Page 85 of That's Not My Name

“Washington City,” Autumn says.

He lets out a low whistle. “You kids are a little far from home, don’t you think?”

There’s thatkidthing again. It feels dismissive. Like we can’t possibly have anything important to say, because we’rejustkids. And kids should not be at a police station at 9:15 in the morning on a random school day, fifty miles from home.

Autumn steps up to the counter and hands him Lola’s flier a second time. “Have you seen this girl?”

I stand beside her. Back her up. Neither one of us bother waking Max.

Officer Redhead looks us over, but he takes the flier. Humoring us, I guess. He glances at it and seems to read the information at the bottom before his gaze flickers up to the photo. “She looks like a lot of girls. She’s missing from Washington City?”

Autumn nods.

“And you’re her friends?”

We nod again, and Autumn introduces the three of us.

He doesn’t seem thrilled that we drove all the way out here to show him a flier on a school day. But Autumn has it handled. As always.

“We have information about her disappearance, and we need someone to take our statement. Officially. My dad is a sheriff, so I know how this works. And if you won’t I need you to direct me to someone who will, because we’re not leaving untilsomeonetakes a statement.”

Redhead sighs. “Come on back.”

Even though it’s what I was hoping for, I stand there like a moron for two full seconds before my body moves. I scramble after Autumn to one of two desks in the middle of the main room. Officer Redhead eases into the office chair on the computer side, and we pile into the two metal chairs facing the desk.

The officer hits a few keys on the keyboard, grabs a notepad and a pen, and levels us with his attention. “Okay. Tell me what’s going on.”

This time, I do what I should have done from the start. I tell the truth. The entire truth, even the ugly bits.

I start at the boat launch and run through every single detail exactly as it happened. The fight, the breakup, leaving her there. Realizing she was missing. The weeks since, our search, Roane’s botched investigation, stealing the tip-line recordings. The origins of the jacket and what it means to hear about it on the recording. Going to meet Meredith in Waybrooke. What we learned from Eloise.

With every piece of new information, I brace for him to dismiss us. Especially at the “we broke into the police station and stole evidence” part, but besides a deep frown and a circling hand motioning us to keep going, he doesn’t react at all, which I find odd as hell. He’s a cop. We just told him we stole evidence from another cop. Doesn’t that warrant a mid-statement lecture?

All he does is write.

He. Takes. Everything. Down.

In fact, the more we talk, the more he leans forward in his seat. Listens harder, if that’s even possible. Asks questions. When he pulls up Lola’s case file on his computer and holds our grainy diner photos beside the image from the report, most of the color drains from his face. He demands to know more about the van. About the jacket. About Lola.

At some point I look up and Max is standing behind Autumn’s chair. How long has he been standing there? If the grin on his face is any indication, I’d say it’s been long enough for him to realize this is going well.

Officer Redhead even calls Eloise himself. She doesn’t answer, but he leaves an official-sounding voicemail, asking for a callback, and I’m positive she’ll be in touch as soon as she hears it. Then he makes a less fun call.

To Roane.

He’s smart enough to make the call in another room. He comes back a few minutes later looking angry, but determined, which I think is a good sign. He sends Autumn off to speak with her father and resumes typing. Then he mentions possibly splitting their search party to look for both Ben and Lola.

And I’m soaring.

I’ve never been this hopeful in my entire life. In every worried minute of the last twenty-four hours, agonizing over how to get help and how to tell this story, I never dared to think that we’d actually make a difference. But it’s happening.

Autumn comes back a minute later, looking flushed but smiling.

“I hung up on him,” she says. “He was already on the highway. We’ve got about forty-five minutes before he rolls in here and starts screaming. Brace yourselves.”

I look up at the clock. 10:05.

Roane closing in on us should make my hands sweat, but Officer Redhead—err, Officer McCurry, who does have a name—has a lot more questions. This is what we came here for, so Roane can suck it. I’ll deal with whatever he throws at me.

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