookwood, Alabama, a few months ago. She didn’t know James.”

Oh fuck. I watch as he scribbles down that last helpful tidbit from Ryan, hoping the background put in place for Evelyn Porter holds up.

Finally, the deputy pockets his notebook and pen. “We’ll be in contact if we have any further questions.”

I nod, but Ryan stops him before he walks away. “Have you notified Lucca’s family yet?” His arm, which is still anchored around my waist, pulls me closer. “I thought they may want to talk with us since we were the last ones to see her.”

“We’ve called the local police in Eden and are waiting for them to get back to us. They are trying to track down any relatives of hers now.”

There are no relatives of Lucca Marino in Eden, North Carolina, but he will find that out soon enough.

“Well, if they have any questions or just want to talk, will you please forward my number to them?” Ryan asks.

Deputy Bullock nods. “Of course.”

We help the Bernards back into the main living room after the police depart. Even though there is a line of people wanting to offer their condolences, Mrs. Bernard latches on to Ryan again. He sits down beside her on the couch while she speaks to each person who steps forward. It seems we’re stuck here for the foreseeable future. I opt to help out in the kitchen, where most of the church ladies have migrated. No one gossips more than God-fearing, casserole-toting women, so I settle near the coffee pot, offering to refill any mug that comes my way, and hope to hear something interesting until I see an opening to snoop the room James and the woman were staying in.

There are three women in the kitchen with me. Francie seems to be the cook of the group and has taken the wild assortment of food that was brought in and divided it into portions that will go in the fridge for the Bernards to eat later. The other half is being put out buffet style on the dining-room table for visitors to enjoy. Toni is what Mama called a “latherer.” She does a good job of looking busy without actually getting anything done. And Jane is the list master. There’s a list of people to call. A list of things to buy. A list of dishes that have been dropped off. A list of people who have dropped by. And a list of people who will write notes to thank anyone who brought a dish or dropped by.

Death requires a lot of organization.

Francie disappears into the small laundry room off the kitchen for a few minutes then reappears with a large basket of folded clothes. “I’m going to run these to James’s room,” she says.

It’s clear the weight of the basket is more than she can manage, so I grab this opportunity.

“Please, let me help. I can handle this if you point me in the right direction,” I say, my hands already on the basket.

Francie seems relieved. “Honey, that’s sweet of you. These were James’s and Lucca’s things. I didn’t want Rose to have to fool with them just yet. His room is the second door on the right,” she says, pointing to a hall off the kitchen.

I bolt out of the kitchen and down the hall. It’s startling to see this room as they left it last night, thinking they would be back. After dropping the basket of clothes on the unmade bed, I spend time going through the papers on the small desk, but there’s nothing of any significance there.

Two open suitcases sit side by side on the floor next to the bed, with clothes spilling out. Toiletries and makeup litter the bathroom countertop. I dig through the woman’s bag first, only finding clothes and shoes. I’m surprised they never unpacked, making use of the empty closet and chest, given how long they’ve been here. I run my fingers around the inside edge of her suitcase, stopping when I pass over a rough, raised area. I dig into the lining and find the Velcro closure then see the familiar brown color of a 4x6 manila envelope as soon as I pry it open.

The same type of manila envelope my instructions come in.

I pull it out and open it, my heart pounding when I see the single sheet of paper still inside.

Subject: Evie Porter

Since initial contact has been made, prepare to engage subject again. If the opportunity to enter subject’s residence presents itself, use it to search her belongings. Concentrate on her personal space and possessions. Report anything that she deemed important enough to hide, regardless of what it is. When in doubt, document it and send it to me. Proceed with extreme caution when dealing with her things and leave no trace behind.

I study the outside of the envelope and see the address of a shipping store and the mailbox number 2870. He’s desperate if he sent her to look through my stuff. He knows I wouldn’t ever keep anything of value at Ryan’s.

Tucking the instructions back into the envelope, I fold it then stuff it in the back pocket of my jeans.

“Everything okay in here?” Francie asks from the open doorway, startling me.

I glance at her over my shoulder while grabbing a stack of clothes I had removed from the bag. “I thought I’d save Mrs. Bernard the trouble of repacking Lucca’s clothes since I’m sure she’ll need to send her stuff back to her family. I didn’t want her to have to do it.”

That gets me a big smile. “Oh, wonderful. I’ll help you finish up in here. I’m hiding from Jane. She’ll make me wash the dishes.”

Francie and I spend the next thirty minutes getting all their belongings back into the two suitcases. I continue to search for the previous instructions and detailed description of me as the subject that she would have received, but I don’t find anything else.

I head out to the main room to look for Ryan. I need to get out of here and go talk to the one person who can help me decide what to do next.