Page 63 of That's Not My Name

My gaze falls on the foot of the bed. Anxiety rockets through me, and I wrap my arms around myself. Last night was freaking strange. Creepy even. It felt…invasive? He didn’t knock. He didn’t give any indication that he knew I was awake, which means he…what? Came into my room to watch me sleep?

Has he been doing that every night we’ve been here?

Is he being strange because the accident freaked him out?

Either way, I don’t like it.

Voices catch my attention from outside. I think they’re coming from the driveway.

I grab for the thrift store bag, yanking the tags off the first outfit I get my hands on: A pair of black leggings and the long maroon plaid button-up. I throw that on over the black non-V-neck T-shirt I fell asleep in and listen at my door. The living room is silent on the other side, so I peek out. Wayne’s not in here.

I shuffle toward the front door, stopping in my tracks when I spot Wayne and Officer Bowman through the window.

Bowman stands by his open cruiser door, smiling. Wayne’s right beside him, holding a piece of paper. The front door is still open a crack, letting their voices through.

“I appreciate it, Mr. Boone. I really do. If you hear anything, or you happen to see him, please call the number on that flier immediately. His wife is understandably upset, and we’re really hoping for a happy ending on this one.”

Wayne tips the flier toward him with a nod. “Of course. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help. We haven’t had a chance to unpack, much less meet any of the neighbors.”

“I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me. Tell Mary I said hello, would you? I’ll come by soon to check on her again. We probably need to have another talk about her car anyway. We haven’t found any trace of it or the crash site. I’m hoping she’s remembered more and can point us in a direction.”

Wayne’s hesitation is so short that I almost miss it. But it’s there. Then he smiles and shakes the man’s hand. “Sounds good to me. Have a great day.”

“You too. We’ll be in touch.” Bowman gets back into his cruiser and pulls away.

I start to reach for the doorknob, to ask Wayne what’s going on, but his face changes. His easy smile vanishes, and he glowers at the paper in his hands. He smashes it into a ball between his palms, and stomps toward the house, fury rolling off him.

I freeze. I don’t know why, but I do. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so angry before. Not like this. And all because of a piece of paper?

I whirl around and race back to my room. My door clicks shut half a second before I hear the screen door open. Wayne clomps into the kitchen.

I don’t realize how scared I am that he’ll catch me snooping until I hear pans clatter and theclick click clickof the gas stove. A minute later, something lands in the pan and sizzles. The smell of fennel sausage makes its way under my door, and the familiarity of this makes my shoulders relax.

Everything isfine.

To prove it, I open the door and walk into the kitchen like nothing is wrong. Like he didn’t watch me sleep last night. Like I don’t care if he did.

Wayne smiles at me. A bright, open, happy smile, with absolutely no trace of the anger from outside. “Well, good morning, sunshine. I thought I’d have to hold breakfast under your nose to get you out of bed.”

I blink at him for a second, shaken by the about-face of his emotions, but I sit at the island and force myself to smile back. “Yeah, sorry about that. I had a hard time falling asleep. I didn’t mean to sleep so late.”

He waves the spatula at me. “Don’t worry about it. It’s been a long few days. A little extra sleep isn’t the worst thing in the world. We won’t make a habit of being lazy once you’re recovered. To be idle is a short road to death, after all.”

Whoa,what? I stare at him and he winks at me over his shoulder.

Oh. Was that a joke? Everything about my life seems to be idle, so he can hardly judge me for sleeping in when there’s nothing else to do in this godforsaken cabin.

“I’m making more of those sausages you love,” he says, when I don’t respond.

I try to smile again. “I know. I smelled them from my room.”

He turns back to the stove, and my eyes drift to the door. Or, more specifically, the empty driveway beyond it. My foot bounces on the little rung of the stool. “Um…did I hear someone in the driveway a little bit ago?” I ask. Slowly, carefully.

I know I’m testing him, but it feels weirdly important that he not know what I saw. If he says it was Bowman, shows me the flier, and tells me what’s up, I have nothing at all to worry about. I can stop overreacting and—

“Oh, that?” he says, flipping a sausage patty. “It was some minivan mom trying to sell cookie dough for a school fundraiser. I told her we didn’t need any, since we’ll be getting out of here soon.”

The lie hits like a sledgehammer. He turns and smiles at me as he lies to my face. I work to keep the smile on mine while every molecule in my body is sounding an alarm.

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