Page 9 of That's Not My Name

And in bold at the bottom, “If you see this girl or have any information regarding her whereabouts, please call…” and my phone number. Because Washington City PD don’t seem to be following upon any leads these days. Not anymore. Not when they have their prime suspect.

Me.

Max leans over my shoulder. “More fliers?”

I tap the papers on the top of the machine to straighten the stack, and head for the door. The volunteer at the front counter doesn’t look up as I pass, much like I don’t answer Max’s almost-but-not-quite-a-question.

Not that being ignored will stop him. Max is many things, but a quitter is not one of them, tenacious string bean that he is.

I shove the door open and hear it swing again about two seconds later. I pull the cords on my sweatshirt to keep the chilled November air from crawling down my neck and brace for his guilt trip.

“Hold on,” Max calls, jogging to catch up with me. “I’m trying to touch base. See how you’re doing.”

I keep walking. My SUV is parked around the corner. This side of town is all trees sunk into circles in the sidewalk and murals painted by middle schoolers. Even in the dead of fall, it’s sickeningly alive and colorful. I focus instead on my feet and the aged asphalt.

“Your dads are super worried about you, man.”

Ah, there it is. The guilt. I stop and let my head fall back until my chin points up at the darkening sky. I blow out a breath that feels like concrete in my lungs. “I know they are.”

“So stop for a second and talk about it, dude. We’re trying to help.”

I lower my chin. “All anyone wants to do is talk. I’m tired of it, Max. Talking won’t bring her back.” I turn and brandish the fliers. “The cops are barely looking for her anymore. This is the only thing I can think of to help bring her home. No one will let me do anything else.”

He bites his lip and I deflate a little.

Okay, fine. The fliers haven’t exactly proven helpful. I’ve beenposting them for weeks and received exactly ten calls. Nine of them were pranks, and one was an old lady telling me I should be ashamed of myself. But I don’t know what else to do.

Max’s kind brown eyes fill with sadness, and his whole face droops. “She’s been gone a long time…”

“I’m sorry, what does that mean? You think I should give up?”

“What? No, of course not. But you might have to accept—”

“Please stop. I love you, and I know you’re trying to help, but I can’t. I can’t stop looking. Because that means she might not come home, and it’s—”

…all my fault.

“It’s what?” Max asks, stepping closer.

Some wild mix of guilt, anguish, and fury presses down on my chest, suffocating me. “It’s unbearable,” I choke out.

He hugs me. I want to pull away, to be alone, but this hug is for his benefit, not mine.

He steps back with a clap to my shoulder and smiles. “Let’s go to your place. Everyone’s heading over there for family dinner. Your dads are making hilachas. What do you think?”

I think it sounds like another thing that used to make me happy and now sounds like a nightmare. But I’m not about to say so.

My family is…a lot. White on Dad’s side, Guatemalan on Papá’s, and they love to get together. My dads adopted me three weeks before my third birthday—I don’t really remember anything before them—and my whole life has been these big gatherings. Everyone talking, happy, in each other’s business—just like Max. Which was fine when they were pestering me about asking Lola to homecoming freshman year or crowding around to show her my gap-toothed tee-ball photos from kindergarten after she’d become a regular at family dinner. Butnow it means forced smiles and not talking about the one thing that consumes me. Everyone wants to help, but there’s nothing they can do.

When I don’t say anything, Max smiles wider, like he thinks I’m about to agree.

“I’m sorry, Max. I’ll make it to the next one, okay? Today’s not good for me. I have to do something.”

His face falls, but he nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Tell my dads I’ll be home when I’m done?” I say, turning away with my fliers.

His sigh fills the sidewalk behind me. “You’re going to the river, aren’t you?”

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