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“I got it,” she says, shooing me off.
My parents were like Willa, always giving, helping, and covering everyone’s checks at restaurants. They had the money and were never frugal with it. It seems ironic now, thinking back to their mantra of “a selfless person with riches will gain more from every penny given.” I wanted to believe it was true and I did. Until it wasn’t.
I stare out the library window through the tops of pink azalea bushes. Every person walking by seems preoccupied with their phones. Phones have become a source of comfort over the years—a way to hide from reality. I felt the same until today. My comfort has been stripped away with the messages I’ve received. Although the messages stopped right after Willa downloaded the call tracer app, I’m not going to assume I’ve seen the last of them.
The ground beneath me vibrates when Willa jumps back into her chair and slaps the stack of papers from Lara’s court deposition down onto the edge of my small desk.
I’ve only just skimmed the cover page when something stands out like a neon flashing light in the dark. I take the paper, bringing it closer to make sure I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing.
“What is it?” she asks.
I point to the subject line that reads: Larissa Hoyt Smith vs. City of Newport.
“Larissa?” Willa asks.
“Lara is Larissa?” I question out loud.
Willa flips through the few pages and scans her finger from line to line until she stops where the court transcript begins. “Well, I saw this:”
By Ms. Lemur
Q. Good afternoon
A. Good afternoon
Q. Could you please identify yourself and state any additional names you use or have gone by in the past?
A. Of course. My name is Larissa Smith, but I go by Lara for short.
Q. Smith is your married name, correct?
A. Yes, it is.
Q. And what is your maiden name?
A. My maiden name is Hoyt.
“Oh my God,” I utter, placing the paper down and grabbing the mouse to pull up a browser.
“What? What’s wrong?” Willa asks.
I type the name “Larissa Hoyt” into the search bar, watching as a list of articles and images appear on the screen.
My face burns as if I’m standing next to ignited flames. I click “Images” on the search function, needing to match Larissa Hoyt’s face with Lara Smith.
“Is that Lara?” Willa asks. “Is she a celebrity or something?”
I scroll down a bit more, finding more photos including one from almost a decade ago. “This is the Larissa Hoyt I remember. She’s married to Corbin Smith, going by Lara Smith, and I didn’t recognize her.” It’s clear why I didn’t with such a drastic change in appearance between then and now, but how did I not know it was her?
“That can’t be her in that old picture. That woman in the picture on top and this one—they’re two different people,” Willa says.
“No. She must have had a lot of work done. A lot. She’s unrecognizable, except for that heart-shaped beauty mark beneath her eye.” Her makeup was covering it yesterday, but it isn’t covered in some of these more recent photos.
“Haley…”
“Trust me. I know they are the same person.”
“You knew her thirteen years ago?” She pauses for a minute and taps each finger into the air, mouthing the count of consecutive numbers. “So, when you were fourteen?”
