Page 62 of That's Not My Name

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing the heels of my palms against them until my bruises protest. I’m being ridiculous. Honestly, what’s more likely? That I’m a confused teenager with a concussion who’s putting way too much stock into dreams…or that I’ve been kidnapped and I’m being spoon-fed fake memories by a sociopath? Everything he’s said has added up,exceptfor dreamed memories that contradict it all. Dreams that were half nightmares anyway. So who’s to say any of it is real?

Besides, the paramedics were the ones who diagnosed my concussion. They were also the ones who suggested I might have been in a car accident. That didn’t come from Wayne; he only corroborated it at the police station.

After everything Wayne’s done for me, it feels incredibly unfair to let a few flashes of recognition derail everything this life of ours is made of. Am I really ready to accuse Wayne of horrible, unthinkable things simply because I’m confused?

I don’t have an answer for that. I don’t have an answer for any of it.

I force myself to take a deep breath. The dreams are probably bullshit. I’ve been so eager to remember something that I’d probably label anything a memory. The fact that four days ago I was knocked so senseless I couldn’t even remember my own name makes it harder to put faith in anything my brain supplies. I might wake up tomorrow and know exactly who that blonde woman is, and all of this might make a lot more sense.

The reality is that I’m struggling through a really hard week, and this memory-puzzle is proving to be more challenging than I thought. It doesn’t mean the world is ending. And if it is…

I look up at the end table. Officer Bowman’s business card shines in the moonlight.

I’m not alone.

Everything is okay. Everything is—

Heavy footfalls in the living room pull my attention to my door. It’s almost four in the morning. Why is Wayne still awake?

The footsteps stop outside my room, and I slide under the blankets and cover my face with my comforter. The last thing I want is to hash all this out with the man at the center of the mess. If he is lying, talking won’t help. And if he’s not lying, this will hurt him more than anything. Which is the last thing I want.

I slow my breathing and close my eyes.

My door creaks open. The metal hinges whine until the doorknob taps on the wall. I try to ignore the anxiety these tiny sounds send down my spine. The room goes silent.

Another few heartbeats, and I hear softthump thumpsof heavy boots taking gentle steps.

The foot of the bed creaks beneath his weight as he sits down.

My veins are about to burst through the skin on my neck. What the hell is he doing?

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He just sits there in silence.

Is he watching me sleep? Does he know I’m awake? Why is he sitting on my bed in the middle of the night?

My pulse is too loud. I’m sure he can hear it. I don’t breathe. I don’t move. Panic grips me. He has the upper hand, and I don’t know which Wayne is in this cabin with me—the attentive father or the kidnapper.

After an impossibly long moment, the bed creaks again. He stands with a sigh and leaves the room. My bedroom door clicks shut again, and after several long beats of silence, I peek around my comforter to make absolutely sure he’s gone.

The room is empty.

I release all the air from my lungs and melt into the mattress.

Whatthe actual fuck was that?

EIGHTEEN

MARY

DAY 5

I have no idea when I fall asleep again. One second I’m staring at the wall listening to the silence of the house and the occasional coyote call in the distance, and the next I’m flopped on my back, blinking at the weak bits of sunlight making their way through my window.

It’s almost ten in the morning.

I sit up with a start and look outside. Thick clouds pepper the sky.

There must be a storm coming in.

---