Page 95 of That's Not My Name

“You look like her,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“You look like her. Same hair. Same eyes. Same height. Same freckles. Your face is different though.” His voice breaks on the last part.

My hands go to my face.

Did we all look the same? Is Wayne hunting the same girl over and over again?

Do I look like Mary Boone too?

“When I saw him carrying you inside with that jacket on…” he says, with another clamp of the trimmers. He looks up at me.

“You thought you found her.”

Another tear drips down his cheek and he brushes it on the shoulder of his sweatshirt. He presses the clippers harder. The cuff rips at the skin on my ankle, but I don’t say anything.

Boots sound on the floor above our heads, and we go still.

“Go,” I tell him, grabbing for the clippers. “Get out of here. I’ll finish this.”

He looks at me like I’m insane.

“You don’t understand. If he finds you here, you’re dead. You don’t need to die trying to save a stranger. Tell the cops everything. Someone needs to know what’s happened,” I plead, desperate for him to get out of here before he ends up buried behind the woodpile too. “Tell them my name is Madison Perkins. Tell my mom—” I can’t finish the sentence because my throat closes up.

The boy clips at the handcuffs again. The metal is almost halfway cut through. “I’m Drew.”

“What?”

“I’m Drew. You’re Madison. Now we’re not strangers. I leave when you do. He doesn’t get to do this to anyone else, ever again. Understand?” He looks up at me with furious blue eyes, and the argument dies in my throat.

“Okay.”

The metal groans, and he sets down the clippers. He braces against the concrete wall for leverage, and he yanks back on the handcuff chain. Hard. I have to switch my weight to my other leg to keep from being pulled over, but the metal bends more and more until it looks like it’s about to snap.

He’s really going to do this.

He’s going to get me out of here.

A shadow falls over us. Wayne’s silhouette fills the door to the yard. I open my mouth to scream but Wayne’s already inside. Drew twists to meet his attack, but he’s too late.

Wayne dives at him with a shout, and they crash to the ground in a tangle of fists.

They roll, and twist, and hit at each other. They come to a stop in the stretch of dirt at the bottom of the stairs. Wayne lifts a fist, and clocks Drew right in the temple. His head snaps to the side, but he twists against the ground and knocks Wayne off him. In a flurry of movement, Drew gets the upper hand. He straddles Wayne and lands a solid punch to the wound on his skull. Wayne lets out a screech.

Drew lands another punch to his cheekbone, and Wayne spits blood across the floor. Drew hitshard. But even the best punch can’t level the playing field against a murderer.

I have to help.

I plant my feet against the concrete wall like Drew did and yank on the handcuffs, trying to finish what he started. From the corner ofmy eye, I see Wayne throw out an elbow, block the next hit with his forearm, and punch Drew straight in the face. I hear a crack like two rocks slamming together and Drew reels back, hand going to his nose as blood gushes from it. Wayne rocks to his right, throwing Drew off him, and he lands on his back by the workbench.

Wayne leaps on Drew’s chest and wraps his fingers around his neck, and I scream so loud it feels like I’ll rip the inside of my throat. I can’t watch this boy die. Not after he charged into this serial killer’s lair to save me.

I jump to my feet, pick up the metal cot, and smash it into Wayne’s back.

He grunts. “Cut the shit!”

I bring it down again. And again. He releases one hand from Drew’s throat, and catches the edge of the cot frame, yanking it from my grip when the chain keeps me from getting any closer. He tosses it toward the stairs, out of reach.

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