Page 5 of That's Not My Name

I nod. My head throbs from standing so fast, and my heartbeat thumps like a Lizzo chorus.

Oh, hey. I guess I remember Lizzo. If all else fails, at least I like good music.

“Stay here. I’ll be right back,” Officer Bowman says. He walks out, and I hear the metal-on-metal creak of the front door opening. “Can I help you?”

I can’t see him anymore, not from this angle. I pull my blankettighter around me and creep toward the door, curious who would show up at a closed precinct this late.

“God, I hope so,” a man says. His voice is much deeper than Bowman’s but also a lot quieter. I have to lean toward the doorway to hear the rest. “My teenage daughter is missing. I can’t reach her on the phone; I’ve been driving around for hours trying to find her. I think I have to file a missing person’s report.”

Holy shit. Missing daughter? Was Bowman right? Did my people find me?

I inch closer until I can see out into the precinct. Bowman stands with the front door cracked open, his entire body blocking the open space. I can’t see the man in front of him.

“What’s your name?” Officer Bowman asks.

“Wayne Boone.”

“Okay, Mr. Boone. How old is your daughter and what does she look like?”

“She’s seventeen, with short brown hair, freckles, and green eyes. Around five foot five.”

Bowman looks over his shoulder and locks eyes with me. His gaze flickers toward the conference room, and I reluctantly slip back out of view, fighting the urge to check my swollen nose for freckles in the reflection in the glass.

“Step inside for me. I’m going to need some identification.”

The door creaks and I hear it click shut a second later. “Of course,” the deep voice says, closer now. “I also have photos of her if you need them for the report?”

“Actually, I have someone here matching that description, and I—”

“She’s here?” the man shouts. “Mary’s here?”

Mary? My Lizzo heartbeat speeds up. Is that me?

I peek around the corner again. The men are in the entryway, standing by a long wooden bench. Mr. Boone is kind of wiry. His arms are slightly shorter than they should be for his height. His hair looks like it’s thinking of going gray but hasn’t committed to the change. The silvery strands stand out around his ears, but he’s slicked most of it back. Not with product though, like he’s been running his hands through it for so long it’s been forced to obey. He’s wearing a black sweater and dark jeans.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before.

But what would I know?

“We havesomeone,” Officer Bowman says, carefully.

Mr. Boone folds his arms, looking impatient, and as his eyes sweep the station, he catches me staring at him. His arms drop and his face glows with relief. “Mary?”

I freeze.

He tries to step toward me, but Bowman stops him with a hand to his chest. “Oh my god. I’ve been looking for you for hours. Are you okay? What happened to your face?” He says all this in one breath. Each word more panicked than the last, and I flinch because I know exactly what he means.

It was a shock to see myself too. I look like I lost a fight with a two-by-four.

I stare back at him and wait for…a rush of knowing? A giant lightbulb to shine through this numbness and tell me who I am? For his face to unlock a memory? Nothing happens. He’s still a stranger.

“She’s okay, a little bruised. She might have a concussion,” Officer Bowman says, blocking his advances. “Now I need you to give her some space while I run your ID and verify who you are.”

The man looks at Bowman and finally takes a step back. “What doyou mean? She’s right there. She can tell you who I am.” He looks at me like he can’t understand why I’m not running to him.

“She can’t remember anything, Mr. Boone. Now please sit down while we sort this out.”

Mr. Boone looks at me again, his confusion morphing into unease. “You don’t remember me?”

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