Page 11 of That's Not My Name

I follow a curve in the road and when it straightens, the boat launch comes into view.

The river borders Washington City like an arm slung around an old friend, but the only part of the bank that’s low enough to reach the water is here. The boat launch is a narrow parking lot set into the trees with a concrete slab slanting down into the ice-cold Willamette River.

This time of year the launch is normally deserted, but today itlooks like peak boating season. Every one of the ten parking spaces is full, except one, and cars line the road on both sides.

The steadfast townspeople coming together to find closure for poor Lola and her family. They should be out in the world looking forher, not here looking for bones. The thought makes me sick to my stomach. This whole place makes me sick. The lot, the water, the November sunset filtering through the pine trees. I hate it all. I hate everything that happened here and what it’s done to me. What it did to Lola.

I park along the side of the road behind another car and cut the engine. I fold my arms across the top of the steering wheel and lean forward. It looks like the search is wrapping up. People emerge from the overgrowth on the far side of the parking lot to join the small crowd waiting by the tree line. A couple deputies stand among them, chatting away. There’s no sign of the sheriff.

I parked too close. Dozens of eyes flicker toward the Trooper, shooting daggers through my windshield. Sometimes I think this car is as notorious as I am. If I gave it more than a second’s thought, I would have asked Max to drive. His car’s the same color as the trees and might have blended in.

I fucked up again.

A little old lady with a clipboard narrows her eyes at me, and I wonder if she’s the one who left the voicemail.

You should be ashamed of yourself.

Joke’s on her, I already am.

“So what’s the plan, Drew?” Max presses his insanely long legs against the floorboards, yanks the stack of fliers out from under his ass, and chucks them in the backseat. “Is there a purpose to crashing this shindig?”

I hold the old woman’s stare a minute longer, and she flips me off.

When I don’t respond, he says, “I mean, you can’t exactly walk over and join them. You’d get arrested for harassment or teenage fuckery in ten minutes flat.”

I make a disgusted sound in my throat and lean back in my seat. He’s right. Roane or his officers wouldn’t hesitate to put me in handcuffs if I got anywhere near the do-gooders. Especially the way the sheriff’s been leaning on me the last few days, desperate to not have the case of a missing girl bungled on his watch. Hell, the only reason Roane hasn’t put me behind bars already is because I’m a high-achievingwhitekid from a family that’s financially stable enough to pool funds and get me a lawyer. If I happened to look more like Papá and the Diaz side, that might not have been the case.

It also helps that Roane doesn’t have any actual evidence against me, and his entire investigation seems to hinge on me eventually confessing. Still, I know I’m pushing my luck by being here.

“I don’t want to join them. There’s no point. Lola’s not in there.”

I feel his stare bore into the side of my face. “And you know that because…?”

“Don’t start. I don’t knowwhereshe is, but I know she’s not in those woods. She’s not dead.”

“How do you know? For sure?”

“Because she can’t be. That’s…impossible.” I drag my fingers through my hair. “She ran away, or she was kidnapped, or…I don’t know. But she can’t be dead. They’re wrong, and I’m going to prove it.”

Max shifts in his seat, leaning forward with a wince. “Okaaay, so if you’re not planning to cause drama, what are we doing here?”

“That’s a good question.” I look across the parking lot and my gaze lingers on the only empty parking spot. Home to Lola’s shrine. It looks run down even from all the way over here.

Old flowers and half-burnt candles, framed pictures of Lola pulled from her Insta, now waterlogged and forgotten. A blue and gold uniform lays across the pavement, partially covered in leaves. There used to be an identical one by her locker until someone on the staff put it away last week.

Monuments, care of the classmates who lost their minds with worry when she went missing, but quickly lost interest once the shock of her being gone and the attention from pretending to miss her wore off. Like the participants in this search party, who would rather stumble upon a body in the woods and be done with it.

“I just wanted to see who came,” I say. “I think I would have felt better if there weren’t so many cars. It would mean everyone thinks this is as pointless as I do.”

“I don’t see Mr. or Mrs. Scott. That’s a good sign, right?”

Maybe.

I scan the cars again, and glare at an old, dented Volkswagen across the road. Autumn’s here somewhere. What would a search party be without the sobbing best friend? I guess that explains why she wasn’t at school today.

Max is right though. I don’t see Mr. Scott’s Wrangler or Mrs. Scott’s sedan. A spike of hope shoots through me. Maybe they haven’t given up either?

Or maybe they rode with the deputies and haven’t made their way out of the woods yet…

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