Page 67 of That's Not My Name

I look at Autumn. The bleak look in her eyes matches the feeling in my chest. We both look away.

“It might be too late by then,” I say. “We have no idea who this guy is, what he’s doing with her, or how long he’ll stay in the area. I mean, it’s a miracle she’s still in Oregon after all this time, but that doesn’t mean they’ll stay put. Especially if he thinks someone spotted her. And if the sheriff arrests me, nobody’s going to listen to those recordings.”

“Shit,” Max says. “So what do we do? Call your lawyer? Call the media? Go above the sheriff’s head? I mean, what choice do we have now? And what the fuck is wrong with Roane?”

“He doesn’t want a mess. A tragic turn to a teen romance is easier to handle than an abduction.”

“Except that’s what happened,” Max says, fuming. He scowls at nothing and everything at the same time. “It’s bullshit. It’s leaving Lola vulnerable all because he’s…what? Too lazy to do his job? Fuck that guy.”

Autumn flinches and takes a step back from the desk.

I reach out for her. “I’m sorry. I know he’s your dad and—”

She holds up a hand. “Don’t. You shouldn’t apologize. I can’t believe he’s not doing everything he can to find Lola. He’s known her since she was a baby. Hell, he went to this school with Mrs. Scott. Hearing that his friend’s daughter,mybest friend, is off with some stranger should have him driving to Waybrooke himself. There’s a potential eyewitness on this tape, and that’s more substantial than anything he has on you. Even if he thinks it’s fake, he should still make sure.”

“Which is why we need to go to Waybrooke,” I say.

“What?” they say at the same time.

I turn to Autumn. “If your dad isn’t going to drive to Waybrooke, we need to. We know Lola’s with an older guy in a gray van. We know she went to this diner. Let’s go and see if anyone else saw them leave together. If we gather information, eventually we’ll have so much evidence the police can’t brush us aside anymore.”

“Now we’re talking,” Max says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Force his hand.”

“We could leave now. Be there in a few hours,” I say.

“I’ll drive.”

Autumn wrings her hands in front of her, looking at the photo of Lola again. She doesn’t say a word.

“What?”

“How are we supposed to do anything like that ourselves? Why would anyone talk to us? And what about school? We can’t leave in the middle of the day. We’ll get in trouble. I’m already late for class. And who’s to say that was even her? A lot of people have jean jackets…”

She must see the disbelief on my face because she trails off. I don’t know if she’s trying to talk her way out of going, or if the idea of Lola being kidnapped by some stranger has her so freaked she wants to go home and hide with her vegan pepperoni, but we don’t have time for this.

“I might have a lead on your best friend’s disappearance and you’re worried about your attendance record? How many of these floral, rose gold jackets have you made for people, Autumn?” I ask, jabbing my finger at the flier. “If you don’t want to come, then don’t. You’re not obligated to. I’ll do it with or without you. But don’t sit here and tell me this isn’t a lead because you’re too scared to follow it.”

For a brief second she looks ready to fight me. I don’t know if it’s because I basically called her a coward or if she hates being in the wrong, but either way I’m out of the classroom and headed for the parking lot before she gets her thoughts together enough to respond.

Max’s long legs catch up to me before I reach the end of the hallway. “For the record, there’s no fear on my end. I’ll punch Ted Bundy in the face if I have to.”

I push at my headache again. “Don’t start, Max. We’re not hunting down a serial killer, we’re gathering information until we can force the cops to take over for us. That’s it. There’ll be no punching.”

“Ugh, fine. What about Roane? He’s going to be pissed when you leave town, right?”

“Probably, but with any luck we’ll get to Waybrooke and back before anyone figures out we left,” I say.

I check my watch as we push our way through the doors and into the parking lot. It’s almost 1:30. It feels like days since I’ve slept.

Max unlocks the Liberty and jumps into the driver’s seat, starting the car. Remnants of a Post Malone song blast from the speakers, and he fumbles with the radio to turn it down as I climb in. “My bad,” he says.

“Hold on, you sanctimonious asshole!”

Autumn sprints toward us, flushed and angry. I fold my arms and lean back in my seat.

She stops a few feet away. “I’m coming too.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “What about school? You’ll ruin your picture-perfect attendance if you take off in the middle of the day. The horror.”

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