That's Not My Name

by Megan Lally

Oh, hey. I guess I remember Lizzo. If all else fails, at least I like good music.

Because that means she might not come home, and it’s—” …all my fault.

Autumn’s sitting on the curb across the street, just beyond the streetlight. Watching me. Irritation bubbles up inside me, but I’m so exhausted that it dies there. She’s been like an extra shadow these last few weeks. Everywhere I go, she’s always in the background, glaring at me like she’s hoping I’ll burst into flames and she’ll get to watch me burn.

She went to every swim meet, every concert—even though she would have rather seen Taylor Swift.

“What’s that?” Bowman asks, knocking against the locked door. “Basement,” Wayne says. “The key is downstairs, but we can get in through the door out back if you want to take a look.”

The ground slopes past the driveway until it’s level with the foundation and a gray metal door. That’s probably the basement entrance.

For a second, I feel like I’ve left my body. This is exactly where she was, only in the passenger seat of my car. Smiling. Staring at me with those beautiful, trusting, green eyes. The freckles across her nose peeking out from beneath her makeup.

“It must have been the strawberries in the smoothie,” he blurts, leaning against the inside of the door. “Not the eggs. It’s the only thing you ate both times.” I think of the sliced strawberries sitting on the table at breakfast. It must have been the strawberries? Was he guessing the first time?

If they knew what I did, they’d never forgive me.

“The fuck you didn’t. You heard the message. She called you a monster. What did you do?” I look up, catch her blazing blue eyes, and tell her the truth. “I broke up with her.”

“Okay. Just…remember, you’re made of hopes and dreams, hijito. We wished for you for so long. I’m here. Whatever you need.”

She shrugs. “I’m a Virgo. I always come prepared.”

“You know, something about you looks so familiar. I can’t put my finger on it.”

I hear a thump against the side of the house. I pause to listen and hear it again a few seconds later. Maybe firewood tumbling against the siding?

“Um, hi. My name is Meredith Hoyt. I already called 911, and they said they’d pass on the information, but I googled this number too, just in case. I think I saw that missing girl, Lola? She came out of a diner in Waybrooke with a man, and I’m not positive it was her, but—” I reach over to skip when I hear, “—she was wearing the same jean jacket from the picture on the news. The one with the floral arms.”

She made it for Lola. Even sewed her initials into the tag.

It’s a “Have you seen me?” type flier for the old man next door. Name. Date of birth. Height, weight, eye color. And the last time he was seen. On an afternoon walk. Two days ago. My breath comes too fast. Hissing in and out of my lungs. I see Bowman in the driveway, asking Wayne to call if he happens to see him. He was talking about our neighbor. Breath. Breath. Breath. Breath. I hear Wayne apologizing for not being any help. Because we haven’t had a chance to unpack, much less meet any of the neighbors. Breath. Breath. Breath. Breath. I see Ben’s face, smiling in the driveway as he stares at me. You know, something about you looks so familiar. I can’t put my finger on it.

Autumn grips my hand, hard, and shakes it. “Deal. Let’s go find Lola.” Max leans over from the driver’s seat. “Get in, losers, we’re going sleuthing.”

“While you guys were asking like sweet baby angels, I found the security system in the closet across from the bathroom and rewound it until I found the lunch footage from yesterday. I snapped a few photos, grabbed a snack from the kitchen, and I got outta there. I told you—sleuthing.”

What if he’s not my dad? What if I’m not Mary? What if that’s not my name?

The storm picks up, slamming into the ground, and another branch snaps behind me. I whip around and this time I’m right. Wayne’s standing behind me. He glances at the hole in the ground, and then at me, as we’re both slowly soaked by the storm. He looks positively bored and tsk-tsks at me. “Oh, Mary. You always ruin everything.”

I remember him coming up from behind me as I checked the mail at home. Dragging me away—into this life, into this place. I remember waking up in the van as it rumbled up the mountain in the dark. I remember lying on my side, scared shitless as I pieced together what was happening. I remember using a trick I saw on YouTube to break the zip tie around my wrists. I remember pretending to be asleep when the van came to a stop at the cabin, and then lurching to my feet before he could open the back door. I remember throwing myself against the door when he cracked it open, knocking him flat on his ass in the driveway as I ran for the road in the middle of the night, screaming for my mom.

when something twists into the skin on my ankle. Metal rattles when I move. I lean forward, and in the slivers of light from the door, I see a thick silvery chain coiled on the floor. One end disappears into the shadows, and the other end is attached to a set of handcuffs, one of which is fastened around my ankle.

He sits back down on the bottom step and puts his head into his hands again. He lets out a sob that shakes his entire body. Realization hits like a full body punch. He really thinks I’m Mary Boone. He needs me to be Mary Boone.

I’m not the first. He’s taken other girls. Holy shit.

“You’re not Lola,” I whisper. The complete stranger before me glances down at the wall. I follow her gaze to a set of names scratched into the concrete. The freshest one feels like a punch to the chest. Lola The girl shakes her head, the fear in her eyes shifting to sadness.

“It’s hers,” he says. “Lola Elizabeth Scott. If she got away, she would have made it home by now, and if she had, I wouldn’t be here. So if she’s not here, and she’s not at home…she never left this place.” The fabric feels like it’s crawling against my skin. Wayne gave me a dead girl’s jacket?

Did we all look the same? Is Wayne hunting the same girl over and over again? Do I look like Mary Boone too?

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.

connection. An extensive search of Boone’s McMinnville house led to the discovery of additional remains buried under a concrete slab in the backyard: his daughter, Mary Boone, a teen who had short brown hair, green eyes, and freckles.

And my personal favorite: “The audacity of that man. To pretend like he didn’t bungle this investigation from the beginning and try to blame you for everything. I’m so sorry you have to relive this, Drew.”

The man who killed so many helpless girls was bested by a seventeen-year-old nationally ranked softball star in his own

house. The corner of my mouth tugs up at the thought. I heard a rumor he was cremated and someone threw his ashes in the trash. I hope to god it’s true.

If you need to grieve, do it however you need to, but taking off for Alton wasn’t for nothing. You saved me, you saved countless other girls who look like me and Lola, and you saved nine families from a lifetime of questions.”