Page 82 of That's Not My Name

The screen door opens. Did I scream? Did someone hear me?

I lunge between the last trees, bursting onto that dead lawn, and an old woman backs out onto the small porch. I suck a lungful of air to scream—

And a hand wraps around my throat from behind. Another clamps down over my mouth, catching the sound with a wrenching squeeze. The trees swallow me again as he drags me back under the cover of the branches. I scratch at his hands, but they only tighten until I feel like my throat is being pinched in half. Black dots dance in my vision, and he breathes in quiet little bursts against my cheek. He doesn’t relax the hold on my throat.

“Oh, Mary,” Wayne whispers in my ear, his stubble scraping my skin as I scramble to stay conscious. “You’ll pay for this.”

Black dots pepper my vision until they wipe me out completely.

TWENTY-FOUR

DREW

I pull back the curtain in our motel room and look out at the road for what has to be the five-hundredth time. The streets of Alton have been quiet since we rolled into town. The darkened businesses on the main street sit in silence. The flickering streetlight in the empty motel parking lot was the only movement, until it shut off when the sun came up.

This looks like a place where dreams go to die.

I can’t imagine Lola being here.

Max snores behind me, and I let the curtain slip between my fingers, shutting out the morning light. He’s in one of the double beds, splayed out with his head hanging off the side of the mattress, mouth open. He looks like one of those thin-armed starfish. Another baritone snore rattles from his throat and practically shakes the abstract motel art from the walls.

Autumn sleeps on one side of the other bed, its ancient comforter tossed to the floor because according toher majesty, “They never washthose.” She lies beneath the sheets in a tight ball and hasn’t moved all night.

I turn back to the window. Ten minutes to eight—when the precinct officially opens. I force myself to be patient, even as I look back out the window.

I should be tired because I barely slept last night, but I’m not. There’s something about this town, and knowing Lola was headed here only two days ago. Her shadow lingers here. I can’t explain it, but I feel closer to her in this place.

I let the curtain fall again and walk over to the neat pile of documents sitting on the dresser. I spent most of the night getting my presentation ready. Thankfully the motel office had a printer, and the girl behind the counter didn’t seem to mind me using it.

I printed copies of each diner photo, a better picture of Lola wearing that jacket from her Instagram, a fresh missing person flier, and a typed timeline of everything we know happened from the night she disappeared to her reappearance in Waybrooke.

It may not be the perfect police report, but it tells the story of a gorgeous, spunky, difficult, annoying perfect girl, and what we think happened to her.

I shuffle the papers for the millionth time, looking for the right order to present this to the Alton PD, but I keep getting stuck on the diner photos. The jacket is the most identifiable thing in this photo—I think that’s what worries me the most. Their faces are grainy, indistinct. I hope the jacket is enough. How many girls who look like Lola could be wandering around in a one-of-a-kind jacket?

No. This is enough. It has to be.

Max’s rattling snore cuts off as he flips onto his stomach. I’ve been patient enough. I throw on my sweatshirt and kick his mattress.

He sits up with a jolt. “What the hell?”

“Time to rise and shine,” I say, crossing to Autumn’s bed. I know better than to kick her mattress if I want my balls to remain intact, so I gently shake her shoulder until she rubs her eyes. “Come on, we have to get to the police station.”

She groans, but she flings back the sheets and rolls to her feet.

I leave them to wake up while I snag the key cards and head up to the front office to check out. The windshield of the Liberty glints with frost as I pass it and duck into the office.

The same girl from last night sits behind the counter. She has dyed black hair, a lot of eyeliner, and the kind of bloodshot eyes that suggest she’s gotten as much sleep as I have. She drops her chin into her hand and winks at me when I walk in.

“Well, hello. Need the printer again?” she asks.

I shake my head and slap the key cards onto the shiny black counter. “Nope.”

She smiles and takes the cards. “I like your don’t-give-a-shit vibe.”

I ignore her and let my eyes wander around the little lobby. The space isn’t any bigger than our tiny room. A small table is set up for “breakfast” when really it’s just coffee, a few bananas, and some kid-sized boxes of breakfast cereal. A bulletin board hangs over the table, and two chairs, same as the ones in our room, sit across from it.

“Okay,” the girl says, handing me a receipt. “You’re all checked out.”

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