Page 32 of Missing White Woman

Then something else caught my eye in the “What’s happening” column—a name right below the mention of the Mets and Cardinals squaring off.

Janelle Beckett.

I clicked. Her name was the number-four trending topic, sandwiched between what I could only infer were baseball’s finest. She was trending with “Body found.”

I clicked again, then scrolled down. Farther. Farther. And farther. The tweets were all versions of the same thing. Police had found a body matching Janelle Beckett’s description in the Paulus Hook section of Jersey City. They suspected foul play. Had questioned one person who was in the house. Were looking to question another.

The company that owned 110 Little had already put out a statement expressing their shock and vowing to help the police in any way they could. It’d been liked over 20,000 times.

I went to Instagram, then TikTok, only to get similar results and an array of hashtags. #JanelleBeckett, #JanelleBeckettRIP, #JanelleBeckettUpdate. And one last one:

#Justice4Janelle

If Ty was alive, he was probably just as scared as I was. Because someone had chosen to kill Janelle Beckett in our Airbnb, his life was now in danger. I just hoped he was smart enough to be hiding—at least until he got a good lawyer.

I needed to find him before he got hurt.

I exited the browser. Put the computer to sleep. I looked around, but the one thing the business center was lacking was a phone. I’d have to finally go to my room. I could call his office, force them to give me his cell phone even if it was just to get me to stop harassing them.

The walk back to the elevators was quick. There was only one person in the lobby when I got there.

Adore.

She was back and so was my anger toward her. She stood when she saw me—in one hand, a weekender bag I’d seen in paparazzi photos, and in the other hand, a paper bag of takeout. “You still love sweet-and-sour chicken?”

“Why are you here?”

“Because I figured you’d be hungry.”

“You know that’s not what I meant. Why are you here wanting to be so helpful?”

I left off the “now.”

I wanted an apology. Instead I got: “There was a video of the cops at Little Street on TikTok this morning. There was a group of people there, but I recognized you immediately. I’ve been wanting to reach out to you for a long time but…”

“But you didn’t. And now you’re coming in wanting me to be grateful, right?”

I walked past her and she didn’t attempt to follow me. I’d stay at the hotel tonight and pay her back if it was the last thing I ever did. It wasn’t until I made it to the elevator that her voice carried through the empty lobby.

“Tyler Franklin. Area code 410?”

It was only then I turned. I didn’t say anything as she made her way to me, smiling like she was bridging the enormous gap between us instead of just thirty feet. “I found his number,” she said when she finally got to me. “Let’s go upstairs so you can call him.”

The elevator doors dinged. “Come on,” I said.

The walk to my room was quiet. Not even small talk about the weather. Twelve years ago this wouldn’t have been a problem. Our silences had been as comfortable as the oversized Morgan State sweatshirt I still sometimes wore.

Adore had gotten me a suite. It was narrow but nice. Ebony wood cabinetry. Aqua subway tile backsplash. A sink barely bigger than a brick. The view wasn’t much. Just a building across the street, but I didn’t care. I wouldn’t be there long enough to look out of it.

Because my things were still at the row house, I had nothing besides the key card to drop on the table separating the kitchen from the living area. I beelined straight for the phone. Some black number much sleeker than it needed to be. I fumbled around until I figured out how to get a dial tone, then turned to find Adore awkwardly standing in the kitchen area, still holding both bags.

“Number,” I said, then the home training kicked in. “Please.”

She rattled it off. It wasn’t surprising she already memorized it. Adore had always been good with numbers. I’d cribbed off her more than once in Algebra freshman year. I turned away as I dialed, needing to at least pretend I was alone. Please pick up, Ty. Please be okay. Please know I’m okay.

But the routine was the same as with my own phone. Four long rings. Four deep breaths. The last one stuck inside me as I waited for what came next. Again hoping for a different ending, even though I already knew what would happen before the credits rolled.

The voicemail kicked in. Unlike me, Ty had taken the time to record an outgoing message. Just hearing his voice took the wind out of me. I took a seat on the couch, ignoring Adore’s hopeful expression. Happy just for a second to hear Ty’s voice once again so close to my face. I could practically feel his breath tickling my earlobe.

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