Page 100 of That's Not My Name

She’llnevermake another birthday wish.

She’ll never turn eighteen.

She’ll never open another present.

She’ll never get a car of her own, or turn off the light in her bedroom, or go on a road trip, or go to college, or travel, orlive. She’ll never get to really live.

And it’s all my fault.

Unshed tears burn behind my eyes, but they won’t come out. I let go of the wheel and press my fingers against my lids. The inside of the car feels like it gets smaller and smaller.

This is supposed to be her day.

The memory of that dank, dismal basement creeps into my mind.

“You’re not Lola.”

“No…I’m not.”

My lungs constrict, and suddenly I’m gasping for air. I turn off the car, leave my keys dangling in the ignition, and throw myself into the February chill. I whip my door shut and bound across the parking lot to the boat launch, desperate for space or peace or something I can’t seem to get my hands on. I stop short of where the water laps at the concrete and drop my hands to my knees, forcing the cool air into my lungs.

I’m not doing well. Clearly.

Four months later and I still can’t keep my head above water.

I’m like a zombie version of myself. The closest I get is a couple days of numb before another memory comes out of nowhere and knocks me on my ass. Today it’s been relentless, which is why I camehereinstead of braving the cemetery with everyone else.

I prefer to break down without an audience.

My dads have been begging me to talk to someone for months, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I shouldn’t get to feel better when I’m the cause of so much pain.

Wayne may have killed her, but I’m the one who left her vulnerableon the night he was prowling for his next Mary. I’m the reason her parents saw that diner surveillance photo and rushed to Alton, only to come face-to-face with Madison the same way I did. That’s all on me. I did that to them.

I don’t deserve to feel better.

My phone goes off in the pocket of my jacket, and I silence it without looking to see who it is. I lie down on the concrete like a snow angel. My dads won’t call today. Max and Autumn would probably show up here if they need something. I don’t care to hear from anyone else.

Especially not the reporters.

Ever since the news broke about the docuseries, they’ve been calling fifty times a day for a comment. I have nothing to say to them, just like I had nothing to say to the documentary people. And neither, would it seem, does Washington City.

When news spread about the show, the town collectively flipped out. It would have made me laugh under other circumstances, because all their anger pointed straight at Roane, theformersheriff of Washington City. The teaser clips show him boasting about his investigative ability, how he knew this was the work of a serial killer from day one.

The news vans were driven out of town by screaming locals. And everyone made a point of stopping me all over town to share their outrage.

“Roane is a selfish piece of shit!”

“I think he’s the most-hated man in the county.”

“Does he have no shame?”

“Can you believe he resigned? Not even because of the case! He signed on to consult for the studio. What an asshole.”

And my personal favorite: “The audacity of that man. To pretendlike he didn’t bungle this investigation from the beginning and try to blame you for everything. I’m so sorry you have to relive this, Drew.”

As if I wasn’t on the receiving end of their hatred a few short months ago. Like they wouldn’t have run me out of town too if my dads hadn’t stepped in with a lawyer to make it stop.

I’ve graduated from “evil son of a bitch who killed Lola” to the “hero who charged into a serial killer’s den to save a stranger.” I’ve never seen so many people backtrack so fast. Now I’m a gem. Now they’re so sorry for my loss. Now they’re protecting me from the media and they have my back. Now they want me to raise my pitchfork against the newest most-hated person in the county like I don’t know what it’s like to hold that title myself.

---