Page 58 of That's Not My Name

The mirror catches the wild look in my eyes. I think I might be sick again.

I rip the charger from the wall and run to my computer to search for Waybrooke. The map pops up down the coast, near Florence. It’s a few hours from here. At least she’s still in Oregon. Or was yesterday. Ifshe’s this close after all this time, he probably has no immediate plans to leave the area, or the state. Maybe there’s still a chance…

But what am I supposed to do now? I have a lead, but what the fuck am I going to do with it? I call Autumn but she doesn’t answer. I don’t bother calling Max because he never puts his phone on silent, and he’ll get it taken away for the rest of the day if it rings in class.

I stare down at my phone screen, paused on Meredith’s call. A minute and seven seconds just changed everything. I don’t have a choice. I need Roane. He’ll know I broke into his computer, but he’ll recognize the description of her jacket, and he’ll know what to do. He has the authority to talk to the people at the diner or get the cops down there to do it. Maybe someone else saw the van and got the license plate, or it’s on a security camera. He can follow the bread crumbs straight to Lola.

She can come home.

This can all be over.

Hope makes my pulse pound in my throat. I need to make him listen.

I open my missing-flier file and retype the information at the bottom. Underline it. Bold it. Make the font bigger.

Name: Lola Elizabeth Scott

Age: 17

Hair color: Dark brown

Eye color: Green

Last seen: 12:17pm on September 29th

Waybrooke, Oregon diner, with a man in his 40s. Tall, sharp face.

Driving a utility van with gray, peeling paint.

I delete the picture on the flier and replace it with my desktop photo. The one of us at the beach. I crop it so it’s only her. The jean jacket clear as fucking day. I hit print, stuff my feet in shoes, and the phone charger in my bag. I snatch the flier from the print tray and sprint from my house.

I don’t even stop to lock the door. I just run.

All the way through my neighborhood. Into downtown.

I gasp for air, dodging pedestrians on the sidewalk. People shout at me to slow down, but I don’t stop running until I burst through the doors of the precinct, clutching the straps of my backpack and the new flier like a wild-eyed animal.

Poor Savannah jolts out of her seat and throws a hand to her heart. “What in the—” she yells, but I’m already at her desk.

“Is the sheriff in yet? It’s an emergency,” I say, gasping for air.

Roane appears in his office doorway, still wearing his jacket. He must have just walked in. “Drew? What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at school?”

“Overslept.” I round Savannah’s desk. “I need to show you something.”

He gives me the look. Theyou’re acting like a damn foollook. But he steps to the side and lets me into his office, kicking the door shut behind us. “Have a seat.”

I sit in the same chair as last night, letting my backpack slide to the floor. Sunlight streams through the windows and hits me right in the face. I lean forward so it’s out of my eyes and rest my elbows on my knees.

Roane shrugs out of his jacket and knocks the mess atop his desk into a pile. “What can I do for you, Drew? Have more to add to your statement?”

My chest is still heaving. “No. I have a lead on Lola.”

Roane’s eyebrows shoot up, and he sits down. “I’m listening.”

“Good. Keep doing that.” I pull my phone from my pocket and start Meredith Hoyt’s message. Her voice fills the space between us, and I watch him as he listens to her story. I slide the new flier across his desk, pointing at the time and the details about the man as she describes them. When it’s over, I play it again for emphasis. When she mentions the jacket, I pause it.

“That’s her. The description matches perfectly,” I say, jabbing my finger at the jacket in the photo. “It’s right here. It’s her.”

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