Page 90 of That's Not My Name

“Thank you, Autumn. Thank you.”

“Find her.”

I run to the Liberty and whip out of the parking lot, plugging the address into the GPS on my phone at the red light. My entire body vibrates with purpose.

I have a plan. And in—I look at the arrival time on the GPS—eleven minutes, I’ll be face-to-face with this girl and have my answer.

Doppelgänger or Lola.

But it’s her. It has to be. Nothing else makes sense.

At the end of town, I make a right onto a road that climbs into the trees. Just as I pull off, a cop car goes flying by in the opposite direction on the main road. Lights on. Washington City logo on the side.

“Well, that was close,” I mumble.

And if Roane made any phone calls before he left, my dads and my aunt are probably right behind him. I got out of there just in time.

The road winds all the way up the mountain, splitting off every few minutes into other narrow roads and private driveways. Eventually the dirt road straightens, bordered by dense evergreens on both sides, and the GPS starts to glitch. But I’m already on Ridge Road and creeping by numbers 85 and 88.

The trees thin on the right side, and I slow to find the next house number. A rusted old mailbox up ahead has a 91 on it. The log cabin behind it sits in silence.

It hits me that I don’t know which neighbor I’m looking for. Which side? I slow to a crawl and stare at the cabin for a long second, then press on the gas again. The house looks closed up. I don’t think anyone’s here.

About a quarter mile down the road, I see the Hooper house. It’s a little ranch-style home, with their last name painted in bright yellow letters on a sign by the porch.

The straightaway ends, and I find myself twisting and turning back through the forest, looking for the next nearest neighbor. They end up being about a mile away, on the other side of the road. Two old ladies stand in the yard, raking leaves. Their rainbow-painted mailbox lists them as 128 Ridge Road. The name on the box is Brown, not Boone.

Shit. It has to be the log cabin. I went too far.

I turn around at the end of their driveway, my pulse beating fast in my ears. Then I’m off through the curves again, zeroing in on the cabin.

I don’t know how I’m going to do this. Do I pull up in the empty driveway and wait on the front steps for someone to get back? Knock loudly and hope someone’s home? What ifsheanswers and it’s the wrongshe? What if Officer Bowman is right?

Maybe I shouldn’t knock at all. Being here is enough. I could park across the street and pretend to have car trouble. Lift the hood? Stab around at hoses or battery connections like I know anything about engines until I catch a glimpse of her?

The cabin pops up through the trees and I pull over about fifteen feet shy of the driveway and cut the engine. My palms start sweating.

Jesus, what if it’s not Lola?

What if it is?

I feel nauseous.

I decide to go the fake-car-trouble route, when I spot it. A van is parked down an incline, way back on the left of the house beside a basement door. Hidden between the house and the trees. Agray van with peeling paint.

A branch moves out of the corner of my eye and I freeze.

A man bursts from the trees and strides across the yard, about fifty feet from me, with his back turned. Heading for the basement door.

Carrying something over his shoulder.

My entire body goes cold all at once as I watch the lifeless form dangle facedown across his back. Girl. Short brown hair. Jean jacket with pastel floral sleeves.

Lola.

TWENTY-SEVEN

MARY

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