Page 98 of That's Not My Name

“Mary…” he slurs, spitting blood down his chin.

All the anger and hatred and fear from these last unthinkable days surge through me all at once in a tidal wave of rage.

“That’s not my name, you asshole!” I scream, then kick him down the stairs.

I watch him free-fall and land in a heap at the bottom. Right where Drew used to be.

But he’s not there.

I stand my ground at the top of the stairs for a second, making sure Wayne doesn’t get up. Blood trickles from his ear and down the unnatural angle of his neck. He doesn’t move. His chest doesn’t rise.

And I smile.

The screen door bangs open, and I whirl in a panic, but it’s Drew, gasping for breath. “Is he dead?”

I nod.

He smiles too, but it crumbles as he looks at my face. I’m still not Lola.

My heart breaks for him and for the girls who didn’t get away.

Sirens blare in the distance, and he holds out a hand to me. “Come on. Hurry up.”

I limp to him and grab his hand. We step outside, and he slouches against me, so I hold tighter, and so does he. Together we work our way down the stairs and away from this cabin of nightmares. We collapse in a pile at the far end of the driveway, and I look back at the house. All those names in the basement are seared into my mind.

Alison.

Krissy.

Courtney.

Arely.

Bekah.

Carly.

Sheena.

Ashley.

Lola.

I look over at Drew as police cars rocket up the road. He’s staring at the basement door. I’m shaking. My entire body. He is too. Someone calls my name, only they call me Mary, and I flinch even though I know it’s not him. It’s not Wayne.

Wayne Boone is dead.

Officer Bowman runs toward me at a full sprint, not even bothering to close the door to his cruiser. Five more officers follow him.

“Are you two okay?” he asks, dropping to my side.

“No. But we’re alive.”

JANUARY 12TH

THE WILLAMETTE TIMES

It’s official. CrimeFlx is set to produce one of the most anticipated docuseries of the decade—the tale of Oregon’s most infamous new serial killer. Wayne Boone.

---