Page 69 of That's Not My Name

In the silence of the car, I hear it the second the woman answers the phone.

“Hello?”

Autumn clears her throat, and says, “Hello, Mrs. Hoyt? This is Savannah Bateman from the Washington City police department,” in a flawless impersonation of the sheriff’s secretary.

Max gapes at me.

“Washington City?” the woman says.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m reaching out concerning the tip you phoned in about the disappearance of Lola Scott. Our officers went through yesterday’s recordings, and we believe your tip may be of great importance. We have an officer headed out to Waybrooke this evening. Would you be willing to sit with them and give an official statement?”

Silence.

Autumn shifts in her seat. “Mrs. Hoyt? Are you there?”

“I…yes. Was that really her? At the diner?”

“We believe so. Would you be willing to give a statement?”

More silence. I suppose I could do that. “When will your officer be in town?”

Autumn snaps her fingers at me. I grab my phone and quickly type Waybrooke into the GPS again. I show her the screen with a 4:30 arrival.

“Probably around five o’clock, give or take with traffic,” she says. “They’re on the road as we speak.”

“That works,” Meredith says. “Where am I meeting them?”

“How about the diner, so you can walk us through what you saw?”

“I’ll be there.”

The line goes dead and Autumn beams at me. “Done.”

I shake my head, incredulous. “I can’t believe that worked. Where in thehelldid that southern accent come from?”

“You pick it up when you hear someone talk enough. Do you know how many afternoons I’ve spent in that office doing homework?”

Max barks out a laugh. “You’re amazing.”

The heat from Autumn’s blush fills the car as she looks away. Max too, looks away, hyperfocused on the completely empty highway ahead.

I clear my throat, super uncomfortable in the midst of whateverthe hell that was, and steer the conversation back to the mission at hand. “So what happens when Meredith gets to the diner and meets a bunch of teenagers, not a uniformed officer?”

Autumn says, “Hell if I know. But getting the witness to come to us seemed like a much better idea than wandering around asking if anyone saw a girl with her fake dad.”

Yeah, fine. I guess the worst Meredith can do is refuse to talk to us. “Step on it, Max.”

He gives me a mock salute and presses on the gas. “Aye, aye, captain.”

We rocket down the highway toward the coast, each mile feeling like it’s finally bringing me closer to Lola.

TWENTY

DREW

I spin a red plastic saltshaker on the table in front of me. This place smells like cinnamon rolls, with a side of red, black, and white nostalgia. I want to break it all with my bare hands. I look up at the clock on the wall again and scowl. 5:42.

Meredith Hoyt is almost forty-five minutes late.

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